Page 16 of Hits Different

She rolls her eyes. “It took me ten minutes to mix it all together. I never even heard of it before. It’s got some stupid name. An F-Boy something”.

A distant bell rings in my mind. “A F-BoySidewinder?”

There’s only one person on the planet who knows how to make that drink. The guy who invented it. Just then, the crowd opens up and there he is. Brandon Carter.

It’s really him. He’s here.

Making out with the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.

As they break apart, he casually glances in my direction. I startle. I move forward to greet him but instead collide directly with Tiffany, who screams as the beer tower wobbles out of control. Everything moves in slow motion as the drinks go flying out of my hand…

…and land with a smash all over Brandon’s table, sending beer, chips and God knows what else flying everywhere.

Everyone stops dead. Even the DJ cuts the music with a record scratch that rips through the entire room.

Oh, my God.

Brandon looks up in shock. Well, everyone does. His gaze slices right through the carnage and lands firmly on me. “What the—” His eyes narrow, then widen like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Di Rossi?Is that you?”

“Carter”, I meet him where he is, which is apparently on a last name basis. Miraculously, one drink has survived. I gingerly pick my way through the wreckage and pluck the F-Boy Sidewinder from Tiffany’s tray. “I got you a drink”.

There’s deadly silence. Then, slowly, a smile tugs at the corner of Brandon’s mouth, followed by a huge explosion of laughter from his teammates. Even Tiffany joins in.

“And made quite a fucking entrance while doing it”, Brandon grins, taking the drink from me.

The DJ shrugs and the music starts up again. Brandon stands, his shirt clinging tightly to his chest, demonstrating just how badly I’ve managed to drench him. His left arm is sheathed in a sleek black sling. “Fellas, this is Parker Di Rossi. Don’t let the dramatic arrival and fancy surname fool you. We grew up in the same town”.

I wave, hoping I don’t look as much of a dumbass as I feel. “Sorry about…everything. Next round is on me. As are your dry-cleaning bills”. His friends wave me off good naturedly, returning to their own conversations.

“See you later”, Brandon’s girl murmurs, slipping a small piece of paper into his hand. She slinks away, looking pleased with herself. The eyes of his teammates follow her to the door. Brandon’s eyes remain on me.

“You remembered my drink”, Brandon takes a sip, as Tiffany dabs at him with a napkin. “Hmm. Feels like something’s missing”.

“It’s one shot of tequila, a dash of lime, a splash of dark rum”, Tiffany counts off on her fingers. “A spritz of lemonade and, damn, there was something else”.

“A teaspoon of Chilean infused scorpion honey”, I finish for her. Tiffany stares at me incredulously. Brandon seems to be trying hard not to smile.

I remember the night we invented it. Home alone for the weekend, we’d raided his father’s drinks cabinet, tossing around spirits and mixers without a clue what we were doing. Brandon christened it after his skateboard. We were fifteen at the time.

“No offence”, Tiffany looks between us, “But that sounds disgusting”.

“It is”, I fish a crumpled twenty out of my pocket. “I’ll have the same”.

She disappears, leaving Brandon and I alone with his teammates. The back of my neck grows warmer, as a bunch of hands grab paper towels and upturned glasses. Brandon stays standing exactly where he is. “So”, my eyes land on the trophy, propped up on the table. “Congratulations. Hell of a game”.

“That’s the only kind we play”. He’s talking to me. That’s a good sign. A better one than him introducing me to his friends as someone from his town rather than his best friend. The last time we were together, we were barely eighteen.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but it’s dashed amongst the music. One of his friends starts snapping pictures. Before I know it we’ve been organised into a huddle, me included, for a group photo.

I steal a glance. He’s still got short blonde hair, but now it’s cut into a crisp fade on the side, tousled on top. The only thing sharper than his cheekbones is his jawline.

In-fact, aside from the sling, the only glimmer of imperfection is the wetness of his shirt that clings uncomfortably to his well-defined chest. Which is new.

“I’ve got a spare shirt”, I blurt out. “If you wanna get changed”. He opens his mouth to protest. “Carter, you’re literally dripping. It’s no trouble, really”.

He nods. Relieved to be doing something useful, I lead him through the bar towards the staff room. The music’s too loud to make small talk. Just as well because I’d never be able to hear him over the beating in my chest.

Here's the thing. I don’t get nervous. Ever.

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