Page 35 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

Richie hands me a red lacy number. “I don’t know, man. Is this a size three?”

I roll my eyes and take the bra from him, holding it up by the straps. “First of all, bras aren’t sized that way. There’s a band size that measures around the rib cage, and then there’s the cup size.” I hold it up and twist it this way and that while the paparazzi’s camera clicks away. “I’d say this pretty thing is a thirty-two-C.”

Richie checks the label. “Well, holy shi–oot. You’re right. Thirty-two-C.” He puts it in the correct bin and grabs another bra, this one a beige color with cups bigger than my head. “Guess this one.”

I hold it up and assess. “Forty-two-F.”

When I’m proven right again, Richie high-fives me. Even the paparazzi guy starts handing me bras to get my guess. Sometimes I have to put the bra on over my clothes and feel up the cups to get a good read on the size, but I’m ten for ten so far. Hot dog, I’ve finally found a charity I’m good at. We keep going like that until the paparazzi checks his watch and assures us he has enough pictures. He heads out and we keep sorting. Eventually Betty comes back with a bin full of remote controls.

“I forgot the best part! Johnny insisted on having as many televisions as possible for him and his friends. They’d spend hours in here sorting and watching sports. I’ve upgraded the televisions over the years and pay for cable.”

“You’re the best, Betty.” Richie gives her a hug and takes the bin from her. I’ve got ten more bras sorted by the time he gets all the televisions on and tuned into different stations. He’s gaping at the walls like he just stepped into Tampa’s swankiest strip club. “I’m in heaven.”

We shoot the shit over whatever’s playing on the screens while we sort for the next hour. Ashley was right to suggest I bring Richie. Can’t remember the last time we talked instead of insulting each other. My stomach starts to rumble and I put down the latest lime green bra to suggest we head out for dinner.We say goodbye to Betty and promise to return soon. I fire up Wolverine right as my phone rings.

“Kaitlyn!” I answer on Bluetooth speaker, feeling proud of myself. “You’ll be pleased to know, we did good at the–”

“Why the hell are there pictures of you wearing a bra and copping a feel of your own boobs on social media right now, Bobby Rhodes?” Her angry voice floods the interior of my vehicle. Richie and I stare at each other in shock. Right before he doubles over laughing.

My skull hits the headrest as I stare at the ceiling. “Are you serious?”

Kaitlyn goes off for a good ten minutes about what a mess I’ve made of things before letting me go. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to count to ten while taking deep breaths. I recognize the signs of anger, but there’s no stepping back from this one. All the things Ashley instructed me to do go out the goddamn window. Molly said no to a date. Coach is pissed at me for something out of my control. And now this. I tried to do something good, and it backfired.

Coach is right. I’m a screw up. Always have been, always will be.

I roll my head on the headrest. Richie is wiping tears from his eyes. “How does the Irish Rogue sound for dinner?”

Richie shrugs. “I can get us a discount.”

I put the car in gear and head for the familiar bar. I just need some food in my gut and to wash it down with a stout beer. I’ll try again tomorrow, but for today I just need some comfort food. We pull in and find a parking space easily. Richie greets his fellow bartender buddies inside the dark tavern. He gets us set up with a frosty glass of beer at the bartop while they fry up some disgusting food for us to eat. I take one long swig of the beer, all my worries melting away as the roasted malt hits my tastebuds.

“If beer’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.” Richie smacks his lips after drinking half his pint.

I huff a laugh, taking another sip. I can feel myself slipping backward and yet I can’t–won’t–do a damn thing to stop it. I’ve tried most of the things Kaitlyn said to do and what has that gotten me? Nothing but frustration. Might as well enjoy the beer while I circle the drain of my career.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I put it on silent when we got to the bar, hoping to dodge any further phone calls from Kaitlyn, but when it buzzes again, I feel guilty for ignoring her. I pull the phone out and squint to see an unfamiliar number.

Unknown: Hey Bobby. It’s Matthew. You said I could contact you anytime. Is it wrong to bully a bully?

My spine freezes. I reply back as quickly as my thumbs let me.

Me: Hey, Matthew. Depends. What’s the bully doing?

Unknown: It’s mostly social media stuff. Just spreading altered pictures of someone and making fun of them. I wanted to spread a picture of the bully.

Me: I think you’d be better served taking screenshots of what the bully’s doing and talking to your mom. Or your principal about what’s going on. Don’t lower yourself to their level.

Unknown: I was afraid you were going to say that. Fine, I won’t send the pic.

Me: Where are you?

Unknown: At the convenience store down the street from Mom’s.

I look out the windows of the Irish Rogue. It’s hard to tell with the neon beer signs, but it looks pretty dark out there.

Me: Does she know you’re there?

Unknown: No . . . ? She thinks I’m studying.

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