Page 6 of Poolside

“Fine,” Chuck replied.

“Only fine?” Tommy put down the knife he was using to slice green onions and turned around. “What’s up?”

Chuck shrugged his broad shoulders. “Just feeling a little off, is all.”

“Off?” Tommy frowned. “Is there anything I can do?”

Chuck let out a quiet laugh. “Good question, man.” He turned around, and Tommy immediately zeroed in on the dark circles under his eyes that stood out against his peachy-white, freckled skin. His wide eyes, though, were still as bright and blue as ever. His mouth tugged up into a smile. “No really, T. I’m good. We had our last team meeting this afternoon and gave out all of the off-season training plans. It just takes me a minute to adjust to the off-season.”

Tommy wasn’t sure if he believed him.

A muffledthuddistracted him. Tommy looked around, certain he’d find one of the cats up to something. But there was nothing moving around the kitchen or in the dining room.

Tommy looked over at Chuck. “The fuck was that?”

Chuck opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a loud scratching sound that definitely came from under the kitchen floor. When it came to a stop, Chuck pointed down. “That,” he stated, russet brows raised, “is why I asked if you know anything about raccoons.”

“Where is it?” Tommy frowned at the hardwood floor.

“I think it’s in the crawl space. I started hearing scratching last night when I was going to bed, and it’s been going non-stop ever since. I think it’s having a fucking party down there.” He reached out a bare foot and stomped it against the floor.Bang, bang, bang.

A second later the scratching resumed.

“Are you sure it’s not one of the cats?”

Chuck shook his head. “I tracked them all down earlier. You just saw Bones, Angel is sleeping in my laundry hamper, and Sir Mix-A-Lot is under the guest bed.”

The scuffling sound shifted, like whatever it was was moving beneath them.

Tommy put his hands on his hips, thinking. This was the sort of shit that was right up his alley. Throughout his marriage, he’d lost track of the times he’d been summoned to remove large insects from the bathroom or trap rats in the garage.

“And you’re sure it’s a raccoon?”

“I mean,” Chuck hedged. “I’m not positive. I took a flashlight and looked under the porch and saw a pair of glowy yellow eyes staring back at me. Scared the shit out of me, so I didn’t stick around after that.”

A laugh snuck out of Tommy’s mouth, and he tried to play it off as a cough.

Chuck saw right through it, pointing a spatula at him. “I’d like to see you play it cool when you’re down there, asshole. It’s creepy as fuck and can’t raccoons have rabies?”

Tommy pulled out his phone, typing in a quick search. “Yep. Lots of rabies in the raccoon community.”

“See? You would’ve freaked too.”

“Maybe.” Tommy put his phone back in his pocket and turned back to the green onions. “So what’s the plan?”

“Call an exterminator.” He heard Chuck’s quiet laugh. “It’s why we have real jobs, isn’t it? So we don’t have to deal with rabid raccoons ourselves?”

Tommy couldn’t argue with that. “What’s the plan for tonight then?”

“Spartacus. Season One.”

“Yes!” Tommy pumped his fist. “Hurry up and get that chicken on the grill,” he said, and then, dropping his voice down in a butchered imitation, roared, “That is not my name!”

Chuck shook his head at him, an amused look on his face. He grabbed the pan of chicken and looked pointedly at the counter. “Don’t forget the olives.”

Tommy huffed. “Like I’d forget your olives. Who do you think I am?”

Chuck responded with a wide smile, and then disappeared out the back door.

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