Page 60 of Cross Checking

“Did we come at a bad time?” Emily asks, and despite how bizarre this night is shaping up, I have to stifle a laugh.

Naziha sighs. “Yes and no. Long story short, the executives tried to out-drink some of the winter interns.”

My mouth hangs agape, a surprised noise sticking in my throat.

“Yeah. Someone, not naming any names, started a fight amongst leadership, and the police were called.”

“Damn, that’s wild,” Emily deadpans. “So how did we show up at a good time?”

Naziha huffs. “Well, the police are sending a team to investigate, and they told me to stay here. I need two volunteers to deal with the copious amounts of alcohol that the executives ordered. We don’t have a liquor license, and I sure as hell amnotgoing to be on the hook for a fine.”

“So you want us to get rid of evidence?” I ask, smiling.

“Exactly. It’s unopened expensive alcohol, so you can consider it your holiday bonus since the company is skimping on those this year.”

Motioning for us to follow her, Naziha leads us to a cart full of boxes before rushing over to the windows to close the blinds.

“Kinda sucks that you came all this way for the party to be shut down,” I say to Emily, pushing the cart to the elevator lobby.

“Oh, I don’t care. All this free alcohol makes up for the train fare.”

The elevator arrives, we squeeze in, and then wheel the rickety cart across the street back to my apartment. I’ll message Naziha on Monday and see if she wants the cart back, but its rightful owners might be in prison, so that remains to be seen.

“Do you want to go out somewhere since you made the trip here?” I ask, and Emily laughs.

“It’s minus two outside and I have the option of work clothes and PJs. I’d much rather take a hot shower and make a dent in our free alcohol.”

“Couldn’t have put it better,” I say. “There’s a towel and stuff in the hallway bathroom.”

We go our separate ways, and once I’m done showering, I rifle around in one of the boxes and retrieve a random bottle.

It’s Champagne. From France. And there are two whole boxes of it. This sure beats a half-percent holiday bonus. Emily comes out of the hallway bathroom and I pour her a glass, which she happily accepts. We make it through the bottle, and Emily snickers after she finishes her glass.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, filling a glass of water. “Yeah, it’s Champagne, but it isn’t that weird.”

“It’s not the drink, Luke, it’s your clothes. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to say anything, but you look like a total fuckboy.” She fails to contain herself and has to lean against my dining table for stability.

I scoff in disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re wearing a hockey t-shirt and flannel sleep pants.”

“Yeah, and?”

Emily gestures at me. “That’sthefuckboy uniform! What, do you text guys at two in the morning asking what they’re up to?”

Yeah, I text Erik at 2 a.m. because of the time difference.

Noticing my silence, Emily straightens up. “Sorry. Is that a touchy subject? I probably shouldn’t have called you a fuckboy. You’re actually nice.”

I shake my head. “Nah, you’re good. Those days are long gone.”

She squints at me. “On another note, is your favorite hockey team Toronto’s farm team?”

“No?”

It’s a Swedish team called Alvik HK, but nobody has to know that.

“But you like them enough to shell out for merch?”

---