Page 11 of Matched By My Rival
Cooper smiled wryly. “We barely know any different, but yeah, it sucks balls.” He laughed. “I’m so psyched to go to him, though. His house is super nice. He has this huge bed, and this whirlpool tub that can fit us both—”
“TMI, dude.”
He laughed. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”
“I better head up and change for work,” I said. “If I don’t see you, drive safe.”
“Yeah, I will. Thanks.”
“No prob. Bring Trace to Tracks next time he’s in town,” I said, surprising myself. I’d never been the friendliest guy, and I’d set new dickhead records over the past few months. But I liked Cooper, and seeing him with Trace might give me the guts to pursue something with a guy of my own. “The bartender might slip you a couple of free drinks.”
Cooper grinned. “Hell yeah. What good is a boyfriend if he can’t carry your drunk ass home, right?”
4
SIMON
Tracks was slammed, and Keri—a relatively new hire—was barely keeping pace. I rushed through a drink order, eyeballing how much liquor I sloshed into the glass, while Keri meticulously checked cocktail recipe cards and measured everything out. Typical of a new bartender, but not ideal in these circumstances.
On top of that, the band tonight was a real doozy. Some sort of punk metal nightmare with their volume dialed up to eleven.
“Can I get some fucking service already?”
I whirled, ready to tell someone to take a hike. We were working our asses off, and I hadnoidea Thursdays were such a madhouse. I didn’t envy Rhett this schedule one tiny bit.
“Listen, we’re—” I stopped short, recognizing Darnell and a couple of other defensemen. “Man, fuck you.”
He laughed. “Nice to see you too.”
I hurriedly finished the Cosmo I’d started, handing it off to a woman with short, spiky hair dyed a vivid pink and piercings in her eyebrow, nose, and ear cartilage. One thing that was kind of fun about Tracks was that we never knew what kind of crowd we’d get. The music brought in all kinds of people, and not just the college crowd.
I managed a half smile, and she shoved a one-dollar bill into the tip jar. Well, better than nothing.
Turning back to Darnell, I leaned in over the bar. “What’s up? This isn’t really your scene.”
Darnell scanned the room, nodding. “What do you know about my scene? These people look fun.”
I snorted a laugh. “Okay. What’ll you have?”
“Eh, we’ve had enough. I just came to give you a head’s up about something. We were across the street, and I was thinking, my man Simon shouldknowwhat’s about to hit him.”
“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word because I couldn’t imagine what the fuck he was talking about. “You could have texted.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to see your face.”
Well, that didn’t bode well.
I glanced to the side. Keri was drowning. Holding up a finger, I moved to rescue her with a few drink orders, then returned to Darnell. “Okay, what is it?”
He grimaced. “Remember I mentioned Coach tearing us a new one?” I nodded. “He was pissed half the team turned up hungover for drills. He’s making us do volunteer work to teach us some discipline.”
“No kidding? Well, you can come out to House Pledge—”
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you!” he said emphatically, and I saw that he was indeed a little tipsy. Coach’s plan was clearly working, I thought dryly. Although they’d only be watching game footage the next day, so Darnell would probably fly under the radar. “Reed signed up for your frat’s charity!”
“Wait. Parker fucking Reed?” I demanded.
A half dozen emotions flashed through me in quick succession—everything from resentment to regret—the anger and guilt twisting up in a complicated knot I had no idea how to unravel. Or if I even wanted to.
