Page 66 of Delay of Game
“Boy’s night!” Fieste burst into the locker room with all the enthusiasm of a six-month-old golden retriever. “This is going to be epic, guys!”
Diego raised an eyebrow. “Fieste’s coming with us?”
Noa trailed Fieste into the locker room. He eyed me warily, focus swinging between Fieste and me.
“Rookie, did you help the field crew clean up the sidelines?” I asked.
Fieste straightened, eyes widening with panic. “Um, I did not. Give me a minute.”
He bounded out of the locker room.
“Fieste is covering dinner,” I told the group before turning back to my locker.
“We don’t do that, Rob.” Steel coated Noa’s normally calm voice.
“We don’t do what?” I feigned ignorance.
“Coach Simmons won’t like it,” Noa added.
While other NFL teams allowed frat-like hazing of new rookies in the form of extra drills or carrying veterans’ bags or paying for their outrageous dinners, Coach Simmons didn’t allow even a whiff of any type of hazing. For him, the team was a job, and jobs didn’t torment the newest coworkers. And normally, I agreed with that stance.
But for Fieste, I’d make an exception.
I shrugged.
“He wanted to pay for dinner. He begged me.” Noa raised an eyebrow, but I held strong. “He’s getting access to the captains. That’s huge for a first-year player. Any of the other rookies would have jumped at the chance.”
“And he’s paying for everything? Booze, food? No restrictions?” Trent asked, sharing a smile with Lakeland.
“We’re not bankrupting the guy,” Diego said sternly. Noa crossed his arms and nodded, backing him up.
“Ah, come on. He’s on the active roster. We can make a dent.” Lakeland rubbed a towel through his damp hair. “He won’t feel like he earned it unless we make it hurt. Just a little.”
While Trent and Lakeland were only too happy to get a free meal, Noa guessed the real reason. “Is this really about that pre-season tackle?”
My best friend could see through my bullshit a mile away.
I shrugged. “Coach said we gotta work through the personnel issues ourselves. Making Fieste spend a shit ton on a fancy dinner would certainly help me get over that cheap hit.”
Diego opened his mouth to argue and closed it again. He ran his palm over his face and sighed. “Fine. Fieste pays and we make it hurta little.”
“My knee hurt more than a little after that bullshit,” I piped up, unable to keep a smile off my face.
Diego shook his head and returned my grin. “Let’s keep it under five grand, okay? We’ve got practice in the morning, so one drink. Make it count: no bottles, nothing over fifty years old.”
The rest of the group nodded in time for Fieste to return.
I groaned as I handed my keys to the valet in front of Gable’s, Norwalk’s newest overly-pretentious eatery for assholes and burgeoning assholes. The tables packed with men in business suits ordering whiskey flights turned my stomach.
If I wasn’t draining Fieste’s bank account, I wouldn’t have suggested the place. But with forty-dollar happy hour appetizers and a five-hundred-dollar “tasting menu”, it won the competition of the best place to get a subpar meal for too much money.
“Do you have a reservation?” The hostess wore a tight black dress, and she pointedly kept her eyes on the tablet balanced on the podium in front of her.
“Yeah, Grant.”
She dragged a finger across the screen before her eyes fluttered up. “Oh, the Breakers’ table?”
My jaw tensed. Unlike Trent and Diego, I’d never hired an assistant. If I had, I could have had that person make the reservations without adding my job to the mix. Instead, I’d asked our kicker, Luke White, who despite owning half the bougie bars and restaurants in downtown Norwalk, still couldn’t swing a reservation at Gable’s without name dropping.
