Page 6 of Slots & Sticks
Viktor spreads his arms wide. In the process, he almost knocks Knight’s beer into his lap. “But we’re in a comedy club!”
Knight leans forward, deadpan. “He’s conserving energy. Laughing burns calories.”
Tristan lifts his beer. “Not in his case. Cam could laugh for an hour and still have abs carved by God himself. Because he doesn’t drink beer.”
“Blasphemy,” Viktor mutters, crossing himself with his plastic cup.
I cross my arms over my chest. “And the comedy hasn’t started yet. The club itself is not humorous. I’m not obligated to laugh just because we’re inside.”
On my right, Bowen snorts. “Can you imagine?”
“Trust me, I’ll be laughing plenty during Geo’s set.” When the guys asked me what I wanted to do to celebrate my contract renewal, supporting Geo was the obvious answer. For one thing, Geo’s fucking hilarious. He likes to tell me that I’m his emotional support autistic, since he loves the spotlight, and I’d just as soon be in the audience. This is the secret second perk of bringing the guys to a show: I will not be expected to talk. I like my teammates—even more so now that Chad is gone—but I’m not always great at making small talk with them.
“Good. As team captain. I’ll be watching to make sure that you are sufficiently entertained by the eventyouchose.” Viktor bumps his plastic beer cup against mine in a toast.
“You’re like the guy who brings his Employee of the Month plaque to dinner,” Knight says.
Tristan groans. “Don’t encourage him. He’s going to start wearing a whistle to practice.”
“Tempting,” Viktor fires back.
Owen snorts. “You do, and I’m slashing your tires.”
Bowen pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, will you shut up about the team captain thing? You don’t have to start every sentence by reminding us of your title. It’s been, like, a year.”
“A year of superior captaincy,” Viktor retorts.
Owen digs into the red plastic basket lined with white paper. “These wings are sub-par.”
I should probably say something to move the conversation along. Unfortunately, I’m not good at thinking up stuff on the fly. My brain barfs out a few suggestions at random:So I just read this article about compostable furniture made entirely from mushroom proteins.Nope.Did you know that nature loves crabs? Independent species of crustaceans have evolved into crabs on at least five distinct occasions!Skip.Do you ever think about how the color you describe as blue might not look the same to you as the color I call blue?No, no, no. This is why I keep my mouth shut.
There’s only one person I know who would appreciate those topics, and she’s not here.
I picture Dot, chin propped on her hand, eyes lit up like she’s collecting constellations. She’d ask me to explain the crab thing twice, then turn it into a joke about emotional evolution. God, I miss her laugh.
Knight comes to the rescue while I’m sorting through the sea of conversation enders that I’m currently rejecting.
“Hey, Vik, how was that new restaurant? Knova told me that you finally got in, but I haven’t talked to her about it yet.”
“Oh, man.” Viktor swoons. “You mean Gemelli’s? Holy shit, it wasincredible.We had to make reservations, like, five months in advance, but it was worth the wait. They do this tasting menu. The names are confusing, it’s shit like ‘burnt sugar custard with a Himalayan sea salt and grapefruit foam’ or whatever. I thought it was going to be overpriced and overhyped, but I’m telling you, everything was fantastic.”
“Are you telling us that as the team captain?” Bowen asks.
Tristan’s been listening from Bowen’s other side, and he cracks up at the question.
“Yuck it up, dipstick.” Viktor flips him the bird. “I’m telling you, it’s romantic, the atmosphere is great, and the food is to die for. It’s a great date spot. You should take Vi sometime.”
I pull out my phone to look up the restaurant. He’s right about the menu—I don’t know what half these words mean, and the other half make sense on their own but don’t sound like they should go together. The pictures are gorgeous, though. There’s even an upscale cocktail menu and wine pairing. Itdoeslook like a great date spot.
Even though I am dateless.
My finger hovers over the screen. This is stupid. She’s probably busy. She might say no.
But maybe…
Maybe if I book the table, I’ll finally ask.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I tap the call button and press the phone to my ear. Maybe if I have a reservation, I can work up the courage to invite Dot.
