Page 10 of By His Play

“It is what it is,” he lies, his deep, raspy voice giving away how he really feels about their final game of the season.

Melanie doesn’t have much to say about my life. As is to be expected. Unlike Kieran, my day-to-day movements aren’t plastered all over social media for everyone to know about.

I might have accounts, but I barely ever post anything personal about me. Unless you really know me, you’d have no idea that I’m currently on a sabbatical from work so I can spend my days here in St. Louis with Grams.

Melanie shows us to our favorite table, right at the very back of the restaurant, where we can remain hidden from prying eyes should anyone recognize Kieran, and after talking our ears off for a good ten minutes, she finally leaves us alone.

As per our tradition, a few minutes later four glasses—two whiskey and two prosecco—are placed on our table. I groan at the sight of the amber liquid.

“You know you love it really,” Kieran teases as he lifts the glass of his favorite from the table.

He won’t drink more than a sip of either, but the gesture brings a wide smile to my lips.

It’s a tradition we started many, many years ago, and as much as I hate the whiskey part of it, I love that he keeps it going.

“To Grams,” he says simply as he waits for me to clink my glass against his.

His eyes hold mine, and I have no doubt that he can see the emotion pooling in them.

“To Grams,” I say weakly before lifting the glass to my lips and taking a sip of the disgusting liquid.

There once was a time when I thought I might get used to it. But it’s yet to happen. Just like Kieran’s hatred of the bubbly stuff.

The strong alcohol burns down my throat, but unlike usual, I welcome it and swallow another mouthful.

I can’t remember the last time I had a drink, and suddenly, the freedom a couple of glasses could offer seems very appealing.

Kieran watches me with pride on his face as I take my third sip.

“Don’t tell me that you’ve finally developed a taste for the finer things in life,” he teases.

Sucking in a deep breath, I place my glass back down as the whiskey warms my belly.

It might taste foul, but it sure has its benefits.

“There’s never been an issue with my taste,” I argue with a smirk.

“I mean, the fact that I’m your best friend would attest to that.”

Shaking my head, I reach for my preferred drink and hold it up.

“To my best friend and his massive ego,” I say, almost managing to keep a straight face.

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t argue as he clinks his glass to mine.

“To my best friend who puts up with my giant ego and always keeps me grounded.”

I stick out my tongue at him like a child before swallowing down two big mouthfuls of delicious bubbles.

“Come here,” he says after opening his phone camera ready to take a selfie.

“Really?” I complain, although do as I’m told and shift closer.

“Yep. Brax wants to know if I got here safe.”

I smile, and to my relief, it actually looks genuine. It’s amazing what the presence of your best friend can do.

“We look hot,” he muses before sending it to his teammate and close friend.

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