Page 3 of Empty Net

Keller: And?

Lawson: All other rules are agreed upon by both parties, but for the sake of this one, let’s say mildly enthusiastic means you have to at least SEEM interested.

Keller: Millenium Falcon.

Hutch: Wow. That was fast, you nerd.

Keller: Call me a nerd all you want, but that thing is SWEET. Do you know how fast it can make the Kessel Run?

Hayes: You know, I really did not at all have you pegged as a Star Wars nerd, Kells.

Keller: I’m a man of surprises.

Locke: K.I.T.T.

Hayes: What’s that?

Hutch: Wait…from that old ’80s show? With David Hasselhoff?

Lawson: DON’T HASSEL THE HOFF!

Keller: I bet you used to watch that shit every week.

Locke: For fuck’s sake… I’m not that old! I used to watch reruns. K.I.T.T. was legit.

Keller: Just admit you’re old.

Locke: Never.

Me: Bumblebee.

Lawson: How is nobody picking a REAL car?

Hutch: Uh, probably because we can all afford the real car? We’re not all cheap asses like you.

Lawson: I’m not cheap! I’m responsible.

Lawson: You guys aren’t playing the game correctly.

Lawson: Now pick a REAL car you’d give a hand job for.

Hayes: Can we just not give other dudes hand jobs?

Lawson: BE A TEAM PLAYER, HAYES.

Hayes: I WILL NOT PARTICIPATE IN YOUR BULLSHIT SHENANIGANS, LAWSY.

I laugh, tucking my phone into my back pocket before this chat really gets out of hand. I mean, it’s always a bit unhinged, but I’m in public, so I should have at least some decency, especially given that I’m ninety percent certain the older woman behind me is reading over my shoulder.

When I peek back at her, she’s scowling, so I shoot her a wink.Thatgets her to smile. I chuckle to myself, turning back around as the person in front of me scoots up and begins tossing their groceries onto the belt with zero organization. It makes my eye twitch, but I mind my business as I was taught.

Halfway through the haphazard unloading, they make eye contact with me, reaching into the back of their cart. I hold my breath, waiting for that spark, thatOh my god, I know this person!gleam to hit their eyes. But it never does, and when they place their milk onto the belt without incident, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Usually, I don’t have an issue talking with fans, but I don’t like talking to them when I’m trapped in a line like this, unable to make a quick exit if they start asking questions I don’t want to answer.

Like“Why didn’t you stop that goal from Pittsburgh last night?”

Or“How could you let two shorthanded goals be scored?”

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