Page 15 of Second Shot

“Whiskey,” Marlowe orders without looking at the menu. “Something aged and expensive. Make it a double.”

The rest of us follow suit. Foster gets s beer, Kincaid orders an old-fashioned, and Niko asks for vodka neat. Jacobs orders last, whiskey, same as Marlowe. I stick with beer, at least for now. I don’t want to get too wasted. I’m afraid of what I might say. I’m still the new guy, and I don’t know these guys well enough to show my soft underbelly just yet.

The first round goes down fast, lubricating conversations that feel stilted without alcohol. Foster starts telling some story about a girl he met in Phoenix last month, complete with animated gestures that nearly knock over his drink. Kincaid and Marlowe get into a debate about whether the refs missed a high-sticking call in the second period. Niko pulls out his phone and starts showing us Instagram comments about the game. But he’s considerate enough to cherry pick them and only shows us the nice ones.

Jacobs just sits there nursing his whiskey, staring at the amber liquid with a line between his dark brows. I’m on the edge of the booth, and he’s next to me. He’s close enough that I can smell his citrusy cologne, and once or twice his thigh brushes mine. The heated press of his muscular leg gives me unwanted butterflies. But he doesn’t seem to notice I exist. He might as well be on another planet.

As if reading my mind, Foster says, “Earth to Jacobs,” after his third story fails to earn even a smile. “You planning to join the conversation at some point?”

“No,” Jacobs replies without looking up.

“Hey, don’t be a dick. We all lost tonight. We’re all suffering.” Foster’s voice carries an edge like he’s already had too much to drink too fast.

Jacobs shrugs and sips his whiskey.

Foster scowls. “Come on, man. We played a good game. Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you.”

“Did we though?” Jacobs finally looks up, his blue eyes unreadable in the club’s shifting lights. “Play a good game?”

The question hangs in the air like acid, and suddenly everyone’s looking at their drinks instead of each other. My gut churns and I wait for Jacobs to maybe call me out. Blame me for theloss. If anyone is going to say something like that, I know it’ll be Judgy Jacobs.

“Hey,” Marlowe says, his voice carrying the authority of someone who’s been through more losses than the rest of us. “We outshot them thirty-eight to twenty-nine. We had our chances. Sometimes the puck doesn’t bounce your way.”

“Right,” Jacobs says, but there’s something in his tone that makes it sound like disagreement.

I take a longer pull from my beer, feeling the weight of his displeasure like a physical thing. He’s barely looked at me since we sat down. Hasn’t acknowledged any of the plays we made together during the game, and that pisses me off. We made some fucking amazing plays. But it’s like I’m invisible to the guy, or like he’s pretending we didn’t work well together.

“Look,” Niko jumps in, swirling his vodka, “we had them on their heels for most of the third period. That power play in the second? Textbook execution.”

“Exactly,” Foster adds, pointing his drink at Jacobs. “And that setup between Caldwell and Petrov in overtime was sick. If Roberts hadn’t gotten his stick on it—”

“But he did,” Jacobs cuts him off quietly. “And we lost.”

“Jesus Christ, Jacobs,” Foster’s voice gets louder, drawing looks from nearby tables. “What’s your deal tonight? You’re acting like we got blown out instead of losing in OT to a decent team.”

Jacobs mouth tightens. “Too much didn’t work tonight.”

I stiffen because I can’t help but feel that what he wants to really say is Too much didn’t work tonight because ofhim.

Kincaid leans forward, ever the diplomat. “Maybe we should focus on what went right. Building on the positives.”

“What went right?” Jacobs laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “We’re supposed to be contenders. Contenders don’t blow leads in the third period.”

“We didn’t blow a lead,” Marlowe points out. “It was tied going into the third.”

“Because we couldn’t capitalize when we had the chances,” Jacobs shoots back. “All those opportunities, all that pretty passing, and what do we have to show for it?”

The criticism still feels pointed, even though he’s not looking at me. I can feel my cheeks getting hot, the beer and frustration mixing into something volatile in my chest. The only good thing about it is the team is fighting him. Telling him he’s wrong. That’s one small comfort. If he is coming at me, they’re not buying it.

“Come on, man,” Niko says, his Swedish accent thicker when he’s had a few drinks. “It’s one game. One fucking game.”

Jacobs just takes another sip of his whiskey, like he has his mind made up.

By the time we finish the second round, the music has gotten louder and the crowd thicker. Bodies press against our booth as people flow past, heading to the dance floor or the bar. The air tastes like expensive cologne and spilled liquor, with an undercurrent of desperation that probably exists in every Vegas club as the night progresses.

“Another round?” Crystal appears at our table, her smile bright enough to power the neon sign out front.

“Absolutely,” Niko says, waving his empty glass. “And make mine a double this time.”

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