Page 15 of Goal Line
I reach across my body to poke him in the side. “Sure, you did. Evenyou’renot that vain.”
“You’d be shocked,” he says, humor in his voice as he drops his arm from my back and reaches forward to pull open the door to the bar.
Chapter Seven
LUKE
“Hartmannnnnnn.” Amy drags out my name, like she can’t quite figure out how to make her mouth form proper sounds. Given the number of birthday shots she’s already done, and the way she’s double-fisting some shot glass concoction with whipped cream on top, I’m hardly surprised. “Do another birthday shot with me?”
My eyes lock on Eva’s, and the performative smile she’s struggling to maintain indicates she’s ready to go. Not that anyone else would be able to tell. She’s been happy and enthusiastic the entire time we’ve been here, nursing her soda and dancing with our high school friends. But social situations are always taxing for her—she can be extroverted for a while, but then she needs some alone time to recharge.
Although I can’t fully relate to this characteristic of hers, I’ve known her for long enough to understand andappreciate her limits, so I’m already mentally working out our escape plan.
“Can’t,” I tell Amy. “I have to skate tomorrow.”
“Oh, come on.” Her lips vibrate as she exhales through her pout. “That was Eva’s excuse too. She’s not drinking at all!”
“She doesn’t drink during training and has a low tolerance anyway,” I say. “And with the dangerous spins and jumps she does, she can’t risk being hungover.”
“Eva!” Amy shouts, motioning her over. When she steps up to us, Amy tells her, “Hartmann was just telling me you’re a lightweight.”
Her lips quirk up in amusement. “Was he now?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Eva taps her pointer finger against her lips, looking like she’s trying to make a decision. “Should I tell them about the Elf on the Shelf, so she can see who isactuallythe lightweight in this friendship?”
The laugh bursts out of me. “What?” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I get ready to hear a ridiculous and totally fictional story—the kind we used to tell all the time in high school as part of an ongoing quest to see how far we could spin out a tale before people called bullshit. The issue is, our friends have always been incredibly gullible.
“Yeah, that time you had too many spiked eggnogs and dressed up as the Elf on the Shelf at your family Christmas Party?” Eva’s yelling over the music, and she’s caught the attention of a few of our friends.
Anyone who knows me well enough knows I hate eggnog. Apparently, it’s not something my high school friends remember, because Hannah, Jonathan, and Reese are all egging her on to tell the story.
“Sure.” I shrug, already laughing because her smile is finally genuine, and I can’t wait for her to start spinning the tale.
“So a few years ago,” Eva says, her dark eyes scanning the small circle of our friends, “Luke enjoyed a bit too much eggnog with brandy?—”
“That shit istoxic,” Reese interjects, as he seems to recall some of his own bad decisions.
“Sure is,” Eva agrees with a laugh. “And in his inebriated state, Luke decided that he was going to dress up as the Elf on the Shelf.”
“Only because I was saving you after Preston daredyouto do it.” I glance at my friends, roll my eyes, and say, “Terrible example of a truth or dare game gone astray.”
“Yes, well,” Eva says, “I was sober enough to decline. So, the Hartmanns have their own set of Santa and Mrs. Claus costumes, and the Santa costume was in use because of the holiday party. All the Rebels families were there, and the kids were taking turns sitting on Santa’s lap.” At least that part of the story is true...we do have an annual Christmas party, and the Rebels team members always come with their families.
“Oh god.” Hannah chuckles. “Please tell me you put on the Mrs. Claus costume, Hartmann.”
I raise my arms in a shrug, giving them my best guilty-as-charged face. “Eva refused to wear it because she said it was too frumpy, and she’d only be dressing up as Mrs. Claus if it was a slutty Halloween costume.”
Eva barks out a laugh. “Well, on Luke’s frame, the costume was perfectly...indecent. That red velvet skirt that would have gone to my knees barely covered his”—her eyesare full of mirth—“junk. He couldn’t even get the shirt on, and the bib part of the dress wasn’t doing a great job of covering his chest. But the best part was the tights.”
“Don’t tell them about the tights,” I groan. “Or the bells.”
“Oh my god, the bells!” Eva’s peals of laughter ring out, and the way she’s so delighted has me practically glowing. Not sure there’s anything I wouldn’t do to make this girl happy, including embarrassing myself. “So yes, he was wearing these red thigh-high tights that barely went above his knees, and the Mrs. Claus slippers, which barely fit over the front half of his feet. And the toes of the slippers had bells on them”—she pauses to laugh—“which he thought was hysterical, so he was prancing around to make the bells ring.”
“Prancing?” Amy asks, halfway doubled over with laughter.
“You know,” I say as I do a little jig to demonstrate, which has everyone laughing even harder.
