Page 2 of Personal Foul
“Yeah. Sherry has a timer set for me. “
“Okay. Good. Love you and goodnight.”
“Goodnight. Love you.”
He hangs up the line, and I set the phone back on the receiver and turn again to slide the beer to the guy.
“That’s some talent, managing the family and the bar.” He smiles at me.
He’s quite a bit older than me but cute.
“Thanks. I try.” I smile back at him.
“I’ve been coming in here more lately and you’re always here. You have a cot back there you sleep on or something? Never leave?”
“Something like that.” I shrug, running another ticket for the hockey table as I talk to him.
“You ever go out to dinner? Or want company for it?”
I glance up at him and he gives me a sincere smile, and I almost want to agree, but I barely have time as it is and dating really isn’t something I can find time for.
“I do, but I’m seeing someone currently.” I give him a little smile, and shrug.
“Ah. I figured you probably were but couldn’t hurt to ask. Thanks for the beer all the same.” He gives me a little nod and slides the money for the beer and a decent tip my way.
“Thank you.”
I always hold my breath when a guy hits on me here. Usually, they’re just drunk and aiming at the first woman they can see, but occasionally they build up our little chats while I serve their food, into something more in their head. And when I turn them down, it gets messy. Which is the reason I always lie and say I’m already seeing someone. But this guy is nice. I’ll give him credit for that. I wish they could all be as easy as he is. Because while I love this bar and keeping my Gramps’s dream alive is something I’m happy to do, some nights it’s all a little much. And tonight has been one of those nights.
One that’s going to continue I realize when I go to walk the hockey table’s checks back and two of them are standing on top of the table pouring beer down two players’ throats from a distance. I sigh and brace myself for the inevitable confrontation, glancing at the clock to see I only have a couple more hours left to go.
TWO
Easton
When I watchthe ball slip through my fingers and hit the turf, it’s like watching my entire future crash and burn. My future hopes for the NFL, my immediate hopes to hoist a trophy with my guys at the end of this season, my chance to prove that I’m worthy of the Westfield football dynasty. I feel sick the second it falls. Wondering if this is the end of it all. Wondering if everyone on this team is going to hate me as much as I hate myself right now.
Somewhere deep down I know it’s not quite that fucking dramatic. There are a whole lot of things that went wrong during and before this game that led to me needing to make an impossible Hail Mary catch. But it was almost possible. So close I could taste it, and I fucking blew it. Fumbling the ball and our chance to win.
I can hear the crowd roar with disappointment. Boos and jeers echo throughout the stadium followed by the celebration from the opposing team’s support section and band. Hearing their fight song queue up makes me feel fucking nauseous.
I’m reliving that same scene over and over again as I stand at this party. I’m not even sure you could call it a party. It’s more like an excuse to get drunk and try to blot out the fact that after a fantastic season and somehow squeaking out enough wins despite Liam’s season-ending injury, we still lose when it counts.
Everyone keeps reminding me it’s not my fault. Could have happened to anyone. That’s just how it goes sometimes. But that’s not what it feels like. And I’m as fucking tired of the sympathy as I am of reading the commentary on the sports pundit websites.
I knock back another beer because I’m already too deep to drive and glance around the room to see where Waylon and Ben are. Another one of the redheaded sorority girls gives me a smile from across the room. She’s already offered to be a consolation prize tonight, and I have zero fucking interest in it. I’m too depressed to fucking get it up, and even if I could miracle it out I sure as fuck don’t want a consolation. I wanted the win. The trophy. The bragging rights. The better chance it would have given me to get into the pros.
I finally find the guys and Ben tosses me another beer, but I hand it back to him.
“I think I need the hard stuff. I’m fucking exhausted listening to everyone give me their fucking condolences.”
“They’re just trying to be nice,” Waylon reminds me.
“Maybe. But I don’t fucking care.” I shrug. “Girls got anything hard? Bourbon? Whiskey?”
“There’s a bottle of vodka and tequila in there. Gonna have to replace it though if you drink any of it.”
“No problem.” I grab one of the half-empty bottles and twist the top off and chug.
