Page 130 of The Hot Shot
“You’ll make the playoffs,” I tell him. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
His smile is tilted and wry and fades fast. “I’m proud of you, Chester.”
I don’t feel anything but a need to cling, a weakness I don’t want or like.
Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt when Jake strolls into our quiet spot.
“Manny. Copperpot. Why are you two hiding back here?” He glances between us, noting the distance. “I’d approve if someone had a hand in someone else’s clothes, but no way am I letting you guys get away with trying to escape the stuffed shirts.”
“Did you just call me Copperpot?”
Jake is all innocence. “What? Me? No. Who?” He hooks my arm over his elbow. “Now, come with me. The guys want an official ruling on whose dick is the biggest.”
I laugh as Finn pushes himself off from the wall and glares. “Iwillkick your ass, Ryder.”
“You’ll have to catch me first, and we both know I’m way faster.”
Jake leads me away, with Finn following. I don’t protest. It’s a relief walking into the crowded, noisy party where I don’t have to think.
Just be. Just be.I can do that. I have to.
Finn
“I don’t know about you guys, but I look fucking sharp in this suit.” Woodson runs a hand down the front of his tux. “I’m getting laid tonight.”
You gotta love Woodson’s corn-fed, Iowa boy brand of optimism and childlike honesty. I laugh as he waggles his brows with hopeful glee.
“You’re married, aren’t you?” North asks him with a look that clearly states he’s skeptical of Woodson getting any play.
“Cynicism is a bitter taste that rests on the tongue and destroys the appetite,” Woodson intones.
North snorts. “You read that in a fortune cookie.”
“Did not.” Woodson grins. “I saw it on the side of a bus.”
“No way.”
“Believe what you will, bitter boy. I, on the other hand, am going to hunt down my wife. Convince her to get an early start.”
North and I groan.
“Those who talk too much do too little,” I tell Woodson.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Fortune cookie?”
“No, a simple Finn Mannus truth.”
Woodson scoffs and then goes in search of his woman. He trudges over the grass toward the house, leaving North and me sitting on a low stone wall that edges the pool area. In the distance, I catch a glimpse of Chess’s dress. She’s talking to Meghan, our PR director.
“Ten bucks says she’ll have a headache,” North says.
I flinch, thinking he’s talking about Chess, but then I realize he means Woodson’s wife. “You really are a cynic.”
“I prefer realist.” North turns my way. “So how about you, Manny? You ready to buckle down and finish out this season with some wins?”
It’s my turn to snort. “Is this some sort of pep talk?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” North rests an elbow on his knee andgives me a look. For a bizarre second I have the image ofThe Thinkercoming to life to give me a lecture.
