Page 91 of Disarm
My stomach flip-flops, just a little. I’m already kind of floating and adding alcohol feels like tempting fate. But the energy here is contagious. These are the guys Dad keeps saying I need to “bond” with. Guys who’ve seen me bust my ass in practice and—yeah, okay—seen me choke, too.
“All of us are going out,” Martin declares. “Team spot. Coach doesn’t need to know. You’re coming.”
“I’ll have one drink,” I warn. “I gotta be functional tomorrow.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” he grins.
The room starts thinning out as guys hit the showers. I sit on the bench and pull my phone out of my bag with damp fingers.
Three notifications from the ESPN app. Two from Dad that I promptly ignore. And one from the only person I care about.
Miguel
Knew you were gonna show off.
That three at the end was fucking filthy, Caleb.
I bite down on a smile, thumbs already moving.
Caleb
You watched?
Miguel
Obviously.
You think I’m gonna miss my man killing it on the road?
How you feeling?
I glance around. A couple guys are still talking shit in the corner, no one’s paying attention to me.
Caleb
Like I did actual things out there.
You proud?
Miguel
I’m always proud of you, baby.
But yeah, extra proud tonight.
You going back to the hotel?
I hesitate, then type.
Caleb
The guys wanna take me out for a drink.
Team bonding.
I can say no if you want.
Miguel
