Page 13 of Home Ice

Motherfucker. “Aren’t you supposed to make sure you don’t overserve people?” Apparently, I’m irritable when I’m tired and being dragged out of bed.

I am getting out of bed though. One foot in front of the other while my body tries to tug me back down onto the mattress.

“Police it is,” he says.

“Stop,” I groan before he can hang up. “I’m on my way. Just give me a second to get changed, and I’ll be there.”

“Appreciate it. See you soon.”

I pull a face at my phone when I hang up, then hurry to tug on some shorts and a T-shirt. Sleeping only in my briefs makes that easier, I guess.

Hawke is going to owe me for this. I have private coaching classes from six tomorrow, and I’m already going to be wrecked from a day of working outside.

I’m halfway to the bar when it occurs to me that I should have left Derry to call the cops. What the hell do I care? Hawke’s and my friendship ended ten years ago by my choice.

And here I am, running to his aid.

Okay, it’s possible that the fresh memory of him is dredging up things I’d always kept buried. No matter how many friends I make as an adult, there’s a disconnect between what I have with them and the kind of ride-or-die friendship I had with Hawke.

Maybe friendships born out of stupidity, competition, and the shared trauma of high school aren’t something that you can replicate as an adult. It’s one of those priceless things you either have forever or for the time you need to grow into yourself.

Hawke and I were that second option, but damn if I don’t wish it were the first.

I get to Derry’s too fast for my thoughts and walk into the usual Saturday night thrum. The music is loud, the laughter is louder, and as I weave my way through people, I spot the one black cloud at the bar.

He’s hunched over, gripping his empty glass like it’s the only thing keeping him on his stool, and there’s a ring of empty space between him and the rest of the room that nobody wants to cross.

And I’m the lucky guy who gets to do it.

With a deep breath that does nothing for my courage, I pull out the stool beside him and sink down onto it.

“Should we try this again?” I ask.

All I get is a glower in return.

“Since your memory is so terrible, I’m Tai Barrett. The guy you were best friends with between the ages of … I dunno … thirteen and twenty-one.”

“Fuck off.”

My lips twitch. “Ah, so you do remember me?”

“I said fuck off.” He’s slurring, which means he’s drunk way too much to still be upright.

“I could, but Derry called me and basically said that you leave with me, or you leave with the police. Your call.”

“The police.”

I almost laugh at that. Hawke has always been a bit of a stubborn ass, but it was never in an aggressive or bitter way. More that he’d bet until he was blue in the face—or Google proved him wrong—that he was right about something and was always ready for any competition to prove that he’s the best.

Hawke’s a winner. It’s always been in his nature.

So this loser sitting drunk at the bar does not match up with my memory of him.

“I don’t think you mean that.”

His laugh holds no amusement. “You know shit about me. Go away.”

“I can’t do that.”