Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

The puck flies from one end of the rink to the other, over and over, the gargantuan players chasing after with their skates slinging ice in their wake. Tampa’s team is wearing blue tonight, the Capitals wearing red, and it’s a blur of patriotic color each time they pass us, occasionally running right into the plexiglass wall — which earns a roar of approval from our section every time.

Especially from Greg.

He wasn’t lying about his enthusiasm, and I feel like I’m watching him more than the game, laughing when he screams and jumps up and down like an animal, or cries out in frustration at a missed goal, or curses at the referee for a bad call. I especially love when a player “gets checked” on the plexiglass in front of us and Greg beats on it with his fists like a banshee, screaming more curse words than I knew existed in the English language.

Throughout it all, he answers every question I have, leaning in to point out players or spots on the ice and explain to me what every referee call means. I’m particularly confused between offsides and icing, which he tries to explain three different times before giving up, but I do enjoy watching the fight that lands one of our players in the penalty box.

I learn the cheers, chanting Let’s Go Bolts! with the rest of the crowd and drawing out the name Kuuuuuuch in a deep voice when the rest of the arena does. Still, I’m so mesmerized by the way Greg looks when he’s this passionate about something that I have a hard time taking my eyes off him — regardless of what’s going on.

Before I know it, the last buzzer sounds, the Lightning winning by one point to the approving roar of the thousands of people in the arena. When Greg finishes celebrating and high fiving every other fanatic around him, we slowly follow the crowd marching out like a line of ants, eventually spilling out into the streets of downtown.

We end up ambling over to a bar across the street to wait for the traffic to clear, and once I’m armed with a beer and Greg with a soda and bitters, we find a small table in the corner of the courtyard.

“Why don’t you drink anymore?” I ask, clinking my glass against his before I take the first sip. Fairy lights hang above us, strung across the courtyard, and a live band is setting up in the opposite corner from where we sit.

Greg shrugs, drinking his soda water. “I haven’t ever, really. Unless you count the few parties I went to when I was a teenager.”

“I was going to say, I’m pretty positive I caught you and David drunk as skunks after stealing a bottle of my tequila one night.”

He grimaces. “God, don’t remind me. I was so sick the next day.”

“Is that why you stopped?”

Another shrug. “Part of it, I guess. I don’t like the feeling of being hungover, or even drunk, really. Not having control of my body, of what I’m saying. Besides, going through med school will show you in gory detail the effects of long-term drinking.”

I make a face at my beer then. “You saying I should stop?”

“No,” he says on a laugh. “I don’t think you drink nearly enough to be concerned about it. But if you wanted to stop, I’d absolutely support you on that.”

“It must be hard, fielding all the questions about why you don’t drink.”

“It’s annoying more than anything — especially when you get the drunk girl who’s like oh, I’m totally going to be the first one to get you drunk, like she’s the first one to tell you that, or like it’s some sort of life goal for her now.”

I laugh at the mocking voice as he rolls his eyes.

“When was the last time you had a drink?”

He stills at that, finger gliding over the condensation on his glass. “The night I kissed you.”

His eyes meet mine then, and the warmth drains from my face.

It happened. We both have always known that it happened. But neither of us have ever acknowledged it, ever spoken it into existence.

Sometimes, I’d wonder if he even remembered.

I have my answer now.

“I knew after what I’d seen that night that I never wanted to get to a place where alcohol controlled me,” he says softly.

Flashes of Josh screaming at me fill my mind, and my arms sting as if his hands are gripping them just like they did that night.

Greg takes a big drink before nodding toward the arena behind me. “So, what did you think?”

I’m thankful for the subject change, and I blow out a breath on a smile. “It was awesome.”

“Right? The energy at one of those games is unlike anything else. I can never get enough of it.”