Goal Lines & First Times (CU Hockey 3)
Cohen takes out my phone from my pants. “Passcode.”
I mock gasp. “You’re not s’posed to give strangers your passcode. Did your parents teach you nothing?”
“Guess not,” he says solemnly.
“Oh, shit, are you, like, an orphan, and I rubbed your parents’ violent murders in your face?”
“Violent murders? Your imagination is …”
“Amazing.”
“No, I’m not an orphan, but I’m trying to order you an Uber.”
“Oh, then my passcode is my birthday. Good luuuck working that—”
He punches it in.
“Hey, how did you—”
“Your twin brother is one of my best friends, dumbass.” He orders me an Uber and then slides my phone back into my pocket again.
He’s still holding on to me, and he sighs. Loudly. Or maybe it seems loud because he’s right by my ear.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He screws up his face before letting his expression relax again. “I was really hoping to spend tonight with someone.”
I spread my arms and almost fall. He holds on tighter. “I’m someone,” I point out.
“You are.” He smirks. “And it’s actually been a lot of fun. Drunk Seth is a pretty funny guy.”
“I’m funny always. Only my bestest friends get to see that though.”
“Aww, we just became besties.”
I gasp for real this time. “Zach is going to kill me.”
“Nah, I have full confidence that when tomorrow comes, you won’t even remember any of this.”
“Here’s hoping. Worst Thanksgiving ever.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
My face falls. “Oh, shit. That’s rude. I’m sorry.”
His lips quirk. “No problem. No offense, but I thought I’d be with someone else too. This though … “ He tilts his head to the side. “Not the company I was expecting, but you’re not half-bad.”
“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” I deadpan, not entirely sure I didn’t slur my words.
“This is where you tell me you’ve liked my company too.”
I think about that. “I guess I’d say your company was adequate.”
“Adequate? If I had Google reviews, you can bet your ass I’d be gold standard. Five stars out of five. A pure fucking delight.”
“Tonight’s an off night for you, then?”
“Oh, no you didn’t.”
“Oh, yes I didded.”
“Fuck,” he rasps and blows into his other hand. “It’s cold out here. How are you not freezing your balls off?”
I miss the rest of his sentence, because that one word makes me stop. Because I know that voice. I want to ask him to say fuck again, but that would be weird, right?
Then again, this whole night has been weird.
I tilt my head back to look at him properly, but he’s not paying me attention. There’s something niggling at the back of my mind, prodding my consciousness, but I can’t put my finger on it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck … It loops through my mind, and I’ve almost pinpointed the tickle of familiarity when a wave of nausea makes me slap my hand to my mouth.
Cohen groans. “Do not be one of those guys.”
“I don’t feel so … so …”
It passes. For now.
When the Uber pulls up, Cohen helps me get in, and something I’m doing with my face must make him laugh. “You really can’t hold your alcohol, man.”
“Totally can … man.”
“Sure thing. Move over, I’m getting in … “
“You’re coming home … with me?”
“I’m making sure you get your drunk ass home. Then I’ll Uber back with …” He turns to the driver. “Bill. Hi, we’re Cohen and Seth.”
“If he pukes in my car—”
“I’ll pay for the cleaning,” Cohen says. His eyes lock with mine. “Don’t throw up. I have no money.”
The car jolts as the driver slams on his brakes.
“That probably doesn’t help,” Cohen says. “And I’m kidding. I have money.” He looks down at me and mouths, “I don’t, but shh.”
The car ride is smooth after that, but the farther away from the bar we get, the alcohol really starts to hit me hard. Which is saying something because I was drunk off my fucking face before. Cohen talks, but his words dip in and out of focus, and I swear I must fall asleep at one point because his thigh is against my cheek as I come to.
I’m aware of the car stopping and Cohen asking me if I’m okay, before I blindly crawl over him and fall out of the car.
“Yep. Good. I’m fine.” I have no idea if those words were out loud or all in my head, but the next thing I know I’m up the stairs, in my apartment, and falling facedown on my bed.
I can only guess I flew here because I don’t remember walking.
Alcohol gives me superpowers.
10
Cohen
When I didn’t get an invite to hang out with Einstein on Thanksgiving, I did my usual thing of going to a bar. My plans to get blind drunk were ruined when I saw how wasted Grant’s brother was.
He was like this cute little wounded animal, and I couldn’t help feeling responsible for him. I was half expecting a message on social media or for him to ask his brother for my number to say thank you, but he’s either embarrassed or, like I suspect, doesn’t remember a thing, which is a shame because it was fun hanging out with him. I wonder if it was because he was drunk or if he’s always that fun.