Page 14 of So This Is War
All these assholes are head over heels, living in their lover era, because of me.
OC, Oden O’Connor, is the only lonely one left besides yours truly because I haven’t had the chance to dig my meaty claws into him yet. But word on the street is he has a thing with one of our athletic trainers. We got drunk one night and shared somesecrets. He told me about Grace, and well . . . we don’t have to talk about what I told him.
“I have a hell of a lot more respect for bologna than to refer to my dick as the most delicious meaty substance ever formed,” I say. “So no, I wasn’t talking about something else. I was talking about my fucking bologna. Someone has been eating it.”
“You sound like one of those bears from that Goldilocks story,” OC says. And then in a deep voice, he carries on, “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed. Someone’s been eating my bologna.”
“If only someone has been sleeping in my bed,” I mutter. Been a bit of a drought as of late. I blame these teammates of mine. I’ve been so busy taking care of their lives that I haven’t been able to take care of mine.
But that stops today.
After tonight’s game, I’m going out, and I’m going to pick someone up. We are going to fuck. My dick will be happy. And then everything will be right in the world.
“You really should get yourself a girlfriend,” Taters says as he kicks back and puts his feet up on one of the tables. I quickly push his feet off.
“Show some respect. Pacey nervously eats his protein bar on that table before games,” I chastise.
“Seriously, though, wasn’t it last season when OC let the cat out of the bag and told us that you’re crushing on some girl? What ever happened with that?”
OC slowly sinks into his chair, knowing full well he broke our drunk-guy code that night. It was in a text thread. He was getting all riled up, probably trying to gain likes since he was the new guy at the time, and blurted it out. He received a stern talking-to after that and was put on probation.
He has yet to be fully trusted again.
“Nothing happened,” I answer. “And it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. That is private information that never should have seen the light of day in the group chat.”
“Says the guy who butts into everyone else’s love lives,” says Taters.
“Oh fuck off,” I say as I take a seat at the table, bologna sandwich-less. “The only love life I butted in on was Halsey’s, but that’s because it was low-hanging fruit, and there was no way he was going to pluck it. Other than that, I was a savior to the rest of you. And you’re welcome, by the way. I take presents as thank-yous. Expensive watches, fancy shoes, and tailored suits.”
“You’re delusional,” Taters says.
I glance over at the fridge, contemplating what to do. I need a sandwich before my game, but I’m not one to send an SOS to the staff. If this were Taters or Hornsby, they probably would have already sent someone to the store to buy more bologna.
Not me. I’m a gentleman, not a diva.
“It looks like he’s thinking about his sandwich,” OC says.
“That’s because he is. He needs one before every game.”
I stare my two teammates down. “It gives me protein and energy,” I say. “It makes me skate harder and faster. It gives me comfort and ease. Bologna is the reason I’m able to accurately dig the puck away from our opponent from behind the net. It isn’t just any sandwich. It’s magic. So excuse me for needing that fucking sandwich.” My fists grow tight as I try to take calming breaths and . . . wait. I turn toward OC and Taters and say, “Did one of you motherfuckers take my bologna? Because if you did, it’s not funny. So just bring me my bologna, and no one will get hurt.”
I hold out my hand, but Taters and OC don’t move.
Finally, OC says, “Dude, although it’s slightly entertaining watching you spiral over processed meat, I know better than to fuck with your bologna.”
“Same,” Taters says, holding his hands up in defense. “The whole team knows better.”
I slam my fist on the table. “Then who the fuck did it?”
“Posey!” I nearly fly out of my chair at the sound of my coach’s voice. I turn to see him standing in the doorway of the cafeteria, looking like he’s ready to blow his fist through the wall.
Did he . . . did he take my bologna?
“Coach Wood,” I say, straightening up. “Can I help you?—”
“My office. Now.” He walks away, his bald head glistening under the fluorescent lights in the hallway.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I think my dick just shriveled up.”
