Page 16 of Big Stick Energy
I wake up on my side, drooling into the pillow, to a buzzing noise. It sounds like angry bees.
When I pry one eye open, it proves to be a mistake. The Florida sun is doing its best impression of a laser beam through the sheer hotel curtains. Why didn’t I close those blackout curtains last night?
Oh, right. Because I was hammered. Because welost. Because the season is over, and I’m a failure who deserves this hangover.
My phone buzzes again. I grab it off the nightstand and squint at my messages. All forty-seven of them, most of which are from my parents. They’re worried about how “devastated” I looked during the postgame interviews.
Mom wants me to fly straight home to Massachusetts. Dad has sent three articles about how to recover from a big disappointment. Real helpful, guys.
Even as I’m holding the phone, a new text from my mother comes through.The silver lining here is that you can make it to Maribel’s shower! Would you like to stay with us for a whole week?
Ugh, no.
I drop the phone onto the pristine white duvet and close my eyes again. It’s too hot in this bed. And I’m still wearing my dress pants from last night. And one sock. The other one is… somewhere. Along with my dignity.
My mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died. Probably my pride.
With a groan of anguish, I roll away from the sunlight, onto my other side.
And then I shriek like a preteen girl. Because there’s another warm body in this bed.Holy shit.I search my memory, but I don’t remember hooking up with anyone.
She clears her throat.Deeply.What the fuck? My eyes pop open again, and I see DeLuca grinning down at me. “Sleep okay, little buddy? How’s your head?”
“Jesus Christ,” I say, and his grin only widens. “What are you doing in my hotel room?”
There’s a snicker from elsewhere in the room. “Whose hotel room?”
“Oh God.”
DeLuca and Chase Merritt laugh in stereo as I lever myself up to a seated position. Merritt is on the sofa, looking perky in a warm-up set with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. DeLuca is propped up in bed beside me, scrolling his phone, a cup of coffee beside him, too.
I search the room, and my gaze lands on a suitcase. DeLuca’s. Things must have gotten so hairy last night that they were afraid to leave me alone. There’s even a carefully positioned ice bucket on the floor beside the bed, probably in case I started puking.
God.I let out another groan, and a few of the night’s horrorsbegin to puncture the mist of my hangover, like a lighthouse through the fog. I remember DeLuca and Merritt showing up with a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I remember taking the elevator down to the hotel bar once we ran out of liquor.
And something about Darcy?Hell.I still need to apologize to her. Right after I stop the room from spinning. And maybe throw up. And find my other sock.
“How did I end up here?” I croak.
“You wouldn’t stop drinking,” Merritt says. “You even gave the bartender a hard time for cutting you off.”
“Seriously?” A headache begins to pound behind my eyes. “I’m never rude.”
“This is mostly true,” DeLuca says with a shrug. “And you never get that toasted. We figured you just needed a night to let your hair down, you know? But you were kind of a sad drunk.”
I press my hands into my eye sockets. “Can you blame me? We lost the fucking game.”
“Yeah, you couldn’t shut up about that,” Merritt says. “Somehoweverythingthat went wrong was your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?” I growl. “I played like shit last night.”
DeLuca shakes his head. “You weren’t the only one, pal. Although, drunk Tremaine thought he was responsible for every missed opportunity. Even that ugly goal I let in.”
“Even O’Connell’s injury,” Merritt adds. “Explainthatone.”
I shake my head, but it hurts, so I stop.
“You need some food and coffee,” DeLuca says. “And you, uh, might want to apologize to Darcy.”
