Page 8 of Off the Post

Trying to be respectful and quiet while Thorny tees off—although, to be fair, he never keeps his mouth shut on the course—I lean over to Canners and murmur, “Hey, do you know when Lyons is getting married?”

He turns his head and screws up his face, his lips curling at the corners. “Do I look like I run a social activities calendar, bruh?”

Irritated, I flip him off and swallow a gulp of beer. “I just figured all married men were kept informed by their wives of what’s what. I figured wrong. Sorry.”

Canners gives a loud guffaw and slaps a knee. The noise interrupts Thorny’s tee-off, and he swings around to glare at us for messing with his backstroke. I shrug and point at Canners.

The thing I like most about hanging with Cannfield is that we are similar in many ways. For the most part, we’re both introverts and loners. Although he’s married, Canners keeps to himself and is very private about his life. While he’s a great team player and engages well with others on the ice, you won’t find him going out with his teammates much during the season, and he prefers to chill in small groups rather than at big events.

For me, a day like this with just a handful of guys is doable and feels comfortable, so I can enjoy it. I can be myself—grumpy as that may be—and not have to deal with making inane small talk or wearing the mask required for public engagements. I just don’t have the kind of energy to do that all the time.

Throw me into a party, club, or big event with lots of people and my social anxiety ratchets up to a level ten. I instantly feel all kinds of awkward and can’t do the small talk people like Rossy seem to thrive on.

Which is precisely why I will not be going to Case’s wedding. The invite came a few weeks ago, or maybe it was a Save the Date reminder. Whatever it was, I promptly threw it out and forgot about it. Until now.

“What does his wedding date have to do with you?” Canners asks, eyes narrowing on me as he throws back the rest of his beer. He shifts in his seat and opens the cooler in the back, tossing the empty can in and extracting a new one. “I know you, bro. There’s no way you’re going to a wedding. You probably won’t even attend your own funeral.”

He stops abruptly, his eyes growing wide when he realizes the implication of what he just said, and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Shit, dude. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I shrug, gesturing with a flap of my hand. “It’s fine, bro. It’s just words.”

He drops his hand, still clearly irritated with himself over the perceived insensitivity of his comment. Only a few of my teammates, Canners included, know what happened to my brother. They know we were close and he was my hero. They also know I don’t talk about it to anyone. Ever.

I tug the rim of my ball cap up and run a hand through my hair, adjusting the hat back down to fit snuggly in place. My hair’s getting long and shaggy and harder to keep out of my eyes. I haven’t had a haircut since Christmas, so it’s probably time.

Anna said I looked like Brad Pitt’s character in some old movie he starred in. I had to look it up because I had no idea which one she was talking about. I’d never seen the film and don’t think I resemble him in it at all.

I don’t stay current on anything in pop culture or on social media unless it’s news press about my performance on the ice. No Instagram or TikTok or Twitter for me. I don’t want people to know me outside of the net.

“So back to Lyons’s wedding. I’m not sure, but I think it’s in August.” He pulls up the calendar in his phone to check, looking at me with a sideways glance. “You think you’ll bring a date?”

I snort. The concept of me dating anyone is more like a joke. “Definitely not. I avoid weddings at all costs,” I reply, pulling a face. “I’m just surprised the dude is even allowed out to have fun is all. I thought you married guys were all kept on short leashes.”

I take a drink of my beer to hide my grin and wait for his reaction. And sure enough, Canners scoffs with over-the-top outrage.

His outburst is loud enough that Rossy, who’s about to tee off, stops mid-swing and swivels around to tell us, “Keep it down, losers.”

We look to each other and laugh even harder. I raise my hands in defense and shake my head before thumbing the blame once again to Canner.

The next four hours is spent in a happy buzz of friendship and beer. My golf score didn’t end up too bad, and I took second in our winner’s pool. Ballas, of course, had the best round, but I still walk away with a hundred bucks in my pocket.

As we grab our bags from the back of the carts to carry them out to our cars, Tanner reminds us about the upcoming calendar shoot we’ve all apparently committed to.

“Okay, boys,” he says in his thick French-Canadian accent. “Don’t forget that next Wednesday, you all gotta make sure those abs are looking ripped and slicked up with baby oil.”

Someone in the group, maybe Ax, comments, “I hope this isn’t anything like a Diddy party,” and there’s a chorus of ooohs from the guys. Tanner gives him the bird.

“It’s none of my business what you and Halle do with baby oil, bro.”

This garners childish snickers and the expected inappropriately porny comments from the group.

Tanner redirects the conversation in a huff. “Ali has been working hard to get everything lined up and ready for the shoot, so you guys just need to be there on time and ready.”

Shrugging, I glance over at Thorny and mouth, Who’s Ali?

Thorny lifts his brows and shrugs back. It’s an expected complication whenever you’re talking with Rossy. He has a way of communicating where he thinks everyone in the world knows what’s going on inside his head when, in fact, we have no idea and just agree to all get along.

One time, Rossy told us a story about something that happened when he was a kid, but he just left that part out. We all thought it had just recently happened, and it made no sense to any of us when he ended the story with, “My mom spanked me so hard.”