A DEAL WITH THE CAPTAIN

8.NOT SO AWKWARD

CHAPTER EIGHT

HUNTER’S POV

NOT SO AWKWARD

Drinking two nights in a row? Probably not my brightest idea. I'm only slightly tipsy right now, just enough for everything to feel a little lighter and funnier than it actually is. But that's me. Apparently, I never learn. Darren, on the other hand, is well past the point of tipsy and rapidly approaching shitfaced, which means tomorrow morning is going to be brutal for him. He'll wake up with a pounding headache, a mouth drier than the Sahara, and absolutely no memory of half the stupid things he's said tonight. Especially this part.

Because here's the thing about Darren: whenever whiskey enters his bloodstream, something in his brain switches off. The confident, obnoxious hockey player disappears, and in his place emerges the biggest f*****g simp in the entire universe. It's honestly fascinating to watch. Give the guy enough whiskey and suddenly he's writing poetry with his eyes, declaring eternal devotion to women he's known for approximately twelve minutes, and behaving like he's auditioning for the role of the world's most hopeless romantic. The man can survive a brutal hockey game without flinching, take a hit hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and get back on his feet like nothing happened. But put a pretty girl in front of him after a few shots of whiskey and suddenly he's ready to pledge his life, his loyalty, his bank account, and probably his firstborn child.

Right now, he's promising some poor girl a beach house in Hawaii if she'll agree to go on a date with him.

I nearly choke on my beer.

"Are you f*****g serious?" I mutter, watching Darren gesture wildly as though he's negotiating a billion-dollar business deal instead of trying to convince a stranger to have dinner with him.

The girl is laughing, which only seems to encourage him.

"Think about it," Darren tells her, pointing dramatically toward the ceiling. "Hawaii. Ocean. Private beach. You and me."

"You don't own a beach house," I call out.

He turns around and glares at me.

"Not yet."

I laugh, shaking my head before taking another sip of my beer.

My gaze drifts toward Ryan, who's sitting a few seats away, currently locked in what appears to be an extremely heated argument with one of the guys from the team. Surprisingly enough, they're not arguing about hockey. No. They're seriously discussing some guy named Kafka.

I stare at them for a few seconds, trying to understand how we went from hockey to whatever the hell this is.

"And I'm telling you, the transformation is the entire point," Ryan argues, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

"That's not what Kafka was saying."

"That's exactly what he was saying."

I have absolutely no idea what they're talking about. Or who they are talking about. If it’s not about hockey, I frankly rarely pay attention. Judging by the seriousness on Ryan's face, however, you'd think the fate of civilization depended on them settling this argument.

I shake my head.

Some people are weird when they're drunk. Ryan is just super nerdy when he's sober. Some people tend to find it weird. Personally I really could care less.

"Is he always like that off the ice?" Bill asks beside me.

I glance over at him. Bill is watching Ryan with the same expression of confusion I probably have on my face. I nod.

"Yes. Bring up anything literary and it'll be like giving Ryan manna from heaven."

Bill laughs,"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Mention a book, an author, some obscure piece of literature nobody else has heard of, and you've basically activated his final form."

He looks back toward Ryan.

"What's he even talking about?"

"Kafka."

"Who's Kafka?"

I stare at him.

"You're asking me?"

Bill chuckles,"Fair enough."

I take another drink.

Bill and I rarely interact outside the rink. We're teammates, technically friends by association, but we've never exactly been the kind of guys who hang out together after practice. Most of our conversations begin and end with hockey. That's about it.

And yet, somehow, this guy is now officially my roommate.Still hasn't quite settled into my brain. A few days ago, he was just another guy from the hockey team. Now there's a box with his name on it sitting in the hallway at our house, his hockey equipment is taking up space in the garage, and there's a decent chance I'll be hearing him stumble through the front door at two in the morning for the foreseeable future.

"Still feels weird, doesn't it?" Bill asks, almost as though he can read my thoughts.

"What?"

"Me living with you guys."

I shrug.

"Give it a week."

"A week?"

"Either we'll be best friends or you'll be begging Ryan to move out."

Bill laughs,"Good to know."

I glance back toward Darren, who is now apparently explaining to the girl he’d promised a Hawaiian beach house to, how he'd name their hypothetical dog.

I sigh.

"At least you know what you're getting yourself into."

Bill follows my gaze and laughs.

"Jesus."

"Exactly."

For the first time since he moved in, the idea of having Bill around doesn't seem quite so strange. Maybe this won't be as bad as I thought.