My eyes dart over to the other side of the bar. Indeed, Matthew Wakefield is acting like a first class dipshit, banging his hands on his chest like a gorilla while one of the Badger players pour a beer into his big, fat open mouth. The beer of course isn’t making it down his throat, or even in his mouth - but rather, it is running down the front of his flannel shirt in steady stream of wet, yellow foam.
Head tipped back, Matthew’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and his gloriously un-kept hair falls into his eyes. I can’t help admiring the sexy unshaven five o’clock shadow straining over the cords of his thick neck, as it disappears into the dark recesses of his flannel.
I avert my eyes and snort. “Maybe you should take a picture of the dumbass and post it on Instagram.”
Molly looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No way! Hello! My mom is one of my followers and would be so pissed at us both.”
Confused, I ask, “Why would she be pissed at you?”
Molly levels me with a stare. I rack my brain for a nanosecond, and luckily it only takes me that long to catch up. Realization dawns on me.
Ding, ding, ding – we have a winner.
Molly isn’t 21 yet (unlike myself, who turned a magnificent twenty-two last May) and can’t post drinking pictures on any social media. Her parents would K-I-L-L her.
Slowly. Surely.
But for me, twenty-three is right around the corner. Months away, in fact (hallelujah)!
“Ahhhh…” I draw the words out. Well, more like I draw them out in a really loud yell so she can hear me over the music. “Right. Gotch’ya!”
At that exact same moment, chanting interrupts what she’s about to say, and to Molly’s horror, her brute of a brother is loudly shouting – Wait. No. Shouting isn’t the right adjective… it’s more of a chant.
Yup.
The moron is definitely chanting his sister’s name in a crowded bar.
“Seriously Matthew, what the F!?” Molly shrieks. “Could you not?”
Matthew, now having her attention, continues shouting, “Moll-E, Moll-E! Molly, come here! Molly!”
Unceremoniously, Molly yanks my arm and hauls me behind her through the crowd, pushing her way through like a prize fighter, towards her brother as he begins belting out the words to Parking Lot Party (Lee Brice in case you didn’t know), which isn’t even the song blasting out of the sound system.
Nope. Not the song at all, but he’s singing it anyways.
And he’s not the only one; half the team is singing – maybe not to Lee Brice – but in one seemingly messed up redneck chorus. In the middle of all the chaos, unsurprisingly, is a group of skanky, half-dressed puck bunnies that are grinding on several happily drunk members of the team.
To a country song.
The one that’s actually playing; a country song about saving horses and riding cowboys.
Seriously.
My lip curls in disgust as I’m forcibly dragged towards them. Completely against my will, I might add.
It’s not really the small crowd of skanks I object being pulled towards, it’s…
Okay, I’m lying.
It’s the skanks.
* * *
Matthew
I have a confession to make: I’m not really drunk.
Not one bit.
Another confession: I’m glad my sister is dragging that angry roommate behind her, and not her best friend “Hockey Stalker Jenna” as I like to call her. I’ve heard horror stories about her from Weston, and believe me, I’d rather not voluntarily put myself in the path of a fan girl. Regardless, all night, Jenna has been watching me with beady, calculating eyes. She’s wearing some freaky ass disco ball earrings - even from here as she watches us, I can tell she’s just barely occupied enough with the other girl not to follow Molly.
Barely.
She wants to come over, but doesn’t.
I stumble a few paces towards my sister, putting on a small show. It’s easy to act drunk with a soaking wet shirt full of beer and loud music blasting all around you, and the drunk act is actually a good excuse to get a few words in with my sister without having to walk over to her.
She can’t resist stomping over to discipline me.
Truth is, we don’t get to see each other all that often, and… I miss the little shit, even if she is a pain in my ass most of the time.
But she’s stubborn, and independent, and I know that unless I force her to come over, she would remain on her side of the bar all night, judging.
Molly and Cecelia get jostled a bit along the way, and I keep a close eye on the crowd as they make their way through it, shrewdly prepared to step up in case anyone touches either of them. I know how guys are, and both my sister and her roommate are looking pretty damn cute tonight.