Home Ice by Saxon James

“I have your friend here. You better come pick him up.”

“My friend?” I’m trying to work my sleepy brain. “Who?”

“Jensen Hawke.”

That’s the last name I’m expecting. Sure, we went out together there a few times when we were twenty-one but it wasn’t long after that Hawke left. How the hell does Derry even remember that? “He’s not my friend.”

“Well he’s here, he’s drunk off his face and causing issues, so if you don’t come and get him, I’ll be forced to call the police.”

Motherfucker. “Aren’t you supposed to make sure you don’t over serve people?” Apparently I’m irritable when I’m tired and being dragged out of bed.

I am getting out of bed though. One foot in front of the other while my body tries to tug me back down onto the mattress.

“Police it is,” he says.

“Stop,” I groan before he can hang up. “I’m on my way. Just give me a second to get changed and I’ll be there.”

“Appreciate it. See you soon.”

I pull a face at my phone when I hang up then hurry to tug on some shorts and a T-shirt. Sleeping only in my briefs makes that easier, I guess.

Hawke is going to owe me for this. I have private coaching classes from six tomorrow and I’m already going to be wrecked from a day of working outside.

I’m halfway to the bar when it occurs to me that I should have left Derry to call the cops. What the hell do I care? Mine and Hawke’s friendship ended ten years ago by my choice.

And here I am, running to his aid.

Okay, it’s possible that the fresh memory of him is dredging up things I’d always kept buried. No matter how many friends I make as an adult, there’s a disconnect between what I have with them, and the kind of ride or die friendship I had with Hawke.

Maybe friendships born out of stupidity, competition, and the shared trauma of high school isn’t something that you can replicate as an adult. It’s one of those priceless things you either have forever, or for the time you need to grow into yourself.

Hawke and I were that second option, but damn if I don’t wish it was the first.

I get to Derry’s too fast for my thoughts, and walk into the usual Saturday night thrum. The music is loud, the laughter is louder, and as I weave my way through people, I spot the one black cloud at the bar.

He’s hunched over, gripping his empty glass like it’s the only thing keeping him on his stool, and there’s a ring of empty space between him and the rest of the room that nobody wants to cross.

And I’m the lucky guy who gets to do it.

With a deep breath that does nothing for my courage, I pull out the stool beside him and sink down onto it.

“Should we try this again?” I ask.

All I get is a glower in return.

“Since your memory is so terrible, I’m Tai Barrett. The guy you were best friends with between the ages of … I dunno … thirteen and twenty-one.”

“Fuck off.”

My lips twitch. “Ah, so you do remember me?”

“I said fuck off.” He’s slurring, which means he’s drunk way too much to still be upright.

“I could, but Derry called me and basically said that you leave with me, or you leave with the police. Your call.”

“The police.”

I almost laugh at that. Hawke has always been a bit of a stubborn ass, but it was never in an aggressive or bitter way. More that he’d bet until he was blue in the face—or Google proved him wrong—that he was right about something and was always ready for any competition to prove that he’s the best.

Hawke’s a winner. It’s always been in his nature.

So this loser sitting drunk at the bar does not match up with my memory of him.

“I don’t think you mean that.”

His laugh holds no amusement. “You know shit about me. Go away.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because who else will pull out their phone and record the great Jensen Hawke being arrested and post it for all the world to see?” His glare bores into me even as I tap my chin like I’m thinking. “Oh that’s right. The whole bar. Especially those guys over there who have worked out exactly who you are.”

Hawke grunts, goes to take another sip from his glass and then snarls when he remembers it’s empty. “Like it could make the day any worse.”

“Well it’s definitely not making a bad day better.”

“Neither is talking to you.”

Considering I wasn’t even sure I wanted to haul my ass out of bed for this guy, he should be annoying me more than he is. But even with him being an asshole, there’s something about his presence that’s reeling me in, the same way it always did when we were younger.