Page 31 of Call the Shots (For The Arena #1)

JUNE

YOU’LL SEE HOW SOFT I AM

The two of us raced to the backyard to see what the party was jeering over. Elijah— goddammit, Elijah —was being shoved by a guy in a viking costume, and there was Montoya. Baby Montoya, who had the biggest dimples on the team, stood on shaky knees, confronted by some frat boy.

“This doesn’t fucking concern you,” the frat boy snapped.

“There’s—there’s a nicer tone you can use for my teammate,” Montoya stuttered.

“A nicer tone? ”

“I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You don’t want to hurt me? ” He grabbed Montoya by the shoulder. “Who do you think you are?”

I bristled, but Bear was one step ahead of me. He elbowed his way through the crowd, a snarl exploding out of him. “You don’t touch my fucking kid! ”

My mouth fell open as Bear’s fist struck the frat boy’s jaw with a resounding crack and the crowd cheered.

The night erupted into brawls, Bear wrestled a chair from another guy when he tried to hit Bear with it, Elijah was fighting with the viking in the corner, rolling in the dirt, and Nick passed by, rolling up his sleeves.

I could see Montoya sucking in deep breaths in preparation, but before he could join, I ducked through the warm bodies and snagged him by the bed sheet.

“I can help!” he pleaded.

“No, you can’t .” I scanned the crowd. “Fridge!”

“I’m too drunk for this!” he cursed, ducking into the fight, accidentally ripping off someone’s toga.

This was out of hand, but I was the only one who thought so. As long as the cops weren’t called, fights were considered a sign of a great party. No one was interested in stopping it. How was I supposed to stop it?!

I didn’t call Fridge to throw punches, he was the calmest hockey player on the team. People actually listened to him! I dragged Montoya along, darting to where Fridge was smacking a guy with his own plastic shield.

“Fridge!” I yelled and someone crashed into me. My heels stumbled over each other and I hit the grass with a sharp pain in my ankle. “Shit!”

Montoya dropped down to grab my ankle. “June?—”

“No, Montoya! Stop touching it!”

“Did you break it? Oh no, are your bones coming out?” He gagged. “I’m going to throw up?—”

Fridge kicked away his opponent before taking Montoya’s place next to me, his face dewy with sweat. “June, are you okay?”

“It’s been forever since I’ve worn heels,” I admitted, embarrassed. “Fridge, we have to stop the fight?—”

“Yeah, the last thing we need is a video.” He stole a glance over his shoulder and turned back, jaw set with determination. “You want to end this?”

“Yes!”

“When the volume goes down, shout about your ankle.”

“What? It’s not that bad?—”

“Yell like you’re in the worst pain imaginable,” he urged. “Now, June! Scream about it! Get your Oscar!”

I had no idea what Fridge was talking about, but I was too wasted to argue. I clutched my ankle, screaming in the highest pitch I could. “OW, MY ANKLE!”

Through a crowd of roaring, testosterone-filled, beer-guzzling boys who were still on their parents’ insurance, Bear jerked up and his eyes met mine. A beat passed. The furious look on his face disappeared.

He abandoned his fight to wrap his arm around Elijah’s chest, hauling him backwards.

“I GOT IT!” Elijah shouted. “I CAN TAKE ALL THESE PUSSIES?—”

Bear slipped Elijah’s phone from his pocket and dumped him in the pool.

Elijah was under water for a couple of seconds before he emerged, sputtering with fresh curses at Bear, but I was pretty sure Bear didn’t hear them.

Like clockwork, he continued with everybody else in a fight, hauling them to the pool until Nick helped too.

The fight ended as quickly as it began with a dozen swimming frat boys and the sorority president chewing people out.

Bear made his way to me.

My heart pounded with each step he took. Bear was always tall, but down on the grass, I really realized it. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. So comfortable with his stride, his broad shoulders, the long legs, his big hands… When he knelt beside me, I swallowed.

Bear slipped his hand under my legs.

I blinked. “What are you?—?”

He lifted me up.

“No, no, no!” I pushed away for several stupid, drunk seconds before I remembered how much a fall could hurt. I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Down! Back on the ground! No carrying!”

It was like I didn’t say anything. Bear glanced back. “Elijah! Let’s go!”

No matter how much I demanded Bear put me down, he walked through the house with me, shoving people away when they were close to brushing my ankle. He didn’t put me down until we reached the porch.

Bear inspected my ankle, carefully running his fingers over it.

“Ow, ow, ow,” I whined.

“Night’s done,” Bear said to our group when they filed after us. “June needs an ice pack?—”

“It’s Montoya’s birthday,” I insisted. “We’re getting pancakes.”

“The night’s done, June.”

“This is the best birthday party ever,” Montoya hiccupped and sprawled out on the porch. “I love the Gladiators.”

“Pancakes aren't happening,” Bear said. “If we call a taxi and someone passes out at the restaurant, we’re too drunk to handle that.”

Ugh, that was a good point. The glassy look on everyone’s faces, and Elijah, soaked through his bed sheet, made me hesitate. Would a car even pick us up? Um…maybe if we knew them…

I yanked out my phone to dial and a bleary voice answered. “What? Hello?”

“Cleo?” I swatted Bear’s hand when he tried to take my phone. “I’m with the guys—we’re drunk—we want pancakes?—”

“Do you know what time it is?”

Muffled, I could hear Miles. “Who is it? What do they want?”

“They want pancakes.”

“Tell them to fuck off.”

“Miles? Smiles Miles?” I cooed, trying my best to appeal to his good nature. “It’s Montoya’s birthday and I promised pancakes. Please? Pleeease? ”

Elijah leaned down, dripping pool water on me. “Mom, we want pancakes.”

“Don’t call me Mom,” Cleo warned.

“Pancakes,” Montoya sang. “I want pancakes, Mom.”

Nick nodded. “I’m starving and I’m too lazy to make anything good at home.”

The chorus grew while Fridge put his head in his hands and Bear argued against it, the spoilsport, until Cleo’s voice broke through. “Miles, what are you doing?”

“I’m taking them to get goddamn pancakes, I guess,” he grumbled. We cheered and Miles continued, a little louder. “How many people do you have?”

“Elijah, Nick, Fridge, Bear,” I listed off. “Montoya, me?—”

“I don’t have enough space in my car.”

Cleo swore under her breath. “Text me the address. We’ll be there in twenty.”

The eight of us ended up at Densky’s Pancake Emporium, a rinky-dink breakfast spot with only one shining quality.

Open twenty-four hours a day. Cleo sat hunched over a white mocha latte while Miles blinked slowly, trying to wake up with his black coffee.

Both were exhausted while Nick, Elijah, Montoya, and I giggled over how sticky the table was.

“Happy birthday, Montoya,” I whispered.

“Happy birthday,” he sang to himself. “I love my team, happy birthday.”

Fridge grunted. “Stop moving, Nick, I’m going to hurl.”

“I’m not moving. You’re just drunk.”

Our waitress returned with our orders and Montoya got his wish, a stack of six buttermilk pancakes covered in sprinkles and whipped cream for the birthday boy, with flickering candles to boot.

I clapped—the only one who did—and the rest of them started a tired rendition of the happy birthday song while Montoya grinned, eyes squeezed tight.

“I want to win the TIHCC conference. The Gulf Coast Cup.” He blew out the candles. “Aw. I shouldn’t have said that. Now it won’t come true.”

“Won’t come true anyway,” Nick said, shoveling scrambled eggs in his mouth.

I bit into a piece of pineapple from my fruit parfait. Ugh, it was exactly what I needed. The sugars seeped over my tongue, and I took another bite, savoring it. This was by far the best night of the summer and not just because the fruit parfait was fantastic.

Bear said, ‘ don’t touch my fucking kid.’ I smiled into the next bite.

“I don’t like my pancakes,” Montoya said ruefully.

“What do you mean?” I peered at the stack. “What part don’t you like?”

“The sprinkles. It ruins them.”

“Oh. Well, we can?—”

Bear finished pouring syrup on his. “Do you want regular pancakes, Montoya?”

He sat, glum. “Yeah.”

With a sigh, Bear swapped their plates, passing Montoya an order of six regular pancakes, bacon, and sausage. Montoya’s face brightened, and he hurried to cram food in his mouth with a muffled thank you.

Elijah arched an eyebrow. “Aww, Bear.”

“Shut up.”

“What a softie.”

“I’ll elbow you in the throat.” Bear cut into the pancakes covered in rainbow sprinkles. “Then you’ll see how fucking soft I am.”

The guys snorted, I did too, but I snuck another look at Bear. I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said at the party. Maybe it was because I was drunk but ‘ don’t touch my fucking kid ’ played in my mind like a new favorite song.

“June?” Bear asked. “Do you want some pancakes?”

“Oh, no, I’m good with this?—”

“You didn’t have any of the birthday cake, I figured you might want some.”

My eyes snapped to Bear’s while the rest of the guys talked about the junior league. The longer Bear gazed, the more my blush darkened, and I dug my spoon in the fruit parfait again, looking away.

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Thanks though.”