![]() ![]() Plus Buck Butterson has a nicer ring than Miller Butterson-too many “ers” in it. One of Lance’s puck bunnies uses the nickname I’ve answered to since I was a kid. “Then I don’t have to call you fifty times to get your ass up,” Lance adds. “You can roll out of bed and right into the pool.” “The trainer’ll be at Lance’s at ten-thirty, remember?” Randy says. “Just get in the limo, man.” Lance looks to Randy, another teammate and one of my closest childhood friends, for backup. ![]() “I can get it in the morning.” My words run together, but he seems to understand. Lance puts a hand on my shoulder, his grin sloppy. I take an unstable step toward the line of waiting cabs outside the bar. “I’mma go home.” In my head those are the words I’m speaking, but in reality I think it comes out more like a groan. Like, messed up to the point that Lance, my teammate, has two sets of eyes. ![]()
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