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“Okay, so rule number one: do not do this with a good drink.”
As if they rehearsed this, Lucas doesn’t miss a beat. He reaches into the cooler and chucks a can of Kroger-brand cola to Steve, who catches it in his right hand and sticks his left hand in his pocket. He produces his key ring from his jeans.
“Doing this with a good beverage is a waste of a drink, you hear? It’s not about enjoying it, it’s about technique and speed. Anyway, once you’ve got your shitty beer—I mean soda—you’re gonna take something sharp, preferably your car keys, and you’re gonna stab it.”
Around him, Dustin, Max, El, Will, and Lucas look up at him with rapt attention, like campers watching their counselor tell a ghost story. Mike tries not to look like he cares too much, but he’s definitely still watching. Robin leans over to Steve.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to teach children how to shotgun?” she whispers, sotto voce.
“Sure, ‘cause we’re doing it with soda,” Steve says, at the same time Dustin calls out, “We’re not children!”
“Anyway,” Steve says pointedly. “You wanna stab it once, hard, because you want the hole to be clean. None of you little shits are cutting your mouths on aluminum. I’m not taking anyone to the hospital tonight.”
Eddie snorts. Behind Steve, Nancy slips out of the house and weaves her way over to Eddie, two beers in hand. She settles down on the other side of the lounge chair and passes him one of the cans.
“Thank you,” he mouths.
She flashes a small smile in response.
Steve holds the can flat in his hand. “You hold the can horizontal when you stab it, and then you’re gonna put your mouth on the hole, tilt it upright, and pop the top. That lets air in so the drink can come out. Then you chug. Got it?”
“Got it,” the kids intone.
“Rob, you wanna do the honors?” Steve prompts.
“I feel like I’m an accessory to a felony doing this,” Robin says, even as she reaches into the cooler. She passes the sodas around to each of the teens—six cans of store-brand not-Coca Cola. “No, officer, I wasn’t teaching children how to shotgun, that’s not what was happening at all.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. We’re teaching them an important life skill. Okay, I’m gonna do it first, then you guys can go. Sound good?”
The kids nod. It’s almost cute how they pay such close attention to him, like he’s teaching them real life lessons and not just how to drink shitty beer in the fastest way possible.
“Wait,” Steve says. “This is more fun if you’re racing with someone. Rob, grab a drink.”
She mutters something that sounds a lot like do I have to, but she still grabs a can and unclips her keys from her belt loop. Steve and Robin stand side-by-side, looking more like twins separated at birth than best friends, and Steve points at Lucas.
“You’re ref, okay? You decide who finishes first.”
Lucas nods. He plants his hands on his hips in an astoundingly Steve-like gesture. “You ready? Okay. Three…two…one…go.”
Lightning-fast, Steve stabs the bottom of his can, puts his mouth to it, and throws his head back. He flicks the tab of the can with a metallic crack. Beside him, Robin misses the first stab, curses, makes it on the second, and hurries to catch up. It would be a tense competition if Eddie could pay literally any attention to anything but Steve right now.
Steve looks—
There’s no way around it: Steve looks obscene. From the cocky grin on his face as he stabbed the can to the long line of his neck as he threw his head back, he’s the picture of jock-ish confidence. He holds his arms out wide, tugging his shirt tight across his chest, and the hem of that traitorous polo pulls up and exposes a strip of his lower stomach all tan and golden from a summer in the sun. Arousal and embarrassment at that arousal pulses hot and sudden through Eddie’s veins, turning his face red.
No, no, absolutely the fuck not.
Looking away would be a great idea right now. Looking away would, in fact, be the best idea Eddie Munson has ever had in his twenty-one years of life. Looking away from Steve shotgunning a soda is the only thing that can save him from the misery and humiliation of being turned on by this.
Naturally, because he’s self-destructive like that, Eddie keeps watching.
That exposed strip of stomach just gets wider as Steve leans to the side, tugging his shirt up further, and Eddie can see where the tight band of his boxers cuts into his hips over his belt and the trail of hair under his navel. Steve swallows hard, his throat moving, and pulls the can away from his mouth. His lips are shining with spit and soda and slightly swollen like he’s just been making out with someone. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins.
“They didn’t call me the king for nothing,” he crows.
Eddie groans quietly and drops his head in his hands.
He crosses his legs, aiming for subtlety. He really does not want the teenagers noticing the situation currently happening in his jeans, which are suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight. Meanwhile, Robin is hacking up a lung because soda went down the wrong way, but all Eddie can think about is how fucking hot Steve looks when he’s shotgunning. This might be the worst moment of Eddie’s life, inclusive of the whole getting-eaten-alive-by-bats thing.
Beside him, Nancy snorts and chokes on a mouthful of beer. She leans over to Eddie.
“Don’t worry. It worked on me too.”
Yeah, no. This is officially the worst moment of Eddie’s life.