UNEDITED
Kaleb Jones is living the dream. He's playing hockey with Shea Smith again, dating the woman of his dreams, and has a promising future ahead.
Ella Taylor's life feels perfect until she discovers her boyfriend has been cheating on her with...
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Kaleb
"Dude," I yell over the booming bass. "I have to piss like a racehorse."
Shea Smith frowns at me and mouths, "What?"
His attention is half-focused on me. He's too busy grinding against Brenna Harrison's ass to care about where I'm heading or what I'm saying.
Okay, that's a lie. They're not grinding. But if Shea were to hear my thoughts, I know they would piss him off. Hence the reason I'm sticking with that perception. Post-concert, I'll make a comment so I can rile him up.
He's fun to annoy.
I roll my eyes and remove my phone from my back pocket. On the notes app, I relay the information to him through text, turning my phone around so he can read the screen.
His eyebrows furrow as he reads, still swaying to the music. When he's finished, he shoots me a lame thumbs-up. Later, he'll give me a lecture on why you don't consume large amounts of liquid during a concert.
Good thing I have a topic to throw in his face. Something tells me I'm winning the round of banter tonight. I have more ammo than Shea does. Mainly because I was right about Brenna and Shea. Every time they see each other, they're eye-fucking. Don't want to know what the hell happens behind closed doors. Hearing their obnoxious moans during the night of the draft was enough. They practically kept the entire floor at our hotel awake. Pretty sure the headboard was banging against the wall, too.
Pushing through the mosh pit, I head for the exit while people scream the lyrics to "Summer of '69" by Bryan Adams. Contrary to Canadian culture, it's not my favourite song by him. Don't get me wrong. I love Bryan Adams. Hence the reason I'm sweating my ass off at his concert and reeking of body odour. Whether that body odour is just mine is a mystery that remains.
Since my favourite song, "Somebody," has already been played, I'm taking this opportunity to relieve my bladder. Not that I have a choice. If I don't, I'll piss myself.
Prospera Place in Kelowna is nothing compared to the Bell Centre in Montréal. Comparing the two arenas makes Prospera Place look like a house. When comparing the booming bass, though, you'd never know.
As I saunter down the semi-crowded hallway, I weave my way through swaths of people. Some are buying merch. Others are buying drinks or food from the concession stand.
I wrinkle my nose. People who buy food during a concert are a different species. Not that I'm being judgemental. Eating while jamming out to music just makes little sense to me.
The concrete floor is stained and the air smells like artificial butter as I pass by the concession stand and round the corner.
The men's washroom is on the other side of the women's, which has a steady line. While there are groups of women who are semi-drunk already, lots of them look aggravated. I can understand why. Their glares are focused on the men's bathroom, which has no line.
