Dustin
Waking up this morning the first thing that registers with me is the pounding headache rattling my skull. That's quickly followed by the dry mouth and my stomach doing flips. There's no denying that I definitely overdid it last night. I keep my eyes closed for a minute and try to wrap my brain around what even happened, but the room starts to spin so I try to fall back to sleep. Unfortunately, before I can there is a constant pounding on the bedroom door. I try to ignore it, hoping it'll stop soon but when it doesn't, I finally open my eyes to see the door open and Ian standing in front of it, telling me we have to check out of the room immediately. It isn't until I hear the words coming out of another one of the player's mouths that I realize I'm not at home. I'm at the hotel. But wait? How did I get here?
"C'mon now lad, pick up yourself we gotta go!" Ian commands in his usual joking matter. The two of us hit it off since this summer and he's been my best guy friend I've had here. Although he's one of the better players on the team he understands the work that is put into what we do behind the scenes unlike some of the other star players. He doesn't act like he's too good to hang out with me and because of that, we bonded quickly.
As I get out of bed I don't even bother getting myself together before I follow Ian and a few of the other players down to the parking garage where cabs are waiting to take us home. I wasn't even supposed to spend the night here. I was supposed to go home in the same car as Lexie and her friends. How did I end up passing out with twenty other random people in the suite?
As a few of us climb into one of the cabs, I use the opportunity to rest my eyes in the car making it clear that I'm not in the mood for chit chat. I keep feeling Ian's eyes on me, but I've got no idea why. I try and replay what I remember of the night over in my head, but nothing is coming to me. I know I'm still drunk by the time we get to my apartment. Ian looks as if he's about to step out of the cab with me when I stop him immediately.
"What are you doing?" I ask as I about just shut the door in his face.
"I thought we were going to talk?" He asks.
"About what?" I ask, holding my hand over my eyes to ward of the bright glare of the sun. I swear to god the weather in London is absolute shit and overcast about 75% of the time and today of all days in the beginning of November it's bright and sunny.
"Last night...." He says slowly, "Do you not remember?"
"Dude I'm still drunk. I need to go upstairs and pass out." I admit, feeling the queasiness in my stomach start to work its way up my throat.
"Alright... Just call me when you're up later." He says, phrasing it as more of a command than a question in his unusual authoritative tone.
I agree even though I barely register what I'm agreeing to as I slam the car door and start trudging up the stairs to my apartment. I barely make it into the bathroom before I spill the entire contents of what I'd eaten yesterday into the small toilet. After what feels like about ten minutes of hurling I don't even try to make it to my bed. Instead I crawl over onto the tiny, lumpy couch and pass out again within seconds.
I wake up a few times throughout the day, each time a little bit more of the previous night starts to slowly come back to me. Once to strip off the dress shirt and pants I'm still wearing so I can sleep comfortably in my boxers. I wake up a few hours later to chug a couple bottles of water. Then I have to wake up to piss and hurl again. I feel miserable. I haven't been this hungover in a while and I realize it's probably my body telling me I'm getting old and I have to get my shit together. Actually, I know why my body is reacting this way. I got too out of control last night. I haven't been that bad in a long time.
