“I’ll be right back,” I say over the cover band now rocking out to a U2 song. “Hey Doc, you going to the bar?” Hanner calls, already three sheets to the wind. “Get us another bucket of Coronas.” “Nope,” I shout back, my hand still on Jake’s shoulder. “Ladies’ room.” The guys jostle him as I hear Jake say, “Get your own damn beer, Pauly. She’s your PT, not your waitress.”
