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They’re in Faber, doing a post-game recap and looking at the next few games on the schedule, when Holster starts it.
“Looks like we’re in Boston the same weekend as Harvard-Yale!” He looks up from his phone to catch Ransom’s eye. “I’m pushing the first kid I see in a Ralph Lauren sweater in the Charles.”
Ransom chuckles, but a bit weakly, and Bitty’s pretty sure he knows why. “Holster, you wouldn’t shove your linemate in the Charles, would you? You’d only have to fetch him out again.”
“Uh?”
Bitty rolls his eyes. “Like you’d even be able to spot a polo player when sensible people are wearing coats over them. Ransom’s more likely to wear one you actually see.”
Holster’s eyes narrow at that. “That’s true, isn’t it. After all,” he flicks his towel at Ransom’s ass, “you’re also the person most likely to inflict those salmon shorts on us.”
“Hey!” Ransom dodges beyond the towel’s reach. “These are ‘swawesome and I look amazing. I can cite at least 14 ladies that agree - check out this spreadsheet - "
He starts swiping at his phone as Holster sings “Take off alllll your prep-py clothes - "
“ - bro, tell me you aren’t singing a song that came out when you were ten years old - "
“ - you know you’re not fooling anyone when you BECO-OME - "
Holster is suddenly cut off by Lardo shoving a towel in his mouth. “Okay, aside from Holster’s sartorial concerns - no other questions about upcoming roadies? Good. Get your shit cleared away, boys, kegster starts in 30.”
Incensed, Holster spits out the towel. “You and your damn salmon shorts,” he mutters darkly at Rans. “One day you will be less than vigilant, and they’ll go the way of your Vibrams.”
“You fucker! Those were like a hundred bucks, and I loved them!”
“I was doing you a favor!” Holster yells back. “Excuse me for trying to keep you from accumulating bone marrow edema! And shin splints! And a strained Achilles tendon!”
“Either way,” Jack cuts into the catalogue of potential injury, “could you both make sure not to burn rubber in the Haus again?”
“Yeah,” Lardo agrees, nose wrinkling at the memory. “Took forever to get the smell out.”
Holster puts a hand on his chin, looking thoughtful. “Cutting them into tiny pieces wouldn’t smell like anything. Nor would dumping them into The Pond!” He pockets his phone and shoves his towel in the laundry bin, before turning to Ransom with outstretched fingers. “Or we could send ‘em down the Samwell River, to be rid of them most quickly.”
“Bro,” Ransom says warningly, “threatening personal property is no way to get into anyone’s pants.”
“You look ridiculous, though! I’m throwing them out. Please don’t make me do that while they remain on your person. Dex and Nursey aren’t ready to fill your skates.”
As Ransom dashes about to evade Holster’s grabby hands, Shitty grins and raises his bottle (carefully snuck into Faber for post-game celebration in the nude) in a toast. “Yeaaaah, take ‘em off! Join me in escaping trouser tyranny!”
“‘Trouser tyranny’?” Jack huffs a laugh. “Shits, how do you even come up with this shit?”
“Brah, you gotta check out this site about dudes in kilts. It’s inspirational. Bravehearts against needless bifurcation!” He shoves his phone in Jack’s face. “It’s also like ten years old, but no less true, you know?”
Lardo grimaces, both at the shouts that attend the sudden appearance of Ransom’s briefs and Shitty’s kiltmen.com bookmark. “I know it’s nothing we haven’t seen, but - keep ‘em on unless you’re going to change into something less eye-searing, could you?”
The d-men ignore her and continue running around the locker room. Chowder pipes up, “I think they’re fun!! They kind of make me feel at home. Like Tasty Coffee! Or teal walls. Or those potstickers Bitty makes that taste like the ones from Crazy Pepper!!”
Beside him, Bitty muses aloud in between tweets. “I think I’m okay with the concept but not the execution. Those are for summer on the coast, not November.”
“I wouldn’t wear them at any time. But you can do what you want, so long as nothing ends up on fire,” Jack calls after Ransom. “And watch your ankles!”
It’s a reasonable call, as Holster makes one last grab for shorts that are now hanging off Ransom’s left ankle. He shouts in triumph and flings them toward Dex, who looks both gratified and disgusted to have caught them.
“Dex! Dex I’m open give them back!” Ransom huffs for breath.
Dex tosses them back, but not without chirping him a bit. “You look like a damn lax bro.”
“You take that back!”
“What? I call them like I see them!”
Nursey smirks, even as he collides with Holster on his way to the door. “Dex, chill. In fact, everyone chill. They’re just fucking shorts.”