I wouldn’t do it even if I could afford it. Which I can’t.

“You know, we could be onto something,” he says cryptically.

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” The last thing I need is him getting us in trouble with some dumb idea, but when I put on my blinker and cut back into traffic, my passenger is keyed up with an idea. Sits up a bit straighter in his seat, looking excited and mischievous.

“I’m just thinking out loud here, but what if…” He lets his voice trail off mysteriously. As if I’m going to be intrigued enough to ask questions.

“No.”

“Let me finish.”

“No.”

I head toward our house, trying to tune out the sound of Tyson’s voice, wanting to end this evening. Seeing that girl—again—was enough excitement for one damn day.

We have to grab our gym bags and head to the weight room.

No rest for the weary, not with a game against Madison coming up. Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do.

No partying. No drinking. No fucking around.

Hence driving around a college town and cruising the strip—it’s the only entertainment that reminds me of home. Harmless, fun, and free, if you don’t count the gas my truck guzzles in the process.

“What if…” Tyson begins again, as if I didn’t just shoot him down. “We make a game out of it.”

“A game out of what?” My eyes haven’t left the road, but my ears have perked up.

“A game out of people getting out of their cars to scream at you.”

“That’s a terrible idea for so many reasons. One, it’s not safe. Two, I could get in fuckin’ trouble.”

“Why? You’re not doing anything. You’re just driving your own vehicle.” He’s turned to face me, the dumb jock actively interested in his own stupid idea. “We could come up with rules.”

“That just makes it worse.”

“How so?”

“Because. It just does.” How does he not get it? “Besides, what kind of rules could you possibly make up for something as dumb as people getting out of their cars?”

“Dude—fun ones. Like getting one point if it’s a guy who gets out, five if it’s a girl.”

I mean…that does sound kind of fun.

Still.

“No.”

“Oh! You get ten points if the girl is a brownbagger, twenty if she’s hot and you’d bang her.”

“Yeah, now that just sounds like assault.”

“You’re not actually going to bang them—you’re just earning points.”

Is he in a skeevy fraternity and I don’t know it? Who comes up with shit like this? Assigning a point value to a girl because she’s ugly is fucking mean; I might not give two shits about dating one, but I know enough not to be a dick about what they look like.

Who the fuck am I to judge? I’m no cover model myself. I was raised on a cattle ranch in the middle of fucking nowhere, rarely had clothes that fit me properly, was always dirty, and needed braces but never got them.

“Yeah—still no.”

“Why not?”

“Tyson, I ain’t doin’ it.”

“Why?” he parrots himself. “They’re getting out of their cars anyway—we should judge them for it. Five points if they scream at us, three if they just bang on the window. One point if they get out of the car but chicken out.”

It sounds like he’s given this some serious thought. The point values make actual sense, despite there being no way in hell I’d play a game like that.

“Think about it dude. It’s such a good idea.”

“Horrible, really.”

He goes on, warming to the topic. “Fifteen points if the person recognizes us. Twenty if it’s a girl and she starts flirting.”

“Tyson. Stop.”

“I’m just saying y’all could be fun.”

That makes me laugh, despite myself, and I shake my head at his rambling on and on.

“Dude. I just thought of another good one.”

“Would you give it a rest?”

“I can’t. Dude, I can’t.”

He’s just called me dude four times—not a record for him, but close. Tyson is from the west coast, California, and judging by the tan, long blond hair, and loose lingo, he spent lots of time surfing and on the water before returning to school for training camp.

His parents are boosters—wanted him to go to school locally. They wanted him under their thumb, in the family business rather than playing football.

We’re opposites, he and I.

For whatever reason, the kid wouldn’t leave me alone when he was recruited and has been my sidekick since. He doesn’t always use the common sense God gave him, but man is he one loyal bastard. I rue the day someone tries to screw me over.

Dude has my back.

Fuck. I just said dude.

“Can you drop it for now?”

He grunts. “Fine.” Pauses. “But what if I put all this down on paper, just in case?”

“Do what you want—makes no difference to me.”

Still The Third Friday

Jackson

“Triple J, tell us about your angry little friend.”

“My what?”

I pretend I have no idea who McMillan is talking about though I know damn well he means that chick on the side of the road, the one whose food I took last week and who I pulled up behind tonight.

Tyson must have said something—since we live with a few guys on the team, it must have been at home when I was holed up in my room.

Awesome.

“Your friend.” Why is he saying it like that? It sounds creepy.

“She’s not my friend.” I lift two forty-pound weights off the rack and begin doing squats. “I don’t even know her name.”

“Who are we talking about?” Someone else butts in from off to my right—these guys are washwomen, fueled by gossip and carb-loading the night before a game.

“No one.” I grunt, bending my knees and going down as far as my legs will allow without falling. Standing. Squatting.

“Triple J has a girlfriend.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tyson.” I take back every nice thing I was thinking about him before—right now I need a sock to stick in his loud mouth.

“She was—what did you call it? Spitting mad at you?”

“What’d you do to her, buddy?” Another one of my teammates joins the conversation from out of nowhere, and I swear, these guys are worse than old biddies with their gossiping. Always need to be up someone’s ass with their meddling.

“Nothin’.” I’m trying to block them all out, but it’s like we’re having story time and they’ve all gathered ’round.

“He got all up in her grill—literally and figuratively,” Tyson informs them with authority—the factotum with all the details. “We came up with a game to play while we’re cruising in The Bull.”

The Bull—he must be talking about my truck.

“Would you stop?” I pause. The longer I stand here blabbing nonsense, the heavier the weights in my grip become. Fuck it’s heavy. Before I drop them completely, I manage to set them down and rise to my full height, the belt around my waist cinched and tightened. It supports my lower back, but it doesn’t prevent the sweat from dripping down my spine, down into my ass crack.