He grins and nods at his black and orange Tiger hoodie—where, yes, the little white-and-brown fuzzball peeks out. Christ.
“He was lonely, too. And technically not a duck, so hah.”
“Wasthatyour emergency contingency plan? Bring a damn guinea pig instead of the ducks?”
I sigh, already regretting everything, and keep moving toward the booth, high-fiving fans and giving quick nods as we go. “Just don’t let him near the condiments this time. If we have to go back to the damn vet because he eats another entire tub of mayonnaise, I’m kicking your ass.”
“Please,” Lamar scoffs, sliding into the booth beside me. “You don’t own my ass.”
Tuck slides in across from us with Miles, raising a brow. “You offering that ass to just anyone now, or can I get in line?”
Lamar snorts. “You couldn’t handle it, blondie.”
Tuck just smirks and starts fidgeting with a Captain America coaster. “Bet I could surprise you.”
I don’t miss Lam’s answering grin before the conversation shifts back to the game while we wait for our food. Not that we didn’t already spend an hour post-game going through tape withthe coaches and reviewing every fucking detail. But hey, we’re football players. We can talk about this shit forever.
When the burgers and fries finally arrive, I catch Lamar staring at the empty stage, something a little sad flickering in his eyes. I follow his gaze. The mic stand’s still there, a couple of speakers, a box or two, but the band’s instruments are gone. It’s like Gus never even set up for them and it’s weird not seeing our friends sitting there, talking amongst themselves, getting ready for a gig. It’s packed in Yettie’s. Game day makes the crowd hyped and loud, because we fucking brought it home. But it still feels kind of empty without the band here.
It was weird at first, walking in and seeing strangers at the booth next to the stage instead of our close friends. Lamar, of course, was especially obnoxious about it. He yeeted every group out of it the first few nights until it was crystal fucking clear that booth is, was, and always will be ours. At least for our final year at college.
I’m halfway moaning through my greasy burger with extra fucking cheese—ignoring that Lamar is feeding Meatball french fries. It just can’t be healthy—when a new voice breaks through the hum of the noise of drinking and celebrating college students.
“DUDES. Did you know they went here? I just fucking heard! How did I not know this?”
I look up and find one of our two new roomies standing at the edge of our booth, wide-eyed freshmen Rafa Torres, my new backup quarterback. He was benched today, sure, but he’s been killing it at practice, is a fast learner, has a great arm, and way too much energy for seven a.m. drills. I’m sure it won’t take him long before he’ll have some playing time.
He points at the stage as he slides in next to Tuck who scoots over, practically vibrating, dark brown eyes wide and excited, his black curls flopping over his forehead. “That’s Encore’s stage,right? Like, therealEncore? With that hottie, Jace? I onlyjustsaw the pics Gus has on the wall. They sat righthereas well!” He slams the table, startling us, before gaping at every one of us. “Wait a sec, you went here last year. Did you guys know them,him?”
“Of course we know them. Missy is his ex,” Miles says, nodding toward Lamar.
“Dude. Not cool,” Lamar groans, tossing a napkin at him. “She broke my heart, man.”
“No worries. Time heals all wounds. Or in your case, fucking the entire population of Summerset,” Tuck says, throwing a fry his way.
“Not the entire population…” Lamar grins, catching the fry mid-air—football reflexes. “Just fifty percent. Still contemplating if I want to start on the other half.”
My brows raise, and I can only fucking stare at my best friend—matching Tuck and Miles’s exact expressions like we rehearsed it. This is not the first time he’s said something like this, and if he thinks he likes dudes and wants to test the waters, so to speak, that’s cool and all, but why doesn’t he just talk to—
“Wait. Hold up. You datedMissy?” Rafa says, cutting off my train of thought. “She’s pretty cool. She‘s got, like, Wonder Woman Amazon warrior vibes, but nah… not really my type.”
“Dude, Missy’s fucking hot... Thoselegs…I’d do her,” Miles adds with a shrug, then nods to Lam. “No offense, broski.”
“None taken, dudeski. She fucking is.”
I snicker at the whole mess before finishing the last bite of my burger.
Rafa shrugs like it’s no big deal whatsoever, but there’s something in the way he lifts his chin… “Sure. She’s pretty and all, but, ya know… girls don’t really do it for me.” He glances around the table with his shoulders squared and eyes steady, like he’s daring someone to say something, anything, or waiting forthe big, macho athletes to crack a joke, shift uncomfortably, or let something fucking ugly slip, like the stereotypes people think we are.
I meet his gaze and smile, proud as hell of how unashamed he is of exactly who he is. Wishing I’d had half that courage last year when I finally owned who the fuck I am to my very core. It can’t be easy opening up to your brand-new team members, from which two are your captains.
“That’s cool with us, Rafa.Verycool,” I say, nudging the basket of chili cheese fries toward him, and acting like the captain I’m supposed to be. “This is a safe zone. Same goes for the house, and the whole team. We made sure of that. You’re not the only guy on the roster who’s out and proud.”
Tuck claps him on the shoulder. Miles gives him a lazy salute. Lamar throws him the fry he just caught, missing by at least two feet.
Rafa blinks, a little stunned, but then flashes us a wide, toothy smile. “Damn. That’s… that’s actually kinda fucking awesome and shit.” He grabs a cheesy fry out of the basket, shoves it into his mouth, and mumbles around it: “Still would 100 percent let Jace Janssen ruin my life and ass, though.”
Tuck chokes on his drink. Miles wheezes. Lamar laughs so hard he nearly shakes Meatball out of his hoodie.
