Page 13 of The Fire Line

“We’re making a documentary, Harris. There will unfortunately be some equipment.”

There it was again. The man could make agreement irritating.

Harris set the wrench on the edge of the trough. “Wednesday at six. Don’t be late.”

Navarro folded the map. “I’m from New York. Apparently three minutes early counts.”

He walked away before Harris could answer.

Harris watched him go for half a second before catching himself and looking back at the float valve. He had no reason whatsoever to notice how Navarro’s jeans fit from behind.

3

I’d Hate for This to Move Too Fast

By six fifteen Wednesday morning, Jay had learned that Harris Shaw’s truck had technically been designed to seat three adults, with technically doing a great deal of work.

Jay occupied the middle of the bench seat, with Harris behind the wheel and Eli wedged against the passenger door with a camera bag between his boots. Harris had pushed his seat back as far as it would go, leaving his broad shoulder close to Jay’s and their thighs pressed together whenever the road threw them sideways. At six feet and built substantially enough that nobody had ever called him slight, Jay took up his own unreasonable share of the cab. His left shoulder overlapped Eli’s on the turns; on his right, Harris’s leg stayed warm and immovable beside his.

Strong thigh. Useful observation.

Most of their equipment was strapped into the bed beneath a tarp after Harris had removed everything he considered unnecessary and Jay had put some of it back. The third tripod had stayed behind. Jay remained bitter about it.

Eli stared intently at his phone. “You actually have service?” Jay asked.

“Barely. I’m checking rankings before we lose it.”

“Your draft isn’t for three weeks.”

“That’s why I’m checking now. Injuries happen. Depth charts change.” Eli shifted the phone away when Jay tried to see the screen. “My brother and I have been in the same league with our college friends for nine years. I’m not listening to them for twelve months because I ignored a backup becoming relevant.” Jay understood that part. Not the imaginary management of professional athletes, necessarily, but the long-term commitment to avoiding humiliation from people who had known you at twenty.

Harris glanced over from the road. “So none of these guys actually play together. You just pick which ones you wish did.”

Jay turned toward him. “Oh, I like you.”

Eli made an aggravated sound. “That is an aggressively stupid way to describe it.”

“Seems accurate,” Harris said.

“It’s strategy. You draft a roster, manage trades, make lineup decisions—”

Harris shifted gears, his broad hand closing around the worn black knob beside Jay’s knee. Jay watched the tendons move beneath tanned skin for half a second too long.

“You pay money for this?” Harris asked.

Attention successfully redirected.

“It goes into the prize pool,” Eli said.

“How much?”

“That’s not relevant.”

Jay smiled. “It’s suddenly extremely relevant.”

Harris nodded slowly. “So everybody puts money in, spends four months pretending to manage a football team, and whoever pretends best takes everybody else’s money.”

Eli stared at him. “You make everything sound stupid.”