Page 167 of Play Dirty

Not a bar, really. More like the kind of place that used to be loud before something went wrong — and nobody bothered to fix it. A half-dead neon sign buzzed in the window. The few guys sitting at the far end were hunched over their drinks like they were waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

Coach Trees sat alone at a table in the back.

He looked exactly the same.

Thank God.

“Coach,” Grayson said.

Trees glanced up. His eyes landed on Grayson first — then shifted to me and stayed there.

“Huh,” he muttered. “They sent the big guns.”

“I came on my own,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said dryly. “Looks like it.”

We didn’t sit right away. We just stood there, taking him in, like nobody wanted to make this real.

Eventually Trees kicked out a chair. Grayson sat. I took the one across from him.

Silence dropped over the table.

It wasn’t pretty.

“You win?” Trees asked.

Grayson nodded. “Barrage.”

“Good,” Trees said. “About time you remembered how.”

His eyes wandered over to me.

“You look like you’re still pissed.”

“I’m always pissed.”

“Good,” he said again. “Means you’re paying attention.”

The waitress came over — a redhead with a ponytail and a plastic smile. Grayson waved her off before she even got near the table.

“Did you know?” I asked.

No buildup. No easing into it.

Trees didn’t blink.

“Know what?”

“Sutherland.”

A beat. Then—

“Yeah,” he said.

It was crazy, how casual he was about it. Something hot flared up my spine.

“You knew he was throwing games?”