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“Because they thought he stole her phone?” Case looks incredulous.
“No, even better,” I say on a chuckle. “I guess she took off with some friends to Daytona and didn’t realize Patty still had the phone—she thought she just lost it. But her dad down in Rhode Island hasn’t heard from her in more than twenty-four hours, can’t get in touch with her, and the dude panics. He calls the police, and they use that find-my-phone app and discover her phone is traveling along the interstate. They immediately assumed she’d been kidnapped and sent three cruisers after us. It was a whole thing. Got stopped for hours, bro. We missed our game.”
“Wait, I think I remember this. It was right before the playoffs and Eastwood had to forfeit. They said everyone had the stomach flu.”
“That was a lie. We were literally all being interrogated about the whereabouts of this chick.”
“That’s wild.”
“I know. Fucking crazy. No one’s ever let Patrick forget it. Although I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten all about her considering he’s fallen in love at least sixty-five times since then. But yeah, as our punishment, we weren’t allowed to use our phones on the bus for the rest of the season, which is stupid because it wasn’t our phones’ faults that Patrick is a moron. But suddenly we didn’t have phones to entertain us, so we started asking these questions like would you rather, or what would you do if, and it sort of became a thing we do now before games. Once a superstition sticks, it’s there forever.” I narrow my eyes as something occurs to me. “I just realized—both our superstitions have to do with goddamn Patrick. Kid’s a menace.”
“What’s the other superstition?”
“One time he accidentally texted ‘I’m aching for you’ to our group chat.” I snort. “So that’s a thing now too.”
“Wait, that’s what I always see you guys texting before a game?” Colson’s jaw drops as he glares at me. “This is why we keep losing! Because the whole team isn’t doing it.”
I’m not at all surprised to learn he’s as superstitious as the rest of us.
“We did win one,” I point out.
“Yeah. And then lost the rest.” He stubbornly sticks out his chin. “I don’t acknowledge the ties. A tie is a loss.”
“Agreed. I hate it when people say otherwise.” I let out a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll do a new group chat, then.”
Words I never thought I’d hear exiting my mouth because I hate both chatting and groups.
“Well, we have to try now,” Case insists. “We can’t keep losing.”
I agree with that too.
He tends to the fire again. Pale orange embers dance and float away in the darkness.
Then he says, “I’m not usually such a dick.”
“Oh.” I pause. “I usually am.”
He snickers. “I figured that. But…me…not so much. It’s just been tough lately. I went through a breakup.”
A thread of discomfort travels through me. “We’re going to talk about women now?”
He checks at watch. “Well, it’s eleven o’clock and I’m not ready yet to get mauled by a bear while I sleep, so…yes, I guess we are.”
“You and Graham, huh?” I keep my tone casual.
“Yeah. We were together since the start of freshman year. Broke up this past June.” He bites his lip. “It’s really messed with my head.”
“What happened? She dump you or the other way around?” I’m selfishly eager to gain some insight into the breakup. I’d never ask Gigi, but Case is fair game.
“She dumped me,” he says flatly. “A week after she told me she loved me, no less.”
I wrinkle my forehead. I’ll admit, I’m not super adept at navigating the I-love-you landscape, but it seems odd that neither of them expressed that sentiment until more than a year into the relationship. Maybe that’s normal, though? I’ve never uttered those three words to a woman. For all I know, it takes a while for people to say it.
“I screwed up. And I honestly thought we’d be able to get past it, but she doesn’t trust me anymore, and it fucking kills, you know?”
I feel sympathy for the guy. Because there’s genuine pain in his voice.
Then I feel like a total ass. Because he has no idea my dick was inside her last night.
“I threw it all away,” he says in a sad, faraway voice. “Fuckin’ idiot.”
“You cheated on her?” I ask. I’m not the man who plays around with subtext.
He drops his head in his hands, groaning into his palms.
“Whatever. Yes. I cheated. And I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive me.” Another groan. “I don’t know what to do anymore. What am I supposed to do? I think she’s the one.”
If she were the one, he wouldn’t think it. He would know it.
And if she were the one, he wouldn’t have messed around with somebody else.
But I keep the thoughts to myself. I’m an asshole most of the time, but even I can’t kick a man when he’s down.
