That player?
He’s the reason the rest of them are here.
And he’s here because I threatened to tell all of his teammates about the time he confused his own snot for brain matter when he was sixteen if he didn’t help me get half the city here today.
I wouldn’t have—I truly wouldn’t—but my brother has been a big enough ass himself in the past two years that I know he sometimes thinks I would.
And I’m all in on using whatever means I have at my disposal to help Odette and Evelyn and Sheila, the third member of their little club, beat the Old Man Bikers Club.
Yes, they really call it that. And no,bikesisn’t code formotorcycles.
The club is a bunch of old guys from our neighborhood who get together to ride their bicycles around Copper Valley when the weather’s nice enough.
Between Odette, Evelyn, and Sheila, they’ve dated half the club.
At least, they did before the massive betrayal. Now, they don’t date any of the old bikers.
I’ll miss these womenso muchwhen I leave next month.
But we’ll stay in touch through text and socials. They’ve promised to send me all of the obituaries they write withthe realjuicy stuffthe next time one of their exes dies. And I’ve promised to send them real British tea and pictures from everywhere around London.
They might come visit too.
“You have to finish your donation before you get the prize,” I call back to Silas.
Two of his teammates snortle. The third—Fletcher with the Bad ’Stache—shoots Silas a dirty look and then says something to the cameraperson capturing his every move.
Probablystart over on a new take since Silas ruined this one.
Dude has no idea his facial hair is already ruining it for him.
It’s thick and growing over his lips and has a part in the middle. The edges are even thicker, and it looks like he tried styling gel to get the ’stache to do…something.
Fletcher Huxley’s upper lip is where Wyatt Earp’s mustache went to die.
And the petty thought does more to lower my pulse than anything else has since I spotted him twenty minutes ago.
I oblige my baby brother and take him a package of Goldfish and a bottle of apple juice.
Much as I love to razz him, and much as he’s completely screwed up my dating life the past two years, I don’t want him passing out.
“See?” Silas says to the guy closest to him. “They like it when you ask nicely and give them nicknames.”
Porter winces. He’s new to the team for the upcoming season, one of the smaller and younger guys, with red hair and a full beard that he, too, claims he’s considering trimming so that his mustache is the prominent feature of his face.
“You’re an ass, Silas,” I tell him.
He grins at me, blue eyes as full of trouble as ever. “Ihavea nice ass.”
I grin back. “Oh, donkey farming is your backup plan when this rugby thing doesn’t work out?”
His teammates hoot.
Two of them, anyway.
The fourth scowls across the other two at my brother once again.
That, I remember from Silas’s update when we had dinner together last weekend.
