Onceagain Finnlet it slip to Tory Miller and her posse that some of us were headed to Stromboli’s after practice. Fortunately for Callahan, he wasn’t with us. Unfortunately for the rest of us, there was an extra table nearby—one she and her entourage of jailbait pulled right up to the end of ours.
Fitz and I exchanged eye rolls while Johnson sat up straighter, preening like the pretty boy he was. What was it about running backs anyway? I tugged the bill of my ball cap around to the front of my face and filled my mouth from my mug of beer. When the girls all chimed out “hello” to each of us by name, I pointed to my full mouth and merely nodded. The less interaction, the better.
Their table sat directly in the path of the waitstaff moving back and forth between the kitchen and the rest of the bar—not that any of them seemed to notice. They ordered a pitcher of beer and a small pepperoni pizza. Guess sitting at their own table meant they had the decency not to try to mooch off us for once.
After the server brought their beer and four glasses, Tory nodded to one of the girls, who looked all of sixteen, and she did the honors, expertly pouring their mugs with perfect heads. Someone who wasn’t jailbait might have impressed me. Instead, I was distracted wondering what having that skill at her age said about her life experience.
As usual, the other girls were window dressing for the main show, which was always Tory herself. “Are you guys all ready to win on Saturday?” Before any of us could open our mouths, she answered her own question. “Of course you are.” Speculation narrowed her eyes as she glanced around our table. “Each of you will probably be in the pros in the next year or two.” She raised a brow in the direction of the two girls seated across from her. It didn’t take a genius to know what that little gesture communicated.
Turning slightly in her chair, she brushed her arm along the outside of my idiot roommate’s. “So, Finn, where’s Callahan tonight?”
I swallowed my second drink of beer and answered for him. “Studying. With his girlfriend,” I said in an unmistakable catch-a-clue tone.
An ugly scowl flitted over her face before she pasted her smile back on. “Huh. I would have thought he’d dropped her, what with him losing his sponsorship and all.”
Fitz and I leaned forward simultaneously, but he spoke first. “What do you know about ’Han’s sponsorship Tory?” The malice in his voice would have made an O-lineman think twice about his next words.
Apparently, Tory wasn’t that smart.
“I heard he lost it because he brought truck-stop trash into Copper for dinner.” She pulled out some sort of mirror from her purse and touched up her lipstick.
Now even Johnson and Finn were glaring at her. While her girls picked up on the hostility radiating from our table, shifting in their chairs and throwing worried glances her way, her nonchalance said she thought everyone agreed with her. Only when she returned her makeup to her purse and looked around did she catch on.
“What? He did lose his sponsorship, did he not?”
“He didn’t lose it. He gave it up,” I growled.
She blinked. “Why would he do that?”
“Something to do with assholes who think they can own football players.” Waves of anger flowed off Fitz.
Since Finn sat between him and Tory, she ignored Fitz’s response. After sipping delicately from her mug, Tory said, “The people who own Copper are personal friends of my father’s. I’m sure none of them are assholes.”
A shadow fell over the girls’ table. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Jason Greene, Stromboli’s six-foot-six bouncer, standing behind the jailbait. If one paid attention to stereotypes, that tall black guy should be on the basketball court. But we all knew he’d rather wrestle steers. His cowboy boots gave him another two inches in height, which explained how he blocked out the light.
“Ladies, it was busy when you came to the door—I didn’t get a good look at your IDs. But I have a minute now.” The friendly smile that split his lips didn’t reach his dark eyes.
“For crying out loud. Is this really necessary?” The nasally condescension in Tory’s tone could rival any queen in history.
“’Fraid so.”
From beneath the brim of my hat, I stared hard at my roommate who suddenly found his slice of pizza fascinating. My gaze trailed to Fitz who nodded. Tory and her bunch had been sneaking into Stromboli’s and a few other bars our teammates frequented around town all semester, but tonight, it seemed, they’d reached the end of the line.
Training a penlight on it, Jason studied the first girl’s ID. He stuck the light between his teeth, holding the plastic card in one hand as he worked at one edge of it with his thumbnail. In a few seconds, the corner of the plastic split, revealing the truth of her subterfuge. Her shoulders dropped and she seemed to drape over her chair when he pocketed her fake. The same fate befell the second girl’s ID. The third girl handed hers over and said, “Keep it.”
Throughout the ordeal, Tory remained defiant. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t humiliate my friends this way.”
Jason ignored her threat.
“I mean it. You wait till my dad finds out how you’ve treated them.”
“You mean with politeness?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
“He has no right to come back here and ask for our IDs after he passed us through the front door,” she huffed.
“Actually, he has every right,” Fitz said. With Jason’s arrival, Fitz’s demeanor had morphed from angry to delighted. “He can ask anyone in this place for ID whenever he wants. It’s his job, Tory.” Fitz saluted Jason with his beer. The gesture communicated how the bouncer was doing us a solid. I expected the rodeo team might be invited to participate in the beer pong tournament following our next win.
“Miss, may I see yours, please?” he asked Tory.
