Ma: Good luck today, Finnegan. We’re cheering for you.
With a smile, I texted back.
Me: Thanks, Ma. Love you.
Ma: Love you more.
Since the first game I redshirted freshman year, the ritual had never wavered. Mom and I exchanged the same text message in the morning of each game day. Even though I’d had dinner with the folks the night before and she’d said pretty much the exact same thing, here she was with the texts.
Whistling a little tune, I dressed in dress slacks and a button-down. Didn’t matter to Coach if we were playing at home or away—on game days we showed up to the locker room dressed for success. It drove Bax nuts that Coach wouldn’t let him wear one of his signature T-shirts even under his button-down. Thinking about my roommate’s angst over that tugged a grin from me as I closed my bedroom door and nearly ran into the guy in question.
“What are you so damn happy about?” he asked as we fell into step down the hall.
I gave him a once-over, noting his dark blue button-down and gray slacks. “Nothing. Just wondering what T-shirt you’re trying to sneak past Coach today.”
His shoulders hunched slightly before he straightened and pushed at me so he could go first down the stairs. “Who said I’m wearing anything under this shirt?”
“Your sleeves have enough trouble stretching over your biceps, that they can’t hide the telltale line of your T-shirt sleeve beneath them.” For emphasis, I gave his bicep a little love tap with my fist when we dropped to the bottom of the stairs. “What are you hiding under your dress shirt, Wyatt?”
“You never learn, do you Bax?” Callahan asked as we entered the kitchen. “If Finn noticed your T-shirt, you’d better believe you won’t sneak it by Coach.”
With a snarl, Bax jerked at the knot of his tie, loosening it enough to drag it over his head. The ruthless way he unbuttoned his dress shirt had me fearing for the integrity of its buttons. When he pulled it back to shrug out of it, he revealed the shirt underneath it. We read “Fuck it. My final thought before making most decisions” and cracked up.
“What’s so funny?” Danny asked as he joined us in the kitchen.
“Bax.” Callahan chuckled.
I snorted. “I don’t know what’s funnier—the truth of that statement or the irony of it being your exact thought when you got dressed today.”
Danny shook his head as he pulled his travel mug from the cupboard and filled it with coffee. “Even though I’ve only been on the team for less than a season, even I know Coach is never going to let you wear one of your favorite shirts on game day.” He read over Bax’s T-shirt a second time. “Even if it is totally accurate.” He hid his smirk behind a sip of morning brew.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Bax grumbled. “I wear a T-shirt every other day of the week and no one says anything.”
“It’s about respect,” Callahan said in his best Coach Ellis voice. “It’s about pride—in yourself and in the team.”
Callahan, Danny, and I, exchanged a glance and added in unison, “Now take it off.”
No doubt the basketball players living in the house next door wondered at the loud laughter coming from our kitchen at a time most normal college students would still be in bed on a Saturday morning.
“You three are fucking hilarious,” Bax growled, but I caught the twitch of his lips before he dragged his T-shirt over his head and draped it over the back of a chair.
The timer on the oven signaled our hot breakfast burritos were done, so Callahan pulled the pan out and set it on top of the stove. While Bax redressed himself, I poured us each a mug of coffee. Danny laid napkins on the table, our portable hot pads for the foil-wrapped burritos, then helped himself to one.
“You riding with me, Finn?” he asked.
“Sure.” I snagged my breakfast off the pan and followed Danny out the front door.
After we survived the first day of practice freshman year, Callahan and I had become best friends. But these days his fascination with his study buddy, who happened to be best friends with the girl currently blowing me off, made it uncomfortable to be around him sometimes. I was glad Danny wanted to drive today.
Until he started in on our way to the field.
“What’s this about you trying to snag a girl’s number in the middle of Stromboli’s last night?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught his teasing grin. Asshole.
When I didn’t respond, he filled the silence. “Amateur move, Finnegan.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I studied the passing scenery through the passenger window. “I’m aware.” Under my breath, I added, “Fuckin’ Bax.”
