Me:Headed home.
A text bubble pops up just a few seconds later.
Bates:Food tomorrow? Does the knucklehead have practice?
Me:Yes, probably since they lost. Oz was pissed he didn’t get any field time. South quad for dinner? I’ll sneak your broke ass in like old times.
Bates:Free food? I’m there, and I make more than you, asshole.
I chuckle at the last part. He sure does. He spent the last four years apprenticing to become an electrician. He’s scheduled to take his test next month to become a journeyman. When he passes, he’ll be making really good money.
Me:Text me when you get off.
Bates:You really want to know that shit?
I groan at the bad joke.
Me:No, we both know you’d be texting me ten times a day. Text me when you get off work!
I drop my phone to the seat when Oz climbs back in. He doesn’t even have his bag, just a wad of clothes. I bet he didn’t unpack when he got home—not that I’m much better, my shit is still in the backseat.
He mutters, “Ready,” when he pulls the door closed.
“Bates is going to meet us at your dorm to eat after work. What time do you think you’ll be done with practice?”
Oz slams his head back against the headrest. “Hell if I know. Tomorrow is going to suck balls.”
“I know, that’s why I thought it would be good to meet there. You can just come down after your shower or whatever.”
“I almost don’t want to go to lifting in the morning because I know they are going to push us at afternoon practice.”
“That might piss them off more,” I warn. He’s been working with the coaches all summer, so he knows what he can and can’t get away with.
He grunts and knocks his head back again. “I hate Mondays after a loss.”
“You hate any day after a loss. Just show them what a mistake they made by not putting you in.”
“Fucking Bevins, he was a wreck, but they still put him out there play after play.”
I’m surprised by how little he talked about football at Waylynn’s. I wonder if it was on purpose or if it just didn’t dominate his thoughts like it usually does. “They’ll start to trust you more, just give it time,” I tell him as I pull into the small parking lot of my apartment. When I kill the truck, I look up at the building. It’s just a square box made of brick with windows that needed to be replaced ten years ago and iffy AC, but it’s mine—well, mine and Oswald’s, since we end up sharing everything.
“I wish it was Saturday night instead of Sunday,” Oz says when he pushes the door open with his leg.
“Another day would be nice,” I agree.
“I know what I would do. I would be right back at Waylynn’s house, but I’d ask what the hell was wrong this time,” he mumbles.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw her at the store. It’s fucking strange how often she turns up.”
“I feel like I’m always hunting her down.” He moves to the side as I unlock the door to the apartment and use my foot to push it open.
“You have revealed some stalkerish tendencies,” I tease.
“Fuck you,” he retorts with no heat to his words. “You’re the one that gets all‘let me tuck you in my pocket and growl at anyone that looks at you’with her.”
He’s not wrong. Waylynn brings something out in me I didn’t know existed—the capability to care for someone other than Oz and Bates. “Someone needs to take care of her.”
“Does she really need someone though? I mean, it sure seems like she has her shit together,” Oz counters as he tosses his bag on the futon.
