Page 51 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“Yo, I was talkin’ QBs.” Andrew huffs through his nose, barely looking at the guy. “Chest out over a joke? Relax, bro. Ain’t nobody comin’ for you.”

“Man, you ain’t even New York.” He adjusts his Folex, straightening the face. “You borrow our teams and then talk crazy? Stay on your side of the river, how ‘bout that? Come talk to me when you start payin’ city tax.”

Everything inside me narrows its eyes⁠—

my heart, my blood, even Little Death.

But Andrew chuckles, unbothered.

“Jesus. Listen to yourself,” he says, “half the roster lives in Jersey. Your boy Danny got a house in Hoboken. The coach eats at my fuckin’ bagel shop.” The corner of his mouth lifts as he shakes his head. “Don’t talk to me about borrowin’ teams when they wouldn’t make it past the season without Jersey blood. Truth stands—even McDonald’s mess up less than Danny does.” He shrugs into his shoulder. “It was his time, man.”

My chin hits my shoulder to hide the grin, but my laugh sneaks out anyway.

The guy squares up. “Ah, get the fuck outta here and go back to Jersey. You just some fantasy-football kid comin’ over here and shittin’ on our players. The fuck you know about loyalty? Dimes got us to the playoffs.”

My chin dips back. “The fuckin’ playoffs?” But it’s the Jersey comments I want to hurt him over.

The guy sets his beer down.

“Only speakin’ facts.”

I stand taller. “Oh, facts? Cool.

“Then fact—Danny had one fluke year and the rest were sleep paralysis.

“Fact—he sacked himself more times than defenses ever had to.

“Fact—he threw more turnovers than touchdowns. In six starts.”

I bend forward with a laugh.

“In fact—he leads the league in fumbles since 2019. More than Mahomes. Josh Allen. More than a freshman QB at some nowhere-ass high school upstate.”

The second I say it,

laughter spills out around me.

“Yo, she’s not wrong,” someone mutters.

Fake Rolex’s lips twitch.

“Lock ain’t it, sweetheart.”

This fuckin’ guy. “Lock’s got a cannon, and he don’t give a fuck, and I’d rather lose big tryna win than watch another year of a safe, boring, overpriced QB who plays like he’s got money on the other team.”

In that second, a waitress leans over Andrew, sliding four shots across our table with a small laugh near his ear.

Andrew backs away, cutting her off.

“Nah, we ain’t⁠—”

But I’m horny, guilty, and still shaken up, so I snatch one up, liquor spilling over the rim, and throw it back without thinking.

Andrew grins and does the same,

tipping one back,

as if loyalty means keeping up.