Page 66 of Velvet Vaughn

“I don’t care. Something true or stupid. Your pick.” She tipped her chin up, and he could make out the gleam in her eyes, even in the dark. “You played ball. You must have at least one story. Everybody who rode a bus that long has a good one.”

“You’re assuming I played minor league ball. We take private jets in the big leagues.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I’m kidding. I did play in the minors for a bit. And, oh, do I have a bus story.” His grin spread. “Actually, I have the bus story. First year in Double-A, we were somewhere in the absolute middle of Iowa when the team bus died. Just croaked. I’m talking smoke pouring out the back, engine giving up on life, the whole thing. It was one in the morning, there were cornfields to the horizon in every direction, and naturally nobody had a cell signal.”

“Naturally.”

“So there we were, twenty-five players and a coaching staff standing on the shoulder waiting for a replacement bus that was two hours away. Somebody spotted a farmhouse about a quarter mile up the road. Our backup catcher, a kid named Dewey from Oklahoma who I swear had never made a good decision a day in his life, announced that we should go ask the farmer for help.”

“At one in the morning.”

“Because nothing says reasonable like waking strangers after midnight with twenty-six unexpected houseguests.”

She snorted.

“We all start hiking up this long gravel driveway. It was pitch black and there was no porch light. We were maybe twenty yards from the house when something came screaming out of the darkness.”

Anja gasped.

“We scattered like the hounds of hell were on our tails.”

“What was it?”

“At that moment, I had no idea. Nobody did. We just knew it was loud, fast, and deeply committed to murder.”

She laughed.

“It was a sheep.”

“A sheep?”

“A ram, technically. Built like a tank with anger issues.”

She covered her mouth.

“And for reasons known only to livestock psychology, it decided Dewey was the enemy of the state.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. Dewey took off running around a tractor with this ram right on his heels. Four full laps. We were no help whatsoever because every one of us was folded over, busting a gut laughing.”

Anja’s smile was broad. “What did the ram do?”

“It waited. Dewey climbed onto the hood of an old pickup and figured he’d outsmarted it. The ram just stood there. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him.”

“Oh, that’s creepy.”

“After about five minutes, Dewey decided he must be good.”

“I already know he’s not good.”

“No. He jumped down and the ram lowered its head, accelerated from zero to freight train in about three seconds, and launched Dewey so high I’m reasonably confident he saw tomorrow.”

Anja laughed outright.

“The farmer finally came out wearing a flannel robe and carrying a flashlight. He shined the light across twenty-six grown men hiding in his cornfield while one professional athlete was getting repeatedly assaulted by livestock.”