By the time I’ve pulled in, the music is already thrumming from inside the bar, some twangy Brooks and Dunn. The dancing has clearly begun, but I’m here on business only. I push the door open and keep my eyes peeled for the problem at hand.

I wish I could say that uppity CJ Bradley is too city to understand the assignment. Unfortunately, he blends in effortlessly, with a Henley that fits a tad too well and a pair of bootcut jeans. Somehow, he’s managed to acquire a cowboy hat, and it rests in his lap as he makes happy conversation with at least five people at once, three of whom are certainly loyal female fans, two of whom are guys from the men’s team at Okie. I almost laugh out loud. He’s still such a big jock it’s not even funny. It was the same in high school – he always had a clutch of admirers floating around him – and it’s the same now. Unfortunately, unlike most people I know who peaked in high school, it seems like he never experienced the subsequent plummet to rock bottom.

His eyes flit my way the moment I’m in his radius, and his entire face lights up. ‘May!’ he calls.

I try not to harrumph too hard as I join his circle of conversation. I give everyone, including Colt, a curt smile. ‘Hey, y’all.’

‘What’s up?’ He slides his beer towards him and takes a sip, and I don’t miss the attempt at a concealed once-over that he gives me. It’s awfully similar to the looks we started to exchange freshman year – days I’d personally love to forget.

‘Well, I’m here on a Thursday night,’ I remark, beckoning the bartender. ‘If that ain’t something to talk about, not sure what is.’

‘Interesting.’ Colt’s biceps flex against the fabric of his shirt as he sets the beer on the bar. He rakes a hand through his dumb lax hair. It’s something I’ve known few guys to pull off well, but it’s also a stupid lacrosse superstition. Dudes who play never shut up about their ‘flow’; something to do with a superstition surrounding the length of their hair. More than a few of the guys on the Riders have hair long enough to stick out the back of their helmet, a style dubbed ‘lettuce’. Colt has always had tousled dirty blond hair approaching brunette. It’s always been overgrown, and it has always been infuriatingly effortless. Now, it makes a frustratingly perfect swoop and sticks out well past his clean-shaven jawline. ‘You don’t go out often?’

‘Making the time’s tough.’ To the bartender, ‘I’ll do a rum and Coke, please.’