“And biggest jerks,” Heather adds, coming up to the table. She sticks her hand out, “Heather. You must be Zoey. Let’s do this.”

Heather doesn’t give Zoey a chance to say yes or no, just assuming she’s on board. “All right! We’re ready.”

“Finally,” Cole sighs with a dramatic eye roll. “Don’t have all fuckin’ night.”

Everyone heads to the far edge of the bar where the team stations are set up, which is just a simple table with a plastic chicken that screams when you squeeze it instead of a buzzer. Trivia nerds, we make jokes about choking our chickens.

Zoey pulls on my hand as we get close. “Blake!”

I turn to face her fully, gripping her hand back. No running, no fear. I’ve got you. “Zo, please?” She sighs reluctantly, but her lips are turning up ever so slightly in the smallest smile. I smile back. “Did I mention that you look beautiful? And we’ve got beer? And the best nachos in existence?”

“You’re buttering me up with compliments, nachos, and beer? That sounds suspiciously like a date, Mr. Hale,” she says, giving me a one-brow lift of her own.

I shake my head, totally playing innocent. “Nope. No preplanning. Still not a date. This is a rescue mission with thank-you-for-saving-my-ass food. C’mon.”

At our table, Heather is gripping the chicken, which is already making a quiet whine sound.

“In this corner, we have The Estates,” the Trivia Master says up front, and a few cheers and more jeers go up in the small crowd. And by crowd, I mean the other three teams because nerd events don’t usually draw in spectators. “And in this corner, Anarchy Authority.”

We cheer for ourselves, Zoey clapping along uncertainly.

A bell rings, and it’s on like Donkey Kong.

Fortunately, we get Musical Genius, but Gabe, our go-to music specialist is not so current on his Soundcloud rappers and he misses two consecutive questions.

Heather chokes the chicken for a third time in a row, and Gabe seems more certain of his next answer, calling out, “What is Pentatonix, Alex?”

“My name’s not Alex. It’s Jameson,” the Trivia Master corrects Gabe again.

Heather hits Gabe with the chicken, making it whine loudly, and then she growls at him, “Do not piss off Jameson. He’s the referee, man.”

“Sorry, Boss,” Gabe says. “I’ll be good.”

“Wow,” Zoey says, eyeing Heather in awe. “Girl boss, for sure.”

“Yeah, she’s something,” I agree.

“I want to be her when I grow up,” Zoey adds, and I laugh, pulling her into my side.

I whisper into her ear, “You are all grown up, and perfect just the way you are.”

Before she can argue, I turn my attention back to the competition, but I feel Zoey’s eyes on me for a long moment after that. Hopefully, she’s mulling over my words and starting to believe them herself.