“Lord Almighty.” He scratched at his stubble and patted down his mustache. “Where the hell are we?” Coach Moyle stared out at the darkness of I-35 looking for a billboard or road sign. Then he started to sniff.

“Oh shit.”

Moyle hopped out of his seat, half-waking Drew Radcliffe, who was passed out next to him. Moyle grabbed the gym bag below him. It was dripping.

“Goddamn.”

“What’s in there?” Stick asked.

“The motion lotion. I brought it for the shave-down.”

Dan shook his head. This trip keeps getting better. He thought Moyle was joking about shaving their legs and chest for the state meet.

“Gotta have the motion lotion, Coach,” growled one of the upperclassmen lying down in the back rows of the bus.

“No shit. Tell you what, we’ll stop at Eckerd’s when we get down there and I’ll make a new batch.”

“What’s in it?” Stick cracked the nearest window.

“That’s a secret recipe, trademarked, Moyle Aquatic Supplies.”

“It’s lube and vodka, isn’t it?” Lee Molfetta deadpanned, not looking up from trying to shoot the moon.

“More to it than that—there is a science to the motion lotion.” Moyle pulled out the spray bottle from his bag. Yup, it was cracked and leaking. “Takes off the dead skin and makes you slick as a seal.”

“What gives it that green color?” Dan asked.

“Well that’s the horse urine.”

His coach broke into a smile.

“Malone, hand me that plastic bag to throw this shit in. Goddamn. Smells like a port-a-john back here now.”

“When are we doing the shave-down, Coach?” Ron Fenatacci asked.

“Tonight if we ever fucking get there, or first thing tomorrow. I brought barber clippers. Look at Malone’s face. Like he didn’t sign up for this.”

“Oh, Malone,” Karl Amberson, junior asshole and backstroker, chimed in, “I’m taking off your eyebrows and gonna run those clippers down to your taint.”

“Hey, Amberson,” said Clayton Dieter, captain and balancer of the Force, “are you trying to make it sound like the gayest thing possible?”

“Is that a sign for Killeen? We’re not even fucking near Austin and it’s dark.” Moyle shouted up to Donahue. “This thing go above thirty-five?”

“If we throw the freshmen off I can take it up to forty,” Donahue barked back.

“Let’s do that then.” Moyle rolled his eyes. “Goddamn.”

At this point Drew Radcliffe, who was still pretending to nap, let out a polysyllabic fart.

Moyle jumped two rows away. “Fucking disgusting.”

“Want me to pour the motion lotion on him?” Fenatacci offered.

“Open the goddamn windows . . .” Moyle was both gagging and breaking into laughter. “I’m breathing your fucking bean burrito, Drew. Jesus.”