Even Dan was not inebriated enough to think a rebuttal was a good idea. But Rob McGhee, however sober, was still chewing on the loss and went into what could only be called “Bad Rob mode.”

“Bunch of fuckin’ dipshits.”

That drew the attention of half of the White victory tailgate.

“You morons did an amazing job of sitting on your asses while a bunch of boys bussed in from South Dallas . . .”

Oh Christ. Now, Rob was the humble son of a minister, and Bad Rob was not evil, just sudden, and all that stuff that the good Lord had bottled up, well . . . it was now on tap. Dan watched Sticky and Rick take off through the parking lot—We are not owning this.

“. . . run around a field. Well, if that makes you think you’re better than us, congratulations, I’ll see you later when you’re delivering my goddamn pizza. You know what your average White player gets on the SAT? Fuckin’ drool.”

“You better fuckin’ watch it.”

Dan was waiting for a beer bottle or something to come flying at their heads, but strangely, Bad Rob was so blustery and ridiculous that his bullshit just drew laughter.

“Look at preppie boy all pissed off.”

Bigmouth Bad Rob was strangely psyched to be mistaken for an upper-class douchebag; he was wearing his blue Izod, his dock shorts with Sperry Top-Siders—all of this amounted to a vaguely cocky Risky Business look.

Some White meathead jumped down from a trailer bed, cutting Rob off from his escape route past a conversion van. Out of some hopeless fraternity—most likely to pick up punched-out teeth from the parking lot—Dan turned and tried to man up next to Rob.

“Jesuit snotheads.” Here came a good ole boy with a wad of smokeless, hair slicked back like Max Headroom, Billy Idol earring. Yup, this guy went to asshole training camp. “Look at the fuckin’ scoreboard.”

“Whoa, Cooter, take it easy. Is this your girlfriend here . . . ?”

There was a teased-up and denimed blonde snapping gum over his shoulder. Max Headroom popped Rob in the chest, but he was uncorked and couldn’t help himself.

“Or is that your sister and you left your girlfriend back in your barn?”

Before that could register, Dan yanked Rob by the arm and pulled him away from the scrum.

“Come here, dickhead . . .” Max swiped at Rob’s collar, trying to grab him.

Rob took off in a full sprint, and Dan didn’t need to be told to hustle—the two of them ducking through the crowd and across lines of cars until the White guys had lost interest in pursuit. They found Sticky’s car, and the crew reunited at the far end of the lot, hanging under a drooping, tangled bois d’arc.

Dan put a hand on Rob’s shoulder, catching his breath. “I have to give you credit—that was suicidal but impressive.”