“That’s me,” she said. “If I can do anything to help find him—”

The diner door clanged open.

“Here comes trouble,” she murmured.

Mitchell Malacek and Garrett Mason had arrived. The Perlin boys let out another fake cheer. They started bawling like cows, began to sing a rendition of the Bison fight song so vulgar it made even Joel raise an eyebrow. Garrett Mason flipped them a finger.

Mitchell Malacek had the same golden hair as his father, the mayor, which he wore long and pulled back in a mussy bun. Garrett, though far heavier than his older brother, still held the same permanent, spiteful light in his eyes as Ranger used to wield. Joel recalled something Wesley had said on Sunday, a mention of Ranger being hurt in Afghanistan.

An idea struck.

“Excuse me,” he said to Garrett, and when the younger Mason fixed him with his hard brown eyes Joel felt the same cold twist in his gut as he’d experienced ten years ago, the moment Ranger had emerged from the football field’s toilets. Joel forced himself to smile. “I was wondering if your brother was around.”

“Unless you grown a pussy you ain’t his type,” Garrett said and turned away. Mitchell snickered and shook his head. The Perlin boys let out a whoop.

“I just had a few questions for Ranger, some sympathy. I heard he got hurt.” Joel refused to be shaken off so easily (though Garrett and Mitchell were intimidating in more ways than he’d anticipated—up close, both boys were jarringly handsome). “Maybe talk about the old days.”

Garrett looked back at him, his tongue running over his teeth in a gesture Joel recognized. “Is that right?”

“You’ll never learn,” Mitchell Malacek said. “Maybe if you’d minded your business in New York your brother’d be alive.”

Joel felt the air rush out of his chest. He struggled to say, “Excuse me?”

“That’s fucking unfair, bro.” Whiskey Brazos appeared at his side, T-Bay a few steps behind him.

The diner went very quiet. Even the Perlin boys hushed. Joel had the distinct impression he’d somehow stumbled into a rift within the team: Garrett and Mitchell sneering from one side, Whiskey and T-Bay on the other.

What, Joel wondered, had Dylan thought of his arrogant teammates? And what had they thought of him?

The silence was broken when the waitress emerged from the back with two heavy to-go bags for Mitchell. He took them with a perfect political smile, a distant air of superior gratitude.

“Keep your head down, Mr. Whitley.” Garrett said, before following Mitchell out the door: “Plenty of folks ’round here wouldn’t mind you got yourself hurt.”

Joel emerged from the diner a few minutes later, his hands trembling. Whiskey and T-Bay had apologized for their teammates’ behavior, seeming genuinely aghast, and even the Perlin Stallions, perhaps out of sympathy, had begun joking loudly about their food.

Mitchell had just been trying to fuck with him—he was ninety percent certain of it—but still Joel felt as if he’d been mowed down by a truck.