“Nathan crash here too?”

“Nah, he stumbled out last night. You were passed out in my room. Took everything I had to get your tall ass down the stairs and onto the couch.”

“And Katrina?”

“The chick you took up to my room?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t see her after you two went upstairs to do the nasty on my bed. Vanessa insisted on changing the bedding and then burning your sex sheets.”

Normally she’d be right on the money, but the way I feel right now? Something tells me there wasn’t any sex to be had.

“Sorry, man. I owe you.”

I feel for my phone in my pocket, relieved when I find it, but disappointed when I see the battery is dunzo.

I pocket it and pull my ass up off the couch. With a salute to Mario, I’m out. When I walk the two blocks to my house, the guys are already out the door as I’m heading up the sidewalk which means I’ve got shit for time. Looks like I’ll be wearing whatever rumpled, smelly clothes I left in my locker.

Wes hobbles toward me all grumpy and pissed off – his new MO. The boot on his right foot from the injury that ended his college career thunks on the pavement and echoes like a cannon in my goddamn head.

“Walk of shame? Really?”

“I hate that phrase. This is the walk of awesome. Don’t be jealous I had a good night and you probably tucked your lame ass in at eight.”

The smallest lift of his lips makes me second-guess my assumption. “Ah, you stayed in with Blair. Nice. You lock that down yet, make it official?”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. Wes’ silence tells me everything.

“Good for you. ‘Bout damn time.”

Nathan hustles forward, taking his walk to a jog and leaving us behind. I lift my head in his direction. “He was drinking Everclear last night and now look at him. He’s either got an unbelievable tolerance or…”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Wes instructs. “I’m putting in for that coaching job next year. The less I know, the better.”

“Coach Reynolds,” I try it out. “Coach Wes.” Shake my head. “Nah, how about Coach Dubya – ya know like George Dubya Bush.”

“Those all sound super weird, but if you call me Coach Dubya, your ass will be doing a lot of extra miles.”

“Cold, Dubya. Cold.”

8

JOEL

“Relax, I talked to the owner. It’s cool.”

Wes looks unsure despite my words as we enter The Hideout. It’s the first time we’ve been back since he got into a bar fight with Blair’s ex-boyfriend last month. Cops were called, it was all very dramatic, but I paid for the damages – a couple broken chairs and glasses – and promised we’d be on our best behavior from now on.

Blair follows behind Wes looking just as nervous. Her gaze goes to the bar and she scans the length of it. Vanessa nudges her. “Hottie bartender doesn’t work here anymore.”