“Yes, you do. You think your blood is better, your bones are better.” As he talks he moves my wet hair off my neck. “You’re just a better cut of meat, I guess. Some people are born that way, nothing you can do about it. But you know what?” His fingers feel like worms on my neck, dry worms running up and down. He tightens his grip, leans down, and whispers in my ear. “I said, you know what?”

“What?” I whisper to the wall.

“Here’s something we know about in LA: meat is meat.”

He has me wedged against the wall, his fingers tangled in my hair, his hips grinding against my shoulder as he presses me harder and harder. I know he’s waiting for me to push him away. That will be his moment to strike. For some reason, Scot’s words about football flash into my mind, so clear it’s like he’s in the room with me, about how quarterbacks read movement on the field, how they look for patterns instead of at individual players, how they see danger and opportunity in masses of moving bodies. Just do something. Make a move. I can hear Scot’s voice in my head: Call the play.

So I put the book down. I put my hands on the kitchen table, and I stand up. Mike Lyle is not tall, and that gives me one second’s advantage. Right into those light eyes of his, I smile at him, like everything is going according to plan and he’s gotten everything all wrong, as usual. That surprises him, and for a split second, he looks uncertain. There are about six inches of space between us. I lean into it. He steps back. I step forward.

“I’ll bet you don’t know why I came,” I whisper at him. He waits for me to tell him. I don’t tell him anything. He folds his hands over his chest.

“I sure as shit know you didn’t come for me.” But he’s not so sure he couldn’t be persuaded. I keep smiling. He hasn’t fumbled anything yet, but his grip on the football is not firm. But, like Scot said, you can’t wait for the other guy to lose.

“Are you sure about that?” I ask. “Would you bet the farm on it?” Then I wait, and watch. I hear Scot’s voice in my head like I’m a quarterback with a wired helmet. The other team has the ball, but eventually they’ll fumble, and when I intercept the ball, I’m going to run like hell. Wait, says the voice in the helmet. Wait. Waiting is action, Scot says. Let him make the move now. My question still hangs in the air.