Page 88 of Good Graces

He shrugs and takes another swig of his shake.

I go back to my cereal, vaguely annoyed that I even asked.

It’s not a big deal—just a game—but for some reason, the idea of sitting here alone in front of the TV doesn’t sit right. Maybe I should just text Quinn, see if she wants to come over later. Or maybe that’s too much, too soon.

“Ah shit,” Liam mutters. “You were trying to hang out with me just now.”

My ears heat. “I mean . . . I just thought I’d offer.”

He’s quiet for a second, tilting his head like he’s sizing me up. “I’ll order us some wings.”

“So, youdowant to watch it?”

He shrugs again. “Eh, why not? One of my friends plays for the team.”

I rear back. “For the Bobcats?”

“Well . . . more of a friend of a friend. My buddy’s girlfriend is best friends withhisgirlfriend. You know what, that’s actually a hard train to follow.” He waves a hand like he’s clearing the air. “Just . . . yeah, he’s an acquaintance. Though I did go bowling with him not too long ago.”

I snort. “Who?”

“Westman-Cooke.”

I sit back in my chair. Theodore Westman-Cooke is in his second season with the Bobcats—a solid running back who put up some impressive yardage last season. Fast as hell, always dodging defenders like he’s playing tag.

“He’s a beast.”

“Yeah,” Liam says, “I beat him in bowling.”

I stare at him, deadpan. “Well, shit. Someone call ESPN.”

A couple of hours later, the game’s on, and we’re parked on the couch with a box of wings between us. The place smells like buffalo sauce and grease, and Liam’s sitting half sideways with one knee tucked under him.

I think he might be getting ready for a nap, actually.

He’s not really watching the game—not the way I am, anyway. Between bouts of nodding off, he’s also reading player bios out loud like he’s narrating a documentary.

“Did you know the quarterback has a pet tortoise that’s thirty-six years old?” he says around a mouthful of fries. “Pretty tough.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, eyes still on the screen. “That’s wild.”

“I have a little turtle, too. His name is Otis.”

I pause mid-bite. “I’ve never seen him.”

“No, you wouldn’t. He lives in the fountain between the engineering buildings.”

“And he’syours?”

“Mine and Birdie’s. We claimed him.”

I laugh, squint, then blink at him like that’ll somehow make it make more sense. “Alright, man.”

By halftime, the Bobcats are down by ten. Their defense can’t seem to stop a run play to save their lives, and the offense keeps choking on third down. It’s legitimately painful to watch, but I’ve sat through worse.

“Gonna call Birdie,” Liam says, standing and disappearing down the hall.

I sit there absently for a while, nursing a lukewarm beer and picking at the bones in the wing box. My phone’s face down on the armrest, screen dark. I flip it over, thumb hovering over Quinn’s name before I finally type out a text.

---