Page 123 of The Lineman

Rodriguez clapped me on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

And just like that, I shoved everything else—the exhaustion, the quiet ache of missing Mike, our stolen moment on the phone—down.

Because now?

Now it was time to work.

Chapter thirty-four

Mike

“Allright,folks,nextquestion,” the trivia host called over the mic, his voice carrying through the bar’s low chatter and clinking glasses. “What is the capital of Liechtenstein?”

I didn’t even blink. “Vaduz.”

Matty groaned and tossed a peanut at me. “Jesus, man. You didn’t even hesitate.”

“Because it’s Vaduz,” I said, picking the peanut off my lap and popping it in my mouth. “It’s literally the only city anyone knows in Liechtenstein.”

Omar smirked, leaning his forearms on the table. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you are secretly a robot.”

“Heisa robot,” Matty said. “And I’m pretty sure he’s running on Wikipedia’s internal servers at all times.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s called having knowledge. You should try it sometime.”

Matty flipped me off before turning his attention back to the game.

The bar was packed, the usual crowd here for Tuesday trivia. The air smelled like fried food and beer, and there was a low hum of conversation mixed with the occasional cheer from a team getting a question right. Our table was near the back, where we had a good view of the host and the screen displaying the scores.

We were in second place.

How was that even possible?

It was a travesty.

Trivia night was my thing. I didn’t half ass it. I was competitive as hell, and my friends knew it. So when the next question came up, I was already leaning forward, prepared to dominate.

The host cleared his throat dramatically. “Which Shakespeare play contains the famous quote, ‘The better part of valor is discretion’?”

I opened my mouth. “Hamlet.”

Silence.

Matty and Omar slowly turned their heads toward me, their faces identical masks of disbelief.

A few minutes later, the host’s voice rang through the bar. “That’s fromHenry IV, Part One.”

Matty stared at me. “Dude.”

Omar let out a low whistle. “Mike got a Shakespeare question wrong.”

“Aren’t you a literature teacher?” Matty asked.

“English. Not the same thing,” I said, crossing my arms. “I—whatever, I was close.”

Matty pointed an accusatory finger at me. “No, no. You don’t get to ‘whatever’ this. You teach this shit. Shakespeare is literally in your syllabus. You probably have his little theater tattooed on your perky little ass.”

“I do not!”

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