Page 57 of False Start

“Come on, you’re resourceful. Besides, it’s on the list.”

She patted the pocket of my jacket where I’d stashed the guidebook.

“You can’t be serious.” I pulled out the book, flipping to the handwritten hidden tasks listed on the back. Sure enough.

“Can’t we just buy one?” I hooked a thumb at the dusty stand of merchandise next to a sad assortment of chips.

She shook her head, tapping the book. “Nope. It says so right there.”

“Fuck,” I swore under my breath. This wasn’t the dare I was hoping for, but I could adjust. “Okay, I can do this.”

She shrugged. “Sure you can. Probably. Show me how it’s done.”

I braced myself with a big inhale before standing. Kit slid to the edge of the bench, giving my ass a playful swat. “Good luck out there, Texas.”

My mind raced on the short walk up to the bar. Immersed in his hard stare at the locals circling the pool tables, the bartender took a second to notice me.

“Hey, man, whatcha need?” he asked with a grunt.

“Ah…” I stumbled. “Another water and just some bourbon neat. Hey, are you a football fan?”

He shook his head as he filled a glass with water. “Nah. Not really into sports.”

Fuck.

“My brother is, though. Huge Panthers fan. He drags me to a game every season. I’m not sure why. They suck.”

The panic around my chest loosened. Good. This was good. He set the water in front of me and turned back around for the bourbon.

“Listen, this is going to sound insane, but I’m Trent Vogt. I’m a player for the Norwalk Breakers.”

He turned his head, but instead of looking impressed, his forehead furrowed. “Okay...”

“Is there any way you’d consider trading your shirt for my hat? I’d sign it.”

He turned around with a frown. “What? My shirt?”

“I’d sign my hat for you, if you give me your shirt. I don’t want to sound weird, but I need it.”

He glowered, hand hovering over the bottle of bourbon. “That sounds pretty fucking weird.”

I grimaced, glancing back at Kit. She shot me a quick thumbs up, amusement plastered on her face. I turned back to the bartender.

“You can buy a shirt, you know. Twenty bucks.” He pointed to a dusty display in the corner, shirts and koozies next to a sad assortment of chips.

“Yeah, I know, I just…want that one.”

“Dude, you don’t want this one. I’ve worked all day in it. It’s gross as hell.”

I winced, setting my palm on the bar top. “Yeah, but I do. And I can’t pay you for it, but what if I tip you a hundred bucks? Two hundred?”

Avoiding gauging his reaction, I rifled through my wallet, counting bills.

“Actually, how about three hundred?” I slapped the bills on the bar. “It’s not for the shirt. But if I could have the shirt, that’d be great.”

He eyed the cash warily before sliding the bills off the bar and stuffing them into his pocket.

I let out a breath. “Great. Thank you.”

---