Page 13 of False Start

Derek

You up for some trivia?

No, I was up for getting wasted. I was up for late night parties and questionable women.

Yeah, sounds like fun.

The brewery Derek suggested wasn’t one I’d visited before.

I’d frequented all the breweries with enough investors and capital to grab prime real estate in downtown but Bent Crook Brewing sat far outside the city center.

Edging the outskirts of the constantly growing city, Bent Crook didn’t have shiny mash barrels or etched glasses. Instead, folding tables dotted the interior of the gutted warehouse. The crowd skewed young and alternative. A few kids running around the open space and even fewer nice cars in the parking lot.

I eased my Lambo into a gravel spot next to a fairly new Rivian and prayed to the car gods that no one damaged it. Then again, if I drove some shitty coupe from the 90s, I might punch a nice car too.

I spotted Derek immediately, holding court over two tables pushed together. I recognized a few faces too from the kickball team, and, as always, Kit. She gave me a curt nod rather than a wave, which was nicer than her previous greetings.

I tried not to take it personally, but I couldn’t help it. People loved me. Women loved me. Kit did not. The snacks seemed to help, but after stacking up a plate at halftime, she disappeared into her room for the rest of the night.

Just as well. Derek’s team took a turn for the terrible, and we eventually shut off the game and watched a movie before I called it a night.

“So, what kind of trivia are we doing?” I turned to the words projected onto a white sheet hastily thrown over a pair of two-by-fours. “Music trivia? You could’ve warned me.”

“Kit said the same thing.” Derek picked up his beer and took a sip.

“I suck at music trivia,” she said at the same time as me.

There. At least we had something in common.

“I only listen to EDM,” I admitted. “Or whatever pump-up songs my teammates play.”

“I listen to podcasts. And audiobooks.”

“Nerd,” I teased, even though I had a fully loaded list of podcasts on my phone.

She rolled her eyes as she took a sip of beer. For a flash, I might have spotted a grin. A barely perceptible one, but closer to a smile than I’d ever gotten before. Enough of a transformation that, in the right light, by the right person, she could almost be pretty.

I hadn’t clocked it before under a ratty ball cap and baggy workout clothes. But off the field and out of her scrubs, she had an Audrey Hepburn-vibe: big, brown doe eyes, soft wavy dark hair, and a smattering of barely visible freckles over her cheeks and nose.

Cute pretty. Not sexy pretty.

“I’m gonna grab a drink.” Leaving my conversation with Kit on a temporary high note, I sauntered over to the bar. A sexy-pretty girl across the bar caught my eye, and I talked to her until the emcee called for the game to start. After exchanging numbers with the woman, I returned to the table.

Derek sat next to Gavin, the bald baker from the kickball team. I surveyed the table for an empty spot. The only empty seat was next to Kit.

Damn it.

“Did you just sigh?” she asked, eyes narrowing when I slid in beside her.

“No,” I lied.

“Derek made me promise I’d be nice.” Kit’s attention wandered toward the white sheet. Tinny punk played loudly overthe speakers hung haphazardly around the rafters. “Monkey Station.”

The band name sparked a memory from high school: hanging out in a friend’s house, smoking weed, and listening to an album on repeat.

“ThePlay, Monkey, Playalbum,” I said, drawing my eyes down from the ceiling to Kit. “They were the first band I ever saw live.”

“With Gideon Piper on drums?”

---