Page 8 of False Start

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know what I have time for?”

“You played a game of kickball. I think you can sneak in another fifteen minutes for a drink.” She scrunched her face, unconvinced. “I’m buying.”

Her brown eyes raked down my face before nodding. “Fine. If you’re buying.”

I talked to autograph guy as we walked through the parking lot, down the street to the bar. Mullin’s claimed to be the oldest Irish pub in Norwalk, but the shiny green booths and the lack of a lingering scent of cigarettes made me doubt the veracity of that claim.

Pictures of the bar in the decades before studded the walls, faint reminders of the ramshackle interior and worn bar top. The renovation must have been a full gut job, which didn’t surprise me. The NFL’s fledging team had launched Norwalk from “road trip city” to “vacation city” in a hurry.

The entire city was under renovation. And while a few of my teammates scooped up dilapidated buildings to turn into apartments and bars, I didn’t need more responsibility than keeping out of trouble during the off-season.

And going to a bar wasn’t exactly “keeping out of trouble.” But the post-practice drink hadn’t catapulted me into a full-blown spiral, and I didn’t suspect tonight would be any different. Convincing my newest teammates to stay out for more than one drink earlier in the week had been an act of Congress. I doubted they’d be down to party after a mid-week game.

But I was desperate for any amount of socialization. Even a single drink at a painfully unoriginal bar.

The two teams pushed together a bank of tables. A frazzled bartender frantically poured two beers while glancing back at the Guinness flowing from the tap. Kit waited, notecards in her hand. She flipped one over with a frown and shuffled it to the back of the pack.

I inhaled, working a kink out of my neck as if preparing for a fight. Because being around Kit felt a little like a fight. But Derek seemed like a good dude. Fun, but not too fun. Extroverted, but not a shitshow. And I had shockingly few non-shitshow friends left in Norwalk.

I needed another.

“What are you drinking?” I slid into the space beside her.

Surprise colored her face. “That was fast. Done signing autographs already?”

“I’m neverreallydone signing autographs. There are always more fans.”

She snorted. “God, you’re unbearable.”

“But you’re still letting me buy you a drink.”

“Because I’m broke.” She waved down the bartender as he turned off the Guinness tap. “A rum and coke, please.”

“Whatever you’ve got on tap that’s an IPA for me,” I said and turned back to Kit. “You sure you don’t want to make that top-shelf?”

“Top-shelf rum?” She laughed, raising an eyebrow at the bartender. “Is that a thing?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got an expensive rum. No idea how good it is.”

“Great. Whatever’s most expensive. Mr. Football Star can cover it.” Kit knocked her knuckles against the bar.

“So, what are you studying?” I asked as the bartender retreated in search of his priciest rum.

She flipped through the notecards before pocketing them. “Chemistry.”

“So, you’re a scientist?”

Other than Derek mentioning a job at a hospital, I didn’t know much about Kit. She hadn’t offered any information, and in her defense, I hadn’t really asked.

“Not like a ‘beakers and hypotheses’ scientist. I work in a hospital lab.”

“That’s not a ‘beakers and hypotheses’ scientist?” I asked, already confused. I’d taken a biology course in college to check it off the list of graduation requirements, but I had leaned on my lab partners to do most of the work.

“Not really. I analyze body fluids. Blood, urine, spinal, whatever.”

I recoiled. “Gross.”

“Well, we all can’t catch balls for a living.”

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