Page 65 of The Progressions

“I’m glad you decided to speak up and participate so they could get to know you, too.”

“You called me out for acting like a booty hole,” he reminded me.

“You were, but you stopped. I would have kicked you under the table, but I was afraid of getting someone else by mistake.”

We drove another slow mile or so in silence. “I don’t do that on purpose,” he said. “I’m not trying to be a booty hole.”

“I know,” I assured him. “You’re not, but you have to figure out how to get out if it without me texting or kicking you. But I’m sure you can, if you put your mind to it. I trained myself out of speaking in rhyme.”

“How?”

“I would open my mouth and feel it coming and then I’d grab ahold of myself. I’d remember that no one liked it. And no one did, not even my English teacher,” I said. “Eventually, I got used to talking normally.”

“So I can train myself out of being an asshole?”

“Booty hole,” I corrected. I liked that girl’s term for him better. “Absolutely, because it’s not how you really are. Were you actually mad and wanting to hit Zach Santiago?”

“No,” Tyler said. “I didn’t feel like that at all.”

“It was good that you didn’t insult him like you were doing to the guys when you first got here. I heard you were saying crap about César Hidalgo and how he should have retired.”

“How the fuck do you know all this? Are you listening in the locker room somehow?” he demanded. “Yeah, I was saying shit. I showed up at the practice facility to meet the team and the first thing I heard? ‘Bro thinks he’s César. He’s no César. We’re going to show you how we do things in the orange house.’”

“Who said that to you?” I asked furiously.

“They were so fucking proud of themselves and it was—” But he stopped.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“It was like when I started on my college team,” he told me. “I played as a true freshman, and I was about forty pounds lighter than I am now. We were scrimmaging and a linebacker picked me up and threw me onto the ground. Like he was a fucking professional wrestler.”

“A guy on your team? Who did that?” I demanded. “Did you get hurt?”

“I got the wind knocked out of me, and he looked down and spit in my face.”

“Who was that? Give me a name!”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, sounding calmer. “Hire a hitman, like for stupid Dominic? I mean, just Dominic.”

I couldn’t afford a professional; I would have to take matters into my own hands. “Tell me his name right now.”

“No, because I think you are going to try to kill someone,” Tyler answered. “That was eight years ago, and he never made it to play in the confederation. But the Woodsmen were acting just like him, like they were better than me and like that Hidalgo was better, too. Then I knew they were right because I was playing like shit.”

“Because you got too worried and anxious,” I said.

“Maybe. But I ran my mouth, like a booty hole. I’m sorry I did that, because I could have shut the hell up and shown them on the field how they were wrong.”

“That would have been better. So, which Woodsmen were rude to you?” I asked casually.

“No, I’m still not telling you.”

“Fine,” I snapped. Next time I saw Dalila, Coach Nour’s daughter, I’d get it from her. She knew everything.

We drove for a while, and I must have been partially lulled to sleep by the lack of speed because it took me much too long to realize that he was going the wrong way. “Tyler, this isn’t how to get home,” I said, but he nodded.

“I know. We’re making a stop before we go back to the condo.”

“Where?” I asked, but as he kept driving, I knew where he was headed. “My beach?”

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