10. Not a Fumble
10
Riggs
Miles takes one look at my lawn and falls over laughing. I roll my eyes and frown at him, but it doesn’t faze him in the least. Eventually, my stoic countenance breaks, and I end up laughing with him.
From the outside looking in, it is pretty funny, I guess.
“And you said your neighbor did this?” he asks, peering over toward Tessa’s house.
“I’m positive.”
“Damn. I guess she really does still hate you,” he says, wiping a stray tear from his eye as I lead him inside the house.
“It would seem so. I knew she was still angry, but the Tessa I knew in high school would never do something like this.”
“People change,” he says with a shrug, plopping down on the couch beside me. “And she obviously knows how to hold a grudge, huh?”
“Definitely,” I say. “But even though she thinks I deserve her ire, I refuse to back down and accept this prank as my due.”
“You said something about war,” Miles says, and I look over to see him grinning. “You want to prank her back?”
“Oh, yeah. Any ideas?”
“I might have a couple,” he says, rubbing his hands together and cackling like a supervillain.
“You can be scary when you want to be, you know that?” I say slowly.
Miles just laughs and leans toward me, telling me his plan.
The gym is packed, but we manage to find an uncrowded corner in the free-weights area to get in a light workout while we plan. Foster and Porter are here, and I just listen as Miles explains our plan to them. I’ve already given them a brief synopsis of my history with Tessa, and I showed them a picture I took of her prank before I pulled out my lawnmower and erased it.
The guys got a good laugh out of it, and they seem game to help me prank her back.
“So, how do you feel about farm animals?” Miles asks them, a devilish gleam in his eye.
“We’re not doing anything weird or sexual with them, are we?” Porter asks, his brow wrinkling.
“Jesus, man. Why would your mind even go there?” Miles shoots back, his expression disgusted.
“Because it’s you making the plan,” I say, jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow.
“I am not into bestiality,” Miles says, then shrugs. “At least, not anymore.”
“Dude,” Foster groans.
“I’m kidding,” Miles says with a laugh. “Anyway, I have an idea. We need some paint and brushes, a dozen blankets, and some rope. If you guys can go buy that stuff, I’ll handle the rest.”
“We can do that,” Foster says, nodding.
“Great. Meet us at Riggs’ house in the morning. Ten o’clock,” Miles says.
Foster and Porter nod in agreement, then give us both bro hugs before heading out. They’d already gotten their workout in when we arrived. Miles and I head for two unoccupied, side-by-side treadmills, and we hop on and set the speed for a brisk walking pace to warm up.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” I ask him.
“Depends on what your endgame is, man. Is it going to be the perfect payback for what she did to you? Yes. But will it magically erase her anger so you can get close to her again? Probably not. But of course, you know her better than I do. Do you think she’ll find it funny? Or will she be livid?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I don’t really know her anymore. All I can tell you is she’s not the same girl she was when we dated. And that’s probably my fault.”
“Bullshit,” he says, pressing the button on his machine to crank up the speed. “None of us are the same people we were in high school. It’s called growing up.”
“That’s true,” I say, speeding up my treadmill to match his pace, “but what we go through as teenagers shapes us into who we are as adults. And I can only assume my actions shaped her in some small way.”
“Then maybe we should call this prank off and just…I don’t know. Kidnap her? Tie her up and make her listen until she really hears you and realizes the truth?”
“Well, that sounds like a solid plan,” I deadpan.
“Well, goats it is, then,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as he jogs. “Tessa scored on her first possession, but now it’s your turn to handle the ball. Are you going to fumble it and lose momentum, or are you going to drive down the field until you push it into the end zone?”
“You know I love it when you use football metaphors with me. It’s hot,” I say.
“Easy, tiger,” he says, holding up a palm in my direction. “I told you I’m not into bestiality.”
“Ha, ha,” I say with an eyeroll, and he laughs. “But you’re right. I do want to score. And you know I never fumble the ball.”
“Well, there was that one time in Florida…”
“Shut your foul mouth,” I snap, and he laughs again. “You promised we’d never speak of that again. I was fucking tucking the ball. It wasn’t a fumble.”
“If you say so,” he teases.
I reach over and press his acceleration button a dozen times, making Miles sprint to keep up with the treadmill’s speed. He yelps and quickly presses the button to slow it back down before the damn thing sends him flying off the end.
“I didn’t fumble then, and I won’t fumble now,” I say, turning my machine off and grabbing my towel to mop the sweat from my face. “This prank is going to be epic, and I’m in one hundred percent.”