37. The Feels #3
Andrew leans back, drink in hand. “Still cryin’ over Danny Dimes, huh? He got five years. Bro had his shot.”
The guy scoffs.
“Deserved one more season.”
“Your boy ran outta miracles in ‘22,” Andrew mutters. “Shoulda retired with Eli. Opened a car dealership. Called it Hail Mary Motors.”
A few guys nearby laugh, nodding,
hating that he’s right.
Fake Rolex is three beers past subtle. “Oh, you got jokes now?” he says, sweeping the bar for an audience, voice climbing. “What’s that accent? Jersey? Is that where they teach you to run your mouth?”
“Yo, I was talkin’ QBs.” Andrew huffs through his nose, barely looking at the guy. “Chest out over a joke? Relax, bro. Ain’t nobody comin’ for you.”
“Man, you ain’t even New York.” He adjusts his Folex, straightening the face. “You borrow our teams and then talk crazy? Stay on your side of the river, how ‘bout that? Come talk to me when you start payin’ city tax.”
Everything inside me narrows its eyes—
my heart, my blood, even Little Death.
But Andrew chuckles, unbothered.
“Jesus. Listen to yourself,” he says, “half the roster lives in Jersey. Your boy Danny got a house in Hoboken. The coach eats at my fuckin’ bagel shop.
” The corner of his mouth lifts as he shakes his head.
“Don’t talk to me about borrowin’ teams when they wouldn’t make it past the season without Jersey blood.
Truth stands—even McDonald’s mess up less than Danny does.
” He shrugs into his shoulder. “It was his time, man.”
My chin hits my shoulder to hide the grin, but my laugh sneaks out anyway.
The guy squares up. “Ah, get the fuck outta here and go back to Jersey. You just some fantasy-football kid comin’ over here and shittin’ on our players. The fuck you know about loyalty? Dimes got us to the playoffs.”
My chin dips back. “The fuckin’ playoffs?” But it’s the Jersey comments I want to hurt him over.
The guy sets his beer down.
“Only speakin’ facts.”
I stand taller. “Oh, facts? Cool.
“Then fact—Danny had one fluke year and the rest were sleep paralysis.
“Fact—he sacked himself more times than defenses ever had to.
“Fact—he threw more turnovers than touchdowns. In six starts.”
I bend forward with a laugh.
“In fact—he leads the league in fumbles since 2019. More than Mahomes. Josh Allen. More than a freshman QB at some nowhere-ass high school upstate.”
The second I say it,
laughter spills out around me.
“Yo, she’s not wrong,” someone mutters.
Fake Rolex’s lips twitch.
“Lock ain’t it, sweetheart.”
This fuckin’ guy. “Lock’s got a cannon, and he don’t give a fuck, and I’d rather lose big tryna win than watch another year of a safe, boring, overpriced QB who plays like he’s got money on the other team.”
In that second, a waitress leans over Andrew, sliding four shots across our table with a small laugh near his ear.
Andrew backs away, cutting her off.
“Nah, we ain’t—”
But I’m horny, guilty, and still shaken up, so I snatch one up, liquor spilling over the rim, and throw it back without thinking.
Andrew grins and does the same,
tipping one back,
as if loyalty means keeping up.
“And fact—” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, slamming the glass down.
“If you say ‘go back to Jersey’ one more time, I will embarrass you so bad, your boys’ll leave your ass sittin’ here without a ride back to Queens.
” I count on one hand. “I’ll roast your takes, your weak-ass fade, and drag your football IQ through the gutter. Don’t fuckin’ test me, sweetheart.”
Ricky’s crying into his fry basket.
Fake Rolex stands tall,
dropping his beer down on the table.
“Yo—how you know I’m from Queens?”
“Please. I can smell that Versace Eros from here. Brooklyn wouldn’t claim you wearin’ a knockoff. And ain’t no Dominican barber in the Bronx let you walk out with that fade.”
The guy’s boys fold over, laughing.
Ricky has tears in his eyes. “So much funnier when it’s not aimed at you.”
Peter looks over at Andrew, eyes wide, and mouths slow, “Oh my fuckin’ God.” He points at me, then drags a finger across his own throat in awe. “I’m in love. I’m fuckin’ in love.” Whistling low, he shakes his head. “You better marry her. Or I will steal her from you. Not even jokin’.”
But before Fake Rolex can respond, Andrew hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me back into him, laughing low in my ear. “Hey, man. I’d let it go before she throws you through the window,” he tells the guy, his hand tight on my hip.
The guy looks away first.
Andrew’s voice drops lower, mouth grazing my ear. “Fact—it’s sexy as fuck when you back me up. You always ride this hard… or you just wild for me?”
I want to push him off,
but my body’s sinking into him.
“Only you.
“For some strange-ass reason.”
Ricky slides the next round of shots on the table.
Andrew eyes them.
Then me.
One brow raised—we doin’ this?
I smirk—that’s dangerous.
We side-eye the shots.
Then look back at each other.
“We don’t drink like this,” I whisper.
“I know. Bad idea,” Andrew whispers back… eyes returning to the shots.
“Very naughty,” I agree.
“I mean it,” he says, smiling.
“So do I,” I say back.
We snatch them up at the same time.