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Someone knocked my back with their knee, and I turned to see Ty sitting directly behind me. He mouthed a quick “sorry” and I turned back around.

At least he was going to acknowledge me. I’d wondered. We weren’t enemies, but we weren’t friends either.And whose fault was that?

Okay, mine.

Thursday night trivia had become a staple after Chase met Tamra and Jimmy married Melena. I resisted at first, but they pulled me into the game at their favorite bar, claiming they needed my legal and business expertise. I snorted. Right. As we went head-to-head with Ty’s team over and over, it became clear they needed my memory for nearly-useless details.

Seeing Ty at the Knit Wits’ table week after week only increased my appreciation for the adult version of the boy I’d known. I could have resisted propositioning Ty with dirty trivia after one too many cocktails. Week after week I managed to keep a lid on my libido, until the fateful night when I opened my big mouth, making my interest painfully clear.

As usual, I had more enthusiasm than sense, and I cornered him to ask him my question with maximum innuendo and minimal brain power. “Hey, Ty. What’s a four-letter word that ends in ‘k’ and means intercourse?”

He’d stared at me blankly, and thanks to my lowered inhibitions, I’d blurted out, “Talk, you dirty-minded pervert.”

Of course, I’d meant to imply more than discourse when I asked my question. He’d been sitting at the bar alone, all broody and grown up. Irresistible.

He’d laughed weakly, looking around frantically. “Is Jimmy here to drive you home?” His concerned question made it clear he didn’t want to talk, much less do anything more risqué with me. He’d excused himself to the bathroom posthaste once I confirmed I had a ride. I’d thought it was only women who used that escape. When he didn’t return after a few minutes, it became obvious he had intestinal issues or was hiding from me. The bartender’s knowing side-eye had only cemented my shame and belief that it was the latter.

The rejection stung, but Ty’s brush-off was clear, and I hadn’t summoned the courage to try again. I could only be thankful he’d shed the childhood tendency to rub his opponents’ noses in any failures. Whether he turned me down because he just didn’t like me: possible, but not probable, ‘cause let’s face it, I’m a fucking delight, or because he didn’t want to anger Jimmy by going home with his little sister, I couldn’t tell. Or more accurately, I didn’t want to.

Holding onto the dream that he turned down my invitation out of respect for his friendship with Jimmy was all that kept me going. I’d had enough rejection lately,thank you very much.

The attorneys brought my attention back to the present as they moved through the voire dire process, questioning possible jurors.

Did we know the defendant? No.

Had we heard about the case in the news? Also no.

Had any of us been convicted of similar crimes?

I glanced around at my fellow jurors, but no one struck me as a scofflaw, and none admitted to anything of the sort.

They moved on to questioning us individually, slowly excusing more and more of my peers. With each dismissal, my hopes of returning to the jury room and being called for a simpler case faded. Odds were growing that I’d be learning more than I ever wanted about the peccadilloes of one Mr. Shepherd.

I glanced up and down the bench, counting the remaining jurors. Thirteen plus me and Ty. Accounting for alternate jurors, any hopes of escaping extinguished as Ms. James excluded a young mother of two who explained she was three months pregnant and still struggling with morning sickness.

Ty’s grunt of disappointment behind me echoed my own feelings. Lucky. Not the pregnant part, which sounded miserable. But the leaving part. Our odds of doing the same had officially sunk to nil. Mr. Shepherd’s trial was likely to test the limits of my new boss’s good graces. A simple case, done in a few days, wouldn’t have caused much backlog at work, but the sheer number of charges meant our trial was likely to take longer than the original jury duty estimate. A few days of unanswered emails and phone calls wouldn’t be the end of the world, but a week or more would mean a deluge to catch up with.

Focusing on opening statements took most of my energy, but at least the case sounded mildly interesting. Mr. Shepherd was accused of harassing a local pro baseball player—Alex Hernandez. As more of a football and soccer fan, I’d never heard of him.

“The prosecution will show that Mr. Shepherd engaged in a campaign of harassment against Mr. Hernandez. Mr. Shepherd’s actions both damaged Mr. Hernandez’s property and traumatized him.”

I glanced at the man I assumed was Alex Hernandez sitting in the public seating behind the prosecutor’s table. Big, fit, and beefy in the agile way of elite athletes and dressed in a fine suit, he didn’tlooktraumatized. Not that it meant he wasn’t. He’d likely been coached to hide his emotions from an early age, to push through and play the game. Everything in the toxic masculinity playbook.

“Mr. Shepherd finished his reign of terror by crashing his pickup into Mrs. Larson’s garage, causing substantial damage to her house.”

The prosecutor’s use of “reign of terror” sounded a bit strong, but what did I know? The defendant, Mr. Shepherd, appeared too young to plan a road trip, let alone a sophisticated harassment campaign. His earlier arrogance had faded as the prosecution laid out their opening argument. With every word, he folded in on himself in his seat, looking more vulnerable and regretful.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Adulthood didn’t always mean great decision making.

“To add insult to injury, Mr. Shepherd has been uploading videos of his crimes to the internet. Thanks to the viral nature of those videos, he’s made a substantial amount off the suffering of others.”

I shifted in my seat, leaning forward. How substantial? The prosecution had definitely piqued my interest. And how open and shut would the case be if he was dumb enough to film his crimes and post them online?

“Mr. Shepherd’s identity was obscured by the use of a reindeer costume, but we’ll show the court he was the perpetrator,” the prosecutor finished with a flourish.

Reindeer costume? I held back my snort with effort, glancing at my fellow jurors to see their reactions. The grandmotherly woman next to me smirked, and an older woman down the row tittered quietly, but the rest of my peers managed to keep their expressions impassive. Tough crowd. Still, I was even more intrigued by our case. Maybe being selected for jury duty wouldn’t be a colossal pain.

We were escorted into a break room after the judge called for recess, and I examined my co-jurors carefully. We were a motley crew, leaning heavily toward the retired set. They’d use the story to dine out for weeks with friends on a case this juicy. Ty looked less enthused, his furrowed brow and frown fitting perfectly with my most recent encounters with him. What had happened to the easy-going, funny guy who played soccer with Jimmy back in the day before going pro? Ty had become a surly stranger over the years.