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“In my experience, sixty-nines always end up in an eleven.”

“What?” Kolby asks irritably.

“Me, her, lying side by side, staring at the ceiling—awkward as hell.” He sighs. “Can’t wait for the day I get my sixty-one.”

Kolby sighs. “I do not even want to know.”

“You won’t judge me?”

“We are way past that. How about you just stop?—”

“Doggy with a pregnant woman.”

“I really wish you would just shut the hell?—”

“Like, obviously it would be my baby, but Lady S bent over the arm of a couch, me behind her with my hand on her belly, over the little fella I planted?—”

“No more.”

Clearly, Skinner doesn’t hear him, or just doesn’t care, because he continues.

“Those are goals. Find a chick who’s got a little sass, a sweet smile, and sweeter ass. Plop a ring on it, make babies, and do life the way it should be.”

“I mean, I?—”

“Didn’t think it could happen while we play this game. Our married teammates are miserable.” Skinner pauses. “Oh shit, sorry, man.”

“I’m separated.”

“Yeah, but case in point kind—she didn’t wanna be part of this. Then Nick being pissed wasn’t about us having to lock down—his wife’s moving back to LA, taking his kids after the season ends.”

“I don’t think any of us waiting on contracts have gotten them. Guessing he’ll look for a trade. And betting after his outburst today, they’ll let him go without a fight.”

Silence.

“What?” Kolby asks.

“Morgan and Jennings got emails from Drew today. She has Mack taking over some of us. You know, because she’s busy with three babies and two men.” Skinner makes a small explosion sound. “Mind blown.”

“She’s married to our QB. They’re happy.”

“Not trying to yuck their yum, but no way I’d share the future Lady S. Would you sh?—”

Kolby answers a quick, sharp, “No.”

“You should check your email.”

“And you should quiet your mind, man,” Kolby says.

“You going to bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you making breakfast in the morning?” Skinner asks.

“I’ll see what I can do without messing with our hostess’s cast iron.”

Hearing his voice much closer now, I scramble back into my room, trip over something, and fall on my ass as I hear the creak of the seventh stair. I shove up and dive into my bed, bury my face in my pillow, and play possum, hoping he’s kind enough, exhausted from this freaking day, like I am, to even?—