Page 46 of The Overtime Persuasive

Before I can think too hard about the exchange, his attention shifts back to me.

“Coach was asking me to weigh in on some roster thoughts for the first few away games, Snyder,” he says, each word dripping with playful spite. “Still think that letter’s got your name on it?”

He’s grinning when he says it, but the question doesn’t land like the rest of the joke, and of course my jaw tightens before I can stop it.

I should be quicker on my feet with a comeback, but tonight, my response gets caught somewhere behind my teeth. Eventually, I find it. I may have hesitated a second, but I get to it.

Unfortunately, one second is also long enough for Eva to take notice. I feel her stiffening beside me.

“Why?” I ask Tripp, stopping in my tracks. “You worried?”

“A little bit,” Tripp says easily. “Wouldn’t be any fun if you gave up.”

“Please,” I scoff, shoulders rising to my ears. “Like I’m gonna give that up to you.”

“There he is.” His hand claps my shoulder as he passes, the same way he might after a drill or on his way out of the locker room. “See you at practice, Snyder.”

He lifts a hand to Eva and keeps walking toward his car. That’s Tripp. He throws the challenge into the air, makes sure I catch it, then moves on with his night. Meanwhile, I’m here holding it and overthinking it the whole way.

He wants the A. He told the whole team as much on his first day, volunteering for the spot as easily as if Coach had asked who wanted the last bite of leftover Thai in the fridge. Tripp has never had trouble admitting when he wants to win.

Beside me, Eva has gone quiet. When I look over, her attention flicks from my jaw to my eyes.

“What?” I ask. “You okay?”

“No.” She adjusts her grip on the succulent. “But it can wait.”

She starts toward the truck again. I follow, already knowing she has no intention of forgetting it.

The drive back to Old Town is quiet, but not uncomfortable. I keep the radio low, one hand on the wheel while Eva watches the city pass outside her window. Her succulent sits in the cup holder between us, and she’s holding the leftover brownies in her lap, picking at one corner of the foil with her thumb.

Every so often, I catch her looking at me. She isn’t staring. Nothing obvious, simply looking long enough for me to know the conversation with Tripp is still on her mind.

“So, Coach told me his son wants to be a squirrel for Halloween,” I say, reaching for an easy subject that has nothing to do with Tripp.

Eva laughs. “Have you told them about your squirrel, Thomas?”

“I may have sent them a few pictures. And some videos.” I smile. “Apparently, I’m responsible for the costume choice this year.”

“You’re turning Thomas into an influencer.”

“He’s going to be impossible to live with.” My gaze wants to drift toward her, but I force it back to the road. “I’m starting to worry about him with winter coming, though. I can’t help it. I’ve gotten used to the little menace.”

“You know what,” Eva says as she pulls out her phone, “I saw these squirrel boxes on social media. They are adorable. People build them so squirrels have somewhere safe to nest during the winter or hide from predators.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little.” She scrolls until I stop at a red light, then turns the screen toward me. “See? Look at this.”

On her phone is what looks like a tiny wooden house mounted to a tree, complete with a sloped roof and a round doorway. The hollow space inside gives the squirrel somewhere dry and protected to sleep without inviting it to move into an attic.

“Thomas could have his own little house,” she says.

“He could.” I nod, going over an imaginary shopping list in my mind. I could make him one of those next weekend if I can get to the store to get materials for it. “I bet he’s a lothario. Has a squirrel box on every street within a five mile radius.”

“He probably does.” She laughs, but when it fades, the quiet returns.

Eva rests her head against the seat and watches the streetlights pass over the windshield. The question she told me could wait seems to have climbed into the truck with us. It’s sitting somewhere beside the succulent, taking up more room than something without a body should.