Meanwhile, Dan had slipped away to take a leak in the lonely men's restroom down the hall. The lights flickered on with a low hum, bathing the place in a pale, tired glow. He whistled a tune to himself as he unzipped.
"Whiiistle-whiiistle* La Cucaracha, la cucaracha, can't walk no more, huh?" he mumbled, laughing under his breath.
That's when he heard it—the heavy thump of combat boots echoing closer. Dan's ear twitched; someone else had come in. He finished up, zipped, and walked to the sink near the door, the sensor faucet hissing on automatically.
In the mirror, he caught sight of two big guys stepping in—both built like linebackers—and the door slammed shut behind them with a bang that made the walls vibrate. They started toward him.
"Didn't like the fight, huh, Dan?" one of them said, grinning weirdly.
Dan forced a friendly smile. "Nah, it was fine. You guys didn't like it? Your buddy hits pretty damn hard, I'll give him that." He shook water off his hands, trying to sound casual, and turned to leave—only for the second guy to step right in front of the door, blocking the way.
Dan raised his hands halfway, somewhere between peace and panic. "Whoa, whoa, guys. If the fight wasn't fun, no need to make this one interesting too, right?"
"You're that punk's best friend, ain't ya?" the first man cracked his knuckles loud enough to echo.
Dan swallowed hard. He could already see himself laid out on the tile floor in five minutes if he didn't think fast. So he took a breath and blurted, "Okay, okay, look—maybe I can make it up to you. I got something stashed, all right? Real stuff. Tequila. Two bottles. Trainer doesn't even know about it. How 'bout we chill later, yeah? It's been hot as hell lately."
He wiped sweat off his forehead, grinning nervously. The two men exchanged a look, then turned back to him.
The first guy finally nodded. "Hell yeah, Danny boy," he said, flashing a grin.
The second one pointed at him and chuckled, "Cool, man. Noon tomorrow, behind the gym, the basketball court. Don't forget the booze." He licked his lips and laughed. "Tequila, huh? Heh-heh."
"Deal! See you then, hermanos," Dan said, exhaling as they turned away. He rubbed his smooth, bald head and snorted a laugh under his breath. "Dios, that was close."
He left the restroom, making his way back toward the barn where the fight was still raging.
The noise hit him before he even got there—chants, shouts, and the pounding of boots on concrete. Brian swung hard, his fist crashing into Simon's nose. The cleft-lipped man dropped to his knees, clutching his face as red-tinted spit dripped through his fingers.
"Ugh, you bastard! That hurts!" Simon's voice cracked, half fury, half disbelief at the sight of his own blood.
Brian wiped the boot mark from his cheek with the back of his hand and smirked. "Just a scratch. You hit like a mosquito."
That did it. Simon lost it. "Then come finish it, tough guy! COME ON!" he bellowed, charging like a wild boar. The two crashed to the floor, rolling and grappling for control.
"Get him, Simon! Fuck him up!" Someone yelled, and a hunk of blunt metal clattered across the floor toward them. Simon got on top, shoving Brian's head into the concrete. Brian's eyes caught something glinting in the reflection off the floor—the mirrored shine of a football helmet lying just within reach.
Simon leaned in close, his breath hot against Bryan's ear. "Game's over."