Not Another Player

7.The Incident

Where Do We Go Now? // Gracie Abrams

My feet are up, a cold beer in my hands while watching the scenery zip by. The perfect way to travel.

"You're up," Seth kicks my leg, pulling me out of my contemplative stupor, for once not about Char. She's been giving me the cold shoulder since night one of this tour. I can't figure out how to get back on her good side.

Does she have a good side? 'Cause now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I've never been on it.

"I got nothing." I pull a card and add it to my hand. Alex is up. He drops a card onto the pile.

"One card left, bitches." Alex waves his last remaining card in my face. "Losing again, Jacob. At this rate we'll know all your secrets."

I shrug. Whatever.

Today is TMZ rules, according to Alex. The player who wins gets to ask the player with the worst game, aka the most points, an embarrassing question. So far, I've had to describe almost every cringe-worthy event in my life as the biggest loser of the game.

"Right. Because losing to a boy band is what's embarrassing. Not the fact that we're playing Crazy Eights." I laugh. It's a weak effort on my part to deflect. I started razzing the guys about any and everything after my first confession to save face. Spoiler alert; it's not working.

"Hey, you know the rules, man," Ryan says, a pointed look directed at me.

"Right, right, You're not a 'boy band.'" While speaking, I make the mistake of using actual air quotes when I say boy band. That was the first thing they told me when they let me on board. No calling them a boy band. My words bring Seth's glare aimed right between my eyes. Alex snorts. Ryan grunts, definitely not happy with me.

Is anyone?

"Okay, calm down. I love your sound. I'm just giving you a hard time, jeez! You're too easy." I take a long pull of my beer. The game resumes. I'm able to drop a couple of cards. Alex is forced to pick some up. Then miracle of miracles, I'm actually on the verge of winning.

"One card left," I say, pulling it close to my chest.

Before play gets back to me, the bus pulls off the road and into a rest stop. Once in a while we take a break on a longhaul day and stretch our legs if the conditions are right. Security checks it out ahead of us and radios back if we're a go.

"Pause in the game?" Alex suggests.

"Fine by me," Ryan answers.

"Nah, fuck that! I'm about to win. We finish this now." I don't want to blow my chance because knowing these guys they'll mix up the cards when I'm not looking, or someone (ahem, Seth) will knock the entire deck to the ground and we'll have to start all over again.

"Why don't you cry about it?" Alex smirks. I don't bite at the obvious Napoleon Dynamite reference. Instead, I pop a brow in challenge.

"Make it quick. If you don't win this round, we're pausing to get off this bus." Ryan tips his head to Seth who's next to play. I hold my breath. I've had a question to ask these guys on the tip of my tongue since we started playing and Ryan declared the TMZ rules.

I watch as Seth lays a six. Ryan drops a four onto the deck. And then it's back to me.

"Fuck, yeah." I drop my final card. "Winner, winner, chicken dinner." I thrust my fists in the air. Sweet victory.

"An eight? You had an eight this entire time." He's pissed because eights are wild. "You could have just said that instead of making us play another round." Ryan tosses his remaining cards on the table.