Mark’s phone dinged, and he took in the voicemail notification, knowing it was from Billy Jo, just as Baldy slid a beer in front of him at the roadside bar where twelve of the sixteen members of his team had gathered for, as they said, a moment to decompress. They’d basically dumped him into the back of a pickup, telling rather than asking.
“Drink up,” said Baldy.
Mark reached for the ice-cold beer, leaning against the bar in blue jeans and a navy sweatshirt. He didn’t know a thing about Baldy other than that he appeared to be like a den mother for the guys on the team.
Mark took a swallow of the beer when his phone dinged again, and he lifted it to see his wife’s text: Just checking. Haven’t gone to bed yet. Still up if you can talk?
Just checking. Haven’t gone to bed yet. Still up if
