“Just saying.” Mathias shrugged.
Good cover. Not!
“Anyway, I’ll watch the rest later.”
Of course he had DVR service. Anyone with a TV as big as a garage door would.
“My mom and dad aren’t here yet. Sorry.” He offered Coach Keller a handshake. I got a hug. In plaid shorts and a polo shirt that perfectly matched the yellow vertical stripes of the shorts, he looked like something out of a clothing store ad. Not a Walmart or Target flier, but rather a fancier store that sold clothes and nothing else, yet mostly advertised with hot guys hardly wearing any, and had catalogs filled with page after page of h-o-m-o-e-r-o-t-i-c-i-s-m. No Slim Jims at the register where Mathias Webber bought his wardrobe. No power tools or pots and pans either.
“I’ve been swimming every day,” he said. “I’m still
