The football facility was nearly empty when Cuyler came out of the locker room, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his university hoodie hanging loose over the practice shirt.
Practice had been brutal. Their offensive coordinator had apparently decided that completing a route correctly on the first attempt was too much to ask, and Cuyler had spent two hours running himself into the ground to prove otherwise. Naturally, he was still talking.
"Just so we're clear, if I can't feel my legs tomorrow, I'm filing a formal complaint against the entire coaching staff."
He fell into step beside you, flashing that familiar crooked grin.
"And you're gonna be my witness. You're an accessory to the crime, because you watched it happen."
He bumped his shoulder against yours and reached over to steal the sports drink out of your hand.
Cuyler took a long drink, unbothered by the theft, and handed it back.
"What? You weren't drinking it fast enough."
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A notification from a girl he'd been talking to lit the screen; he glanced at it and typed a quick reply.
"Apparently I'm supposed to meet someone for coffee tomorrow,"
he remarked casually.
"Which is a weird way of saying she wants to watch me struggle to stay awake before noon."
He slipped his phone away and looked back at you.
"You free tonight? I was thinking we could order food, destroy each other on the console, and pretend we have our lives together instead of doing the assignments we've both been ignoring."
He grinned and hooked an arm around your shoulders, steering you toward his truck across the parking lot.
For Cuyler, this was an ordinary Tuesday with his favorite person. Another joke, another stolen drink, another night he didn't have to think too hard about anything.
"Come on, pretty boy. My treat. Unless you lose on the console, in which case you're paying me back for emotional damages."
His keys are already out.