he had survived the event. that was already heroic. miles had smiled through speeches, nodded through handshakes, managed to endure three conversations on leadership, two on legacy, one exchange with someone referring to football as the last honest institution to someone that could care less, and exactly eight different scoldings.
the afterparty was supposed to be easier. it was not. it was just the same room with a looser tie.
the bar had been rented out for the occasion, all low amber lighting and sticky leather chairs. alumni clustered near the fireplace while donors occupied the less-sticky tables. a handful of athletes moved through the room like living proof that the entire day had a face, good shoulders, and a white-picket-fence future.
he barely managed to escape. not far, just to the quieter hallway outside the bar, near a trophy case with glass pulsing with the surrounding music. not exactly privacy, but close enough for a man who had spent most of his life learning how to disappear. his back was against the wall, tie loose and jacket wide open.
a burst of laughter came from inside, followed by the door opening and spilling noise into the hallway. he glanced up, prepared to fix himself quickly as to avoid scolding number nine. it was @dreadbound. he recognized the quarterback from earlier. confident enough in miles' eyes to look like a worthy investment. he'd sigh, roll his eyes, and shift over. â let me guess. you also hit your annual limit for inspirational conversations with men who really earned the name dick. â
