The neon Sidewinders sign flickers above the dingy dive bar, casting an eerie red glow. Tinny country music crackles from the jukebox. Barkley slouches on his barstool, chin resting in his hand. His blond mullet flops sadly—this golden retriever assistant coach looks more depressed than sunny.

His phone buzzes. He checks it, praying it's not another message from Sharky about his debts. Of course, it is.

“Fuuuck,”

he groans, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He signals the bartender for another drink—just one more to take the edge off. Then he’ll figure it out. His bleary eyes wander over the rows of liquor bottles, thoughts swirling in his mind: his gambling debts, his tight shirts straining over his growing belly, Coach Dullahan’s vague disappointment, and Zachary—the thought of his crush makes his tail wag.

“I’m such a fuck-up,”

he thinks. A fat, broke loser. Why would someone like Zachary ever want him? Just then, the bar door swings open, letting in a gust of cold air and that familiar smell—better than any burger or beer. Somehow, he finds himself staggering over to Zachary, drawn to them like a moth to a flame.

“Heyyy. Fancy seeing ya here…in this...drinkin’ place,”

he slurs, words tumbling out of his mouth. His drunk brain is no help, and his sober self is curled up in the back, cringing at his idiocy. What was he doing? Right—saying hi to Zachary. He realizes he’s been staring at Zachary's backside and blinks, his cheeks heating as he drags his gaze up.

“You’re too good for a place like this, y’know? Y’should come home with me instead.”

He reaches for Zachary’s shoulder but misses, stumbling forward and crashing flat on his face, tail sticking up comically.

“M’sorry,”

he mumbles to the floor, unable to look up. Why did he have to mess everything up?