Page 10 of Unmanageable

“WHERE THE FUCK IS BARNABY?” Callahan yells, clutching his head with both hands.

His knuckles are white, his hair looks like he stuck his finger in an electrical outlet, and he is currently missing his left shoe.

“This is not good,” I murmur, my voice echoing off the gravel of the empty parking lot. “This is objectively, statistically, not good.”

Two hours earlier

Statistically speaking, there is a ninety-eight percent chance this ends in a federal crime.

I know this because Noah—our team’s resident analytics geek—has been reciting the odds for the last three miles.

He isn’t exactly part of our inner circle, but Callahan has this aggressive “no man left behind” policy, which is currently backfiring on a spectacular, global, and highly illegal scale.

After four rounds of “The Goalie’s Widow” shots back at the first tavern, Noah is vibrating with a mix of social anxiety and a terrifying amount of hidden, repressed frat-boy energy.

“Um, guys..” Noah mutters, adjusting his glasses, “the likelihood of us finding a goat breeder at ten at night who takes cash and doesn’t ask questions was remarkably high in rural Massachusetts, but the survival rate of the animal under our collective supervision is hovering near zero.”

How we even got the goat was an hour-long detour into a sketchy farm property.

Nico had found a listing on Facebook Marketplace after our fourth round of whiskey, posted by a guy who claimed he was rehoming a “highly athletic” Nigerian Dwarf goat for two hundred bucks.

Nico, completely blasted, convinced Callie that every championship team needs a living mascot, and forty-five minutes later, we were handing a wad of crumpled twenties to a man in overalls in a dark, dirt driveway.

“Zip it, Numbers!” Nico chirps. He is stumbling over a tree root, still wearing a neon-pink silk headband he stole from the bridesmaids’ suite earlier today. “Barnaby is a warrior. Look at his eyes. He has the eyes of a guy who can hold the blue line. He’s our mascot now. He represents the soul of the Reign.”

The goat lets out a loud, pathetic baaah, its small hooves clicking against the asphalt.

“He needs a beer,” Kovács shouts from the back of the line. His taxidermied squirrel is still tucked into his front pocket.

He bought it off a shelf at a terrible roadside antique barn we passed a few hours ago, insisting it was a good luck charm for the postseason.

He calls it Sir Nut-a-Lot.

“Barnaby is dehydrated, Cash. Give him a sip of the cider.”

“Do not give the goat alcohol, you psychopaths,” I command, though my grip on reality is slipping.

I try to pull up my phone to check the map, but the screen is just a blur of colorful squares. I can’t focus on the letters.

I drop my chin to my chest and think of Scottie. The thought of her sharp, judgmental voice—the way she calls me a disaster with that specific, dry cadence—makes me grin like an idiot into the dark.

I want to call her. I want to tell her about the goat.

I want to hear her tell me to go to hell, then hear her sigh because she’ll inevitably be the one to bail me out.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Nico stops, squinting at a dark patch of woods. “Look at that tree. It’s shaped like a goalie in a full butterfly slide. We must pay tribute.”

“We are not paying tribute to a cedar tree, Nico,” Cal groans, but he’s already wandering toward it with the solemnity of a monk.

“Callie, buddy. You hanging in there?” I ask, slinging an uncoordinated arm around his neck, nearly knocking both of us into a ditch.

“I’ve been away from her for six hours, Cash,” Callahan says, his voice thick. “Six hours. Do you think she’s thinking about me? She was really worried about the napkins being too eggshell and not enough ivory. What if the linens ruin the vibe, man? What if she hates the tables?”

“She doesn’t care about the tables, Callie. She loves your dumb, handsome face,” I say, swaying. “But she will care if we bring a farm animal into the reception. We have to be smart. We have to be tactical.”

“Barnaby is a guest!” Nico yells. “He’s family!”

Fifteen minutes later, we finally find a way out of the woods and stumble into the buzzing neon light of a dive bar called The Rusty Bucket.