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“Coward.”

“Eat.”

I do.

The parking lots are already filling when Mack and I reach the arena. We were eliminated two nights ago. Nobody’s here for the standings.

RILEY 27 jerseys are everywhere. New ones. Old ones. One near the barricade has been washed so many times the numbers are barely darker than the burgundy around them.

A kid on somebody’s shoulders holds a sign over his head.

18 YEARS. ONE MORE, TEX.

Mack looks through the passenger window.

“Subtle.”

“They have taste.”

The security guard leans toward my window instead of waving us through.

“Give ’em hell, Tex.”

“Always do.”

He taps the roof and raises the gate.

Nobody says goodbye. That helps.

Finn has taped SENIOR CITIZEN over my nameplate.

I stop under it.

“You spell that yourself?”

“Roman checked it.”

Roman looks over. “I did not.”

“Coward,” Finn says.

Ryan walks past, tears the tape down, and drops it into Finn’s stall.

“Dress.”

“I was honoring him.”

Finn starts to tell him what it is a form of, and the word doesn’t come, and he stands there with his mouth open going after it.

“Tribute,” Ryan says, without turning around.

“Tribute.” Finn says it again to be sure he has it, and then, to nobody in particular, “That’s two this week,” and goes to find Maren before warmups.

“You were wasting tape,” Ryan says to his empty stall.

I point at Ryan. “Captain material.”

“Thank you.”