Scott is lying on the couch, arms crossed, ball cap over his eyes. By the slow way his chest rises and falls, he appears to be sleeping. Trevor gives me a funny look, as if to say, Wait for it. He grabs a random tennis ball from the table and launches it straight into Scott’s hard stomach. Scott bolts upright, brows furrowed, disoriented, as Trevor, Kevin, and I snort with laughter. “What the fuck, man?”
