“About two years ago, I was on a business trip in California.” Shit. “I ran into an old friend from college while I was there,” he says softly and my body grows tense. “He played for the Tomahawks, my friend.” “He must have been a good football player,” I respond, not looking at him. I see him nod in my peripheral. “He sure was. His coach told him he was a Ferrari with nitrous - inconceivable and priceless.” I bust up laughing, a breaking feeling hitting my chest at the same time, because those words are to a T. “Arthur Miller, running back. First round draft pick.” Ian nods. “Arthur Miller.
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