“You can’t kill my date,” I said.
“I could. I don’t mind. You wouldn’t squeal, would you?”
I studied his face. Square. Chiseled out of a block of white marble. Jaws that could bite through iron. He’d let his hair grow out a little, but only on top. The style reminded me of Howie Long.
Dad said every time he saw Howie at halftime, that he hated him. “Too good looking. Too smart. Too talented. Made every other man in America not quite good enough.” Manly jealousy.
Randy looked a bit like Howie but meaner and tougher. Maybe Howie at twenty, if he hated the world. Pecs bigger than mine. The bastard. Yeah. I had drooled a little when I first met him. Mom had too. Really drooled. I’d never seen Mom go so goofy.