Away from the stadium, the front door to an apartment slammed.
"Yo! Collin?" someone called from the couch, barely turning his head from the TV.
"You're mad late, fam. You said your shift ended at one, "another voice said, sharper.
Collin grunted, kicking off his boots in the hallway.
His shirt was still damp from the kitchen heat, and the back of his neck smelled faintly of onions and fryer oil.
"Had to cover for Jerome," he muttered.
"The guy bailed mid-lunch rush. Didn't even call."
"Ohhh, so you did a double?"
"Yeah."
"Tough."
"Tell me about it."
He walked into the living room, running a hand through his short hair, barely listening—until he caught the scoreline on the screen.
ARSENAL 5 – 0 MANCHESTER UNITED
44:41
Collin froze.
The TV light reflected off his glasses as he tried so hard not to blink.
"…five?" he whispered.
Then, the boys exploded.
"YES, bro!"
"He's finally seen it!"
