And really, they’re all in good fun, mostly. But I’m distracted tonight. That’s why I missed that easy question about the shortest US president.

I know it’s James Madison—at a whopping 5 foot 4 inches, thank you very much, because any man will tell you that every single inch matters—and not James Monroe. But I got tongue-tied, and my attempt at ‘Madison’ came out sounding like ‘Mondilroe’.

At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

But does Cole believe that? Of course not. He’s a douche waffle who happens to specialize in presidential trivia and delights in giving anyone who misses out on such an ‘easy question’ a hard time.

What’s the capital of Uzbekistan, Cole? Tashkent, but I bet you didn’t know that, did ya?

He sucks at geography, thankfully having a weak spot other than his holier-than-thou winner attitude. “We’ll get ya next round,” Trey tells Cole in my defense before leaning over to clink his beer against mine. Quieter, he says, “You good, man? Not like you to miss an easy one.”

I glare at Trey even though I’m mad at myself. “Yeah.”

One long sip of beer doesn’t make it any truer, though. Looking at the screen for what’s ahead, I can already see how the night’s going to play out. Round two has Cole’s team versus Meg-a-demia, a group of local college professors and teaching assistants.

Cole’s team is known as The Estates. They claim their name was chosen because they’re mostly high-dollar real estate agents, but we all know it's because they come from old money, estate-style, and like to flaunt it.

But the round two topics are ones the professors will slaughter Cole and his numb nuts partner with, like Literature of the 1800s and The Pop Culture Influence of Pokémon.

I bet Cole doesn’t know a Pikachu from a panini.

And after that, it’ll be a loser round with the Estates against . . . us, Anarchy Authority. To be clear, our team name was chosen by Heather, our fearless and sarcastically oppositional leader.

Speaking of the devil, Heather claps her hands to get our attention. I shoot one more withering ‘fuck you’ look at Cole and he acts like a I blew him a lovey-dovey kiss, excitedly watching it cross the few feet and then ‘catching’ it before crumbling the nothingness in his hands and dropping it to the floor to squash with his shiny loafers.

For pantomime, it’s pretty clear he plans to kill us in the next head-to-head. And also, he has on loafers with no socks. That look hasn’t been attractive since Don Johnson was rocking it in Miami Vice, no matter what Cole’s girlfriend du jour told him.

“Blake,” Heather barks, her palm slapping the table.

“Yeah?” I answer back, just as irritated.

“We’re in the middle of a strategy session. If you’d care to abandon your eye-fuck with Cole, you’re welcome to join us.”

“I’m not . . .” I turn to Heather, and her smile of victory tells me that her smack talk got her exactly what she wanted—my attention. “Fine. Strategy?”

Heather nods and immediately swipes her too-long bangs off to the side. They’re green this week, matching her nail polish and eye shadow. “There are hellacious topics still left on the board tonight. I think we’ve got a lock on Art and Architecture, Cars of the 1960s, and Musical Genius.”

She looks around our team, giving assignments based on our specialty knowledge and more general education. “But what I’m worried about are Serial Killer Stories and Reality Star Survivors. Anybody read up on Jack the Ripper lately? Or watched The Bachelorette?” Heather nibbles on her thumb and says hopefully, “Maybe the reality show topic will be about home DIY shows?”

Heather’s an HGTV addict and has renovated her entire house, so if that’s the case, we’re solid.

“I doubt House Hunters couples count as reality stars,” Trey says doubtfully, his lips twisted.

Slowly, a tiny idea tries to take shape deep in my mind. Or maybe it’s in my pants, but it’s a good one either way. “I have an idea. Can we call in a sleeper agent?”

“A ringer?” Heather asks. “You know a guy?”

I give a noncommittal shrug, not wanting to tip my hand. “Maybe. Is that allowed?”

Heather closes her eyes, and I can see her eyeballs twitching left to right behind her lids as though she’s reading the rulebook from memory. Trivia night is serious business. “Yes,” she says, holding up a finger, “but only if we don’t max out on team members. Someone will have to ‘have an emergency’ and leave so that we can bring in a replacement player.”

She doesn’t dare do air quotes, lest she be seen strategizing for a ringer, but her eyebrows lift and lower twice in rapid succession.

Shawn, who’s really our weakest member, raises his hand. “I volunteer as tribute if you’ve got someone, Blake?”

The whole team’s eyes land on me, and though I know this might have bad idea written all over it, I also know I’m absolutely going to do it. It might be the only way I can see Zoey again.

“I’m on it. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Fuck yeah,” Trey says, even though his forehead’s lined with worry. “Strat-e-gery.”

“Goddammit, Trey, you know I hate made-up words,” Heather says, distracted as I make my quick exit. I just hope that I’m right.