The Player's Club: Scott by Cathy Yardley

listen. What was George doing with this crew, anyway?
    “Easy,” Lincoln repeated, this time with more of an edge. “Just getting to know you. What do you do for a living, Scott?”
    “I’m an analyst,” he said. “I crunch numbers. Forecast. Stuff like that.” Boring stuff like that, he amended mentally.
    “Ah-ah-ah- nerd! ” George pretended to sneeze, causing a few drunken guffaws from the guys surrounding him.
    Lincoln looked at the ceiling, as if praying for patience. “Let’s pose a hypothetical,” he said, ignoring George. “You have, say, a month left to live. What would you wish you’d done? What would you regret not doing?”
    Scott blinked. “I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it, I guess.”
    “Well, don’t think about it too much,” Lincoln said. “Just spit out the first three things that come to mind.”
    Scott frowned. “Sort of a bucket list thing?”
    “Sure. Whatever.”
    “All right.” Scott took a deep breath. “I’ve always wanted to do one of those spirit quest things. You know, where you go out to the desert by yourself and just be with nature.”
    He’d barely finished the sentence before George blew a loud raspberry. “Lame!”
    “Damn it, George,” Lincoln snarled, turning to the guy and advancing on him. George actually retreated a little. “Be quiet, or wait outside.”
    “You can’t kick me out,” George said, but he looked quickly at his posse, taking courage from their numbers.
    “Try me.” Lincoln’s voice was low, and his hands were bunched in fists.
    George quieted, even as several of his friends glared at Lincoln.
    “Sorry, where were we?” Lincoln said. “What else would you do, Scott?”
    Scott swallowed hard. George was a jerk, but he had to admit—this was The Player’s Club, not the Self-realization Fellowship. He needed to impress them.
    What would a Player want to do? He racked his brain, thinking of the shady rumors he’d read about them. They liked playing pranks. He sucked at pranks. They went on large-scale adventures.
    They partied like rock stars…
    “I’d, uh, want to crash a huge party,” he said. “Like, something epic.”
    He could’ve sworn Lincoln looked disappointed. The frat boy contingent at the bar, however, hooted with approval.
    “Anything else?” Lincoln said.
    He took a deep breath. What was he missing?
    He closed his eyes, trying to think of what he’d do, if he really knew he was dying. If he wanted to have one last, memorable adventure.
    What would a nonboring person want to do?
    “I’d…I’d run with the bulls. In Pamplona.”
    Lincoln seemed solemn. Then, slowly, he smiled.
    The rest of the room started murmuring and chuckling, punching each other on the shoulder.
    “Do I need to add anything more?” Scott asked, his mind still racing for alternatives.
    “No, that ought to do it,” Lincoln said. “All right. He’s got his three.”
    Scott squinted at him. “What do you mean, my three?”
    “In the next month,” Lincoln said, smiling, “you need to do a vision quest in the Mojave, crash a really epic party and run with the bulls in Pamplona.”
    “Lucky thing it’s in July,” Finn noted. “Good choice, by the way. We haven’t been there in, what, two years?”
    “At least,” Lincoln agreed.
    “How am I supposed to do that?” Scott gaped.
    “Don’t worry,” Finn said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll help. Part of being a Player is helping the pledges. Especially when they’ve got cool challenges.”
    “Yeah, nobody wanted to help me when I said I’d write a novel,” another guy grumbled.
    “You guys are like old ladies,” George said with a swagger. “Me ’n’ the boys are gonna go find some after-hours fun, since you kicked the strippers out.”
    “Fine,” Lincoln said without looking at him.
    “Hey, cuz?” George nudged Finn hard. “Tell your boyfriend not to be so damned touchy.”
    With another raucous burst of laughter, George and about six of