Steve and Gar walked back in, their sweat mostly dried. Neither said anything as Gar went to the fridge and grabbed two Gatorades, handing one to Steve, who accepted it without looking at it.
They each took long drinks and stared at nothing. Their breathing slowed, and finally - finally! - Steve broke the silence.
"What are the odds?"
Gar snapped back, "What are the odds of us being tied? Or what are the odds of my shot to win the game interrupted by a group of kids on those stupid rollerskate shoes getting into a huge crash in front of the house? Or the odds that when we come back from checking on them, the ball has gone mostly-flat and my one desperation heave knocks down the backboard, which massively dents the roof of my car? Which one?"
Steve paused. "I guess all of them."
"What's the highest number you can think of?" Gar raged. "Now double THAT to one and you've got the odds against all those happening at once!"
"Sorry about your car, man."
Gar sighed, a long, watermelon ice-scented exhale. "It's not your fault, man. It just sucks. I'm just sorry I still have to listen to you whine about Jen."
"I guess I still don't know if she's my destiny, huh?"
"Looks that way, man."
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