DROP TWENTY-NINE
Hector sat down on his seat. Pickle sat next to him.
“We could have gone to the VIP booth, you know. I haven’t taken you up there yet,” Hector said, pointing back with his thumb.
Pickle waved it away. “Nah, that’s not jugger. This is,” she breathed in, “the sweat and dirt and stale hot dogs.”
Hector chuckled. “Okay, I get the appeal in a masochist sort of way. This is more real, sure. So, which one are we scouting for?”
Pickle stretched her neck and looked at the gate. “Sit down, will ya?” she said to the indecisive fan in front of her.
“Sorry, ma’am, sorry,” he said and finally placed his butt down.
“All of the Lasses are great, but I really like Billie.”
“And they all Scottish?” Hector asked, pulling up stats and search results on his veil. The amount of data was
