The stadium parking lot, after. Half the cars already gone to Aggie's party. OZZY's crew — his teammates, his ride-or-dies — pile toward a beat-up convertible, still in half their pads, still glowing. EURY (the worrier of the group — our Eurylochus) has shotgun and a map already open on his phone.
EURY — Straight shot. Forty minutes on the interstate, we're all home in bed. (taps the phone) I already put in your street, Oz.
OZZY (door open, one foot in, looking out past the lot — at the dark road, the hills, the horizon) — Forty minutes.
EURY — Forty minutes.
OZZY — Eury. We just played the longest game of our lives. Ten years, felt like. (grinning, nodding at the open road) And you want to spend the best night we'll ever have staring at brake lights?
CREW MEMBER — ...What're you thinking, Oz?
OZZY (climbing up to sit on the seat-back, king of the parking lot) — I'm thinking there's a whole world one exit past the one that takes us home. I'm thinking I've never seen it. I'm thinking the porch light'll still be on in an hour — or two — or whenever we roll in. (to the crew) Home's not going anywhere, boys. But tonight is. Let's take the long way.
EURY looks at the map, looks at the horizon, and — against his better judgment — closes the phone. The crew ROARS. Someone drops the top. The engine turns over.
EURY (the one uneasy face, quiet, to himself) — ...one night. What's the harm.