Page 64 of Save the Game

“No worries, man. Nah, she’s not into the party scene. She said she’ll be happy staying home, watching Lost and eating junk food.”

“That actually does sound better,” I admit, as we walk up the sidewalk toward the open front door.

Pigskin House—so named because it’s always roomed by football players—is a massive, six-bedroom mansion. The main living room is open enough to be considered a ballroom, which, maybe it was at some point; now, though, it’s mainly used as a makeshift club during parties. Already, even though it’s still pretty early in the evening, the room is packed with bodies and smells sweetly of alcohol and spilled drinks. Bryce and I don’t even have to discuss it before we pass by toward the kitchen. Neither of us will be humping any strangers tonight.

Because everything here is massive and over-done, the kitchen is three times larger than any kitchen, that isn’t industrial, has a right to be. The two massive islands are covered in alcohol and red plastic cups, with the occasional snack thrown in as though somebody had an afterthought about the guests getting hungry. Again, without having to discuss the matter, Bryce finds us two unopened beers; both of us try to honor our athletic scholarships as much as we can, which means not getting plastered on cheap vodka and being hungover before a game.

Somebody bumps into me, sloshing their drink over my feet and onto the floor. The bass from the speakers is so loud, I can barely hear the yelled sorry! even though it’s damn near shouted into my ear. Stepping out of the way and putting my back to the wall, I wait for Bryce to scan the crowd, looking for any of his football friends. My phone buzzes in my pocket; I pull it out to see a text message from Max, which has the dual effect of making me smile like an idiot, while also making me feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I don’t want to be here.

I heard about that party, I think some of the guys are going to be there. I hope you have a good time—don’t worry about me, I’ll probably call it an early night. Practice was rough today.

Bad rough or good rough?

Bad. Vas got hurt.

At practice??

Full contact practice. He went into the boards bad—lost an edge and went down on a knee right before Robertson hit him. It was an accident.

Damn. I hope he’s okay.

Hey, aren’t you at a party? Why are you texting me, go have fun.

I’m pretty sure the most fun I’ll be having tonight is when we leave.

I watch the three little dots that indicate Max is replying when a hand on my arm startles me. Looking up, I see a blonde girl standing so close to me her chest is brushing my arm. She’s pretty: short hair cut above her shoulders, big blue eyes, and the kind of body that has the guys standing behind her picking their jaws up off the floor. She smiles at me and sidles closer.

“Hi,” she says.

“Gay,” I reply, pointing a finger at my chest. She sighs and pats my arm twice before letting go.

“Naturally.” Lifting her glass in a silent salute, she disappears into the crowd. I go back to my phone, wanting to see if Max replied, when Bryce reappears at my side.

“It smells like ass in here,” he says, scrunching up his nose and gazing around. I laugh.

“Somebody puked in that corner,” I tell him, pointing to the offending pile of vomit. He gives a heavy sigh and takes a swig from his beer. Somebody sidles up to him, another blonde girl I don’t recognize, but he shakes his head before she can say anything. She turns around, off to find a different football player.

“Let’s go outside,” he says, grimacing at the pile of sick on the floor. I nod, tucking my phone back into my pocket and following him through the maze of rooms until we reach the open back door.

There’s a pool, naturally, which is filled with male and female students in various stages of undress. The music is quieter out here and the air fresher. We skirt around the edges of the pool, cognizant of anyone who might think it’s funny to try and push us in fully clothed, until we make it to the grassy part of the yard. Somebody started a fire in the pit, which seems like a recipe for disaster to me. I hope Bryce and I are long gone by the time this party gets out of hand enough for shit to go up in flames.

“There,” Bryce says, pointing toward a group of people cloistered around some patio furniture. He starts walking over so I follow him, even though I don’t see anybody I know. Probably, it’s a group of his teammates.

A shout goes up when the group sees Bryce approaching, and a lot of backslapping ensues as they all greet each other, acting as though it’s been weeks since they’ve laid eyes on one another. Bryce introduces me, to a lot less welcoming of an effect, and somebody passes me a new beer even though mine is still mostly full. I lean back against a brick half-wall that’s behind me, and listen to the conversation. The group is speckled through with girls hanging off the arms of some of the guys, or, in a few cases, having spirited make out sessions.

“Fantastic,” a big black guy standing across from me says, mouth twisting up into the semblance of a sneer. “Look who’s joining us.”

Bryce, who’s leaned against the wall next to me, looks over and tenses. I crane my neck and see two guys strolling across the grass toward the group. I don’t recognize either.

“Friends of yours?” I ask Bryce. He frowns.

“No. Teammates.”

The pair join us before he can say any more, and I notice that their addition to the group has already chased off some of the others. Several of the guys have wrapped their arms around the shoulders of their girls and steered them away. Beside me, Bryce is no longer leaned back in a casual recline, but is standing stiff and uncomfortable, mouth pinched into a severe line.

“Hey, man,” one of the newcomers says to him. He has a sneering sort of unfriendly voice; the kind of voice that implies he thinks he’s better than you and that you’re the butt end of a joke nobody except him knows.

“Hi,” Bryce replies, voice flat. “Luke, this is Theo, he plays running back. And that’s Cruz, his little sidekick.”

---