Page 13 of Futbolista
One of them—the one Ahmed’s been dancing with—raises her cup, and we all do the same, meeting hers in the air before downing our drinks as quickly as possible.
“No weakness, Ahmed!” I yell as he tries his best not to flinch at the taste of room-temperature Hornitos. He shakes his head, eyes scrunched, and letting out a“Woo!”while smiling at the two girls.
“Another round?”
“Nah,” I tell him, shaking my head. Even if we are here partly because of me and the cool shit that happened last week with the ESPN list and our still, as of today, undefeated streak, I’m not trying to black out and make a fool out of myself at my very first frat party. There’s no way I’m ending up all over someone’s social media, throwing up in a toilet.
“I’m going to get some air. Make sure you’re drinking water too, not just tequila,” I tell Ahmed, watching for a nod back to make sure he heard me before leaving him and wedging myself between bodies crowding the living room that smell like anything from really expensive perfume to the cheapest tequila and sweaty ass.
In the kitchen, with the back door in sight, I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear some guy tell me, “Yo’ bro! It’s been forever since I last saw you!” (Never seen him in my life.) “Shit, fuck microeconomics, right?”
“I, uh, yeah. For sure.”
“’Ey, take a shot with me! I brought some Maker’s; you ever had Maker’s?”
“Oh, I’m—” He doesn’t hear me. He’s grabbing for the whiskey, taking a long swig straight from the bottle, and then handing it to me as he lets out a pained “Woo!Hell yeah!”
I don’t want to spend my whole night here hanging out with him, but I’m also not about to look like a wimp who can’t handle liquor. Even if that liquor feels like straight fire going down my insides. I’ve never tried so hard to keep down some coughs before in my life, but the cheers around me at least tell me that I did alright with it, and I smile and breathe through the pain.
I give him a promise that “I’ll see you out there, bro!” before getting away and stepping onto a patio looking out at a big yard. A quick scan and I catch the coolers lined up against the house, and I spend a few seconds digging through ice and cans of beer until I find a water bottle.
I let out a sigh after taking out half the bottle, happy to be able to have a minute in a space that isn’t as loud and, surprisingly, isn’t as stuffy as inside. It’s still not great; even at midnight, the humidity and the beach wind carrying hot, end-of-August air is making me glad I didn’t come dressed to impress and left the jeans at home. An old El Tri World Cup jersey, shorts withbuttons, and a nice pair of sneakers is the most I could be asked to do right now.
I lean on the patio railing, taking another drink of water, this time slower, just letting myself settle for a minute before I go back in and find Ahmed. Go dance some more, get way too hyped to some Bad Bunny. Support Ahmed when he inevitably asks those girls if they want to find out what a college footballer’s room looks like. Maybe introduce the one I was talking to to Pérez (I need to find that payaso first) and see if he’s about it. Until then, though, I’m going to let myself relax and be in a place where I can actually hear.
I take a read of everything going on: the few people in a circle near the far end of the yard that I know are why it smells like weed out here, another couple making out on a lawn chair, and a group circling one of those white fold-up tables using it for what looks like waterfalls.
And then I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out my phone, checking to see if Leana’s texted. Not a single notification. Nothing since I told her to have fun at her party and she sent back,you too, Pineapplewith a winky-kissy-face emoji. I did also follow up with,If you want to hang out afterward, I’ll be up, in a particularly vulnerable and down bad moment for myself, and got nothing back, but that’s fine. That’s cool. She’s busy.
Which is also the answer I’ve gotten repeatedly—“I’m going to be busy”—the couple of times I’ve asked if she would want to go out and let me take her on an actual date. And that might’ve hurt my pride a little both times. But that’s fine too. I’m also busy. So busy. Such a busy boy.
“Fuck!”The shout brings me out of my head, thinking some drunk fool might’ve gotten hurt out here. I look up and catch one of the guys playing waterfalls groaning while the rest of them are screaming and laughing. His head comes up from the tableand the card in front of him, and he’s panicking and scanning the backyard like he’s trying to find someone while the rest of his group is telling him, “Hurry,” and “Make it quick or you take a shot!”
Nope. No one’s dying. Just another person getting the shit end of a drinking game.
“Hey!” he calls, looking at me, pointing in my direction. He rushes up the four steps to the patio and stops right in front of me. “Hey, so I’m really trying not to put Jager in my body right now but thisperrawith a rule-maker card has got me in a dare because I pulled a Joker and—anyway. I need to make out with a stranger or else I have to take a shot, so this is me asking you if I can make out with you.”
I must be spending too long looking caught off guard because the nerves he was showing a second ago, the rush in his eyes and how he bites his bottom lip, turn into some real worry on his face and he starts saying, “Is that a no? Are you okay? If you’d feel some type of way about kissing a guy, it’s fine. Just tell me no. We don’t have to make this weird. And if you’re drunk, definitely don’t worry about it. I don’t need you throwing up in my mouth. I’ll find someone else—”
“I’mnotdrunk,” I finally tell him. “I promise. Are you?”
His worry starts leaving his face, his mouth getting less tense and going into a soft smile. “No. And honestly, I’d like it to stay that way. Last time I got drunk off Jager I woke up in a bathtub halfway through a sandwich I don’t remember making or eating. So, yes? No? Is it cool if we make out?”
I take a quick second to take stock of who’s out here. I don’t see any of my roommates, not that it would be the worst thing in the world if they saw me kissing a guy. They’d probably tease me, but I expect they also respect the rules of drinking games enough to know that I’m just helping out.
And, thankfully, the rest of the squad are at an actual club or bar or with a girlfriend. Far from here.
“I—not saying I’m against it, but what are we talking about here? Not that I don’t know what making out means. I’ve made out with people before. I’ve made out lots of times.”
“Proud of you,” he replies, his smile getting bigger as he lets out a laugh.
“I’m just saying, like, how long are we talking for kissing to count as making out?”
“Huh.” He turns and yells out the question to the table, waiting for them to huddle and discuss for a few seconds. Someone—I’m assuming the rule-maker—finally shouts back, “At least ten seconds, butI’lltake the shot if you do at least thirty.”
He looks back at me, waiting to hear me out.
“I can do ten,” I say before taking one more swig of water. “Sure. Let’s make out.”
