Page 68 of Damnation
“I can’t believe we’re getting beaten like this,” I tell Tiffany, down in the dumps. “Thomas did tell me that the other team was smart.” But just as I’m about to surrender to despair, something in the game mechanics turns back on itself. Our boys manage to put up one basket after another until, in a very short span of time, they’ve tied up the game.
We only need one more point. Just one more and the game is ours. The players’ faces are pouring sweat while the scoreboard counts down from sixty seconds. A new kid, Travis’s replacement, throws the ball to Thomas, who catches it halfway down the court.
Fifty seconds.
Thomas moves like lightning, passing his opponents until he gets close enough to the hoop and prepares to shoot it. Two Stanford boys block the shot. One recovers the ball and runs for the opposite hoop.
Forty seconds.
Thomas is right on top of the guy, and when he tries to pass the ball to his teammate, Thomas takes it back.
Thirty seconds.
Thomas runs for the basket again. The squeak of his sneakers rubbing against the floor and the almost tinny sound of the ball bouncing are the only noises I can hear. Thomas gets close to the hoop but, once again, he is shut down.
Twenty seconds.
“Collins, pass to Tucker! Pass to Tucker!” their coach shouts, seeing that he’s in trouble. Jason Tucker holds up his hands, ready to catch the ball and score, but Thomas doesn’t listen, continuing to guard the ball while his opponent hovers closely behind him. Thomas dribbles, looking for an opening.
Ten seconds.
“Collins! To Tucker!” the coach shouts again, waving his arms now as the veins in his neck throb and his face reddens.
In the space of a second, Thomas bounces the ball to his right then to his left, confusing the boy behind him. He passes it under his legs, spins around and, with a leap, tosses it toward the basket. His opponent jumps along with him and grazes the ball with his fingertips; it hits the backboard but doesn’t immediately go through the hoop.
Five seconds.
The ball spins on the rim. We all watch with bated breath.
Three. Two. One…
“And the Beavers pull off a nail-biting victory!” the commentator bellows as we all leap to our feet in celebration. Matt hits his knees and shouts with happiness. The guys pile on Thomas; Finn grabs his face with both hands and presses his forehead against Thomas’s, screaming like a lunatic.
The opposing team disappears quietly while we all take to the court to celebrate. As soon as he spots me running for him, Thomas moves toward me and smiles in that way that makes my stomach coil up. He hugs me tightly, and I throw my arms around him as he twirls me. And then we kiss, surrounded by the rapturous crowd.
***
“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!” shouts a group of drunk guys on the lawn, urging Finn and Vince to guzzle as much beer as possible from the kegs they are currently attached to. Through the open kitchen window, I see that Finn appears to be getting himself upright. I worry that Vince is going to collapse on the wet grass at any moment if someone doesn’t wave the white flag soon.
After the game was over, we all went to the frat house to celebrate the team’s win. The house is now packed with athletes and students from every department. Tiffany decided to get in on the bacchanal and is now playing beer pong. Her parents are out of town for the weekend, so she can finally breathe a little easier.
I, on the other hand, am sitting on Thomas’s lap on a stool in the kitchen, eating a slice of leftover pizza from one of the half-empty boxes scattered around the table. Thomas refused to participate in any sort of drinking game, which made me proud of him. Now he’s got his arms wrapped around my waist as he talks to Matt.
“I gotta admit, that was a great plan, dude,” Matt says, hopping up on the kitchen island to sit.
“What plan?” I interject, eyebrows raised.
“To make those Stanford assholes think they were winning,” Thomas explains, taking out his pack of cigarettes and pulling one out. He gestures for me to get off his lap with a light pat on my thigh because he knows that the smoke bothers me. So I take a seat on the stool opposite him. He lights his cigarette and takes the first drag, tilting his head to the side.
“Are you telling me that everything you did out there…it was just a strategy?”
He nods, pulling my stool closer to his so he can steal a bite of the pizza slice I’m holding.
“You took a big risk.”
Our conversation is interrupted when Matt sees a drunk couple intent on tearing each other’s clothes off in a hidden corner between the pantry and fridge. With a grossed-out look on his face, he jumps off the counter and bullies them out of the kitchen. “What the fuck?This is a house, not a brothel!” he complains, grabbing a new can of soda from the fridge.
“It’s not? Since when?” Thomas taunts him sardonically.
