“Hey, man, come and see this sick play that Hammer pulled off on Madden.”
“I need to get Ellie a drink,” Jack protests.
“The keg’s in the back, or if you want a mixed drink, hit the kitchen.” Tyrell points vaguely toward the back of the house. “Just tell the guys in the kitchen that you’re Campbell’s sister.”
And this is yet another reason I don’t want to date a football player. It’s bad enough being Jack Campbell’s sister, but to date someone where your entire identity gets subsumed by that? No thanks. Jack hesitates. I give him a push.
“I’ll be fine. Really,” I insist. “New tribe and all.”
The new tribe bit is bullshit because this is a football party. I should have stuck around the apartment and found out what Riley planned to do tonight, but Jack insisted, said that once Masters laid down an edict, he had to follow it for team unity and all that hogwash.
Yet, I bought into it, too, because here I am, at a party full of football players, gridiron groupies, girlfriends, and wannabes. I need to find a nice quiet corner where I can hide for two hours or so until I can convince Jack I should go home.
“She’ll be fine,” Ahmed repeats, and with another shove from me, Jack allows the running back to lead him off to see whatever amazing exploits are going on in a video game of fake NFL players.
In the kitchen, I find a lanky guy with an acne problem pouring drinks. I don’t recognize him, but given the shit position of playing bartender, he must be a freshman.
“Can I have a Coke?”
“Shit, honey, a Coke? I got all kinds of stuff back here. Don’t tell me you plan to pussy out tonight and not get hammered like the rest of us.” He pulls out a giant bottle of whiskey and waves it at me.
Pussy out? Nice. I resist the urge to tell him that this pussy isn’t impressed with his act. “No thanks. Just the Coke.”
He leans over the makeshift counter, a piece of lumber stretched across the space between one end of the opening into the kitchen and the other. “It’s not just a Coke, tiger.” Tiger? “It’s a statement piece that says I’m boring as fuck. You don’t want to start out on the wrong foot during the first big night of the year. We’ve got girlie drinks back here for people like you. Now what’s your poison?” He tips his head up looking massively satisfied with himself.
“So, you’re a wide out?” It’s time to put this guy in his place. He’s on the skinny side and a hair under six feet. He could be a defensive back, but there’s something about the way he leans forward that makes me think he’s waiting for the gun to go off or the quarterback to yell set hut.
His grin widens. “How'd you guess?”
It’s my party trick. Some girls can guess bra sizes. Some guys can do two story beer bongs. Me? I can guess what position you play.
“Your build.” I gesture. “They didn’t require you to get to a certain weight?”
His grin dies off. “Still working on it,” he answers stiffly.
She shoots. She scores. “Okay, I'll take my Coke. Thanks.”
“Get her a Coke, bro,” a deep voice from behind me orders.
“Oh sure, Knox.” The guy’s voice nearly cracks with awe that his team captain is standing there talking to him. He digs around in a tub of ice and shoves the red and white can into my hand.
As I leave the line, I tap the top of it, in case he gave it a good shake under the water.
“You crushed that kid. He’ll stand in front of his mirror tonight wondering how you didn’t see his big guns.”
“Maybe he should spend more time in the weight room and less time hassling girls about wanting a soda.”
“He’s young and suffering from the loss of status. In high school, no doubt, he was the big man on campus.” Masters knocks fists with someone, nods to another person, but doesn’t stop talking to me. “The transition is tough for some.”
A few people give me an appraising look that says what are you doing with Knox Masters. “Not for you, though.”
“I was fucking homesick the first semester. I missed my brother and my family. I had to remind myself why I was here, why I needed to go to practice every day.”
The bald honesty surprises me so much I stop walking.
“What?” he asks when he realizes I haven’t moved.
“I’m surprised you’d admit to that.”
“You think admitting to being homesick makes me weak?” He raises a surprised eyebrow. “Or are you surprised that I have feelings?”
Enough with the tears, you goddamned disgrace! I hear my father yelling at Jack. There’s no place for emotion in this game. Are you a winner or are you a fucking pussy like your sister?
“I thought stoicism is required to wear the jersey,” I say. I try to make it a joke but Masters’ knowing eyes tells me he sees right through my thin veneer. I look away.
On the back porch, a long line of people wait to get a beer. No one is getting drunk at this party, because the buzz will have worn off between beers.
Maybe Knox senses I’m about to bolt because he grabs my hand. “Come on.”
As he steers me past the crowd, around the keg and toward a dark corner where an overgrown tree appears to eat about half the porch, I start to panic. For a million reasons I don’t want to explore, I can’t stand with Knox Masters in a secluded corner.
I tug on his wrist. “I think I want to dance.”