The Play: Chapter 11

I’ve been avoiding Greek Row parties since the Theta Beta Nu lingerie torture fest, but the boys insist on hitting a frat party after our game on Saturday. We played at Suffolk, so the bus doesn’t drop us off on campus until past eleven. Then we have to drive to Hastings, because we all live off-campus and the guys want to change. Or, in Foster’s case, grab his weed.

Hard partying during the season is minimal, but drinking and the occasional joint isn’t unheard of. I know several hockey guys who do coke, but Coach Jensen runs a clean program at Briar. Every now and then someone hits up a concert and does MDMA, but it’s not a frequent occurrence. We’re all wholly aware of the NCAA’s strict (and random) drug-testing protocol.

Instead of choosing a designated driver, we take an Uber back to campus because everybody’s planning on having some drinks to celebrate winning our games this weekend. But our schedule has been light so far. Next week we’re facing some tough matchups, including Boston University, and they’re undefeated this season. But it’s early yet.

Conor is next to me in the backseat, with Foster on his other side. Con’s scrolling through his phone. Probably browsing his digital black book.

I’m on egg duty tonight, so I wore a collared shirt with a pocket that I could stick Pablo in. “Look at this manwhore,” I tell the egg. “You ever see anything so disgusting?”

Conor’s head lifts from the screen. “Oh, can it. I’ve heard the rumors about you, Mr. I Boned Every Woman on Campus Last Year.”

He’s got me there. “Who are you talking to?” I ask curiously.

“This chick Michelle. She’s meeting us at the party.”

He resumes his texting, so I follow suit, because Foster is also on his phone and I’m tired of being ignored. I message Hollis, who’s home for the weekend and wanted to party with us tonight. He and Rupi were arguing about it when I left. He wanted to go, she wanted to stay home. Girlfriends, amiright?

ME: Dude, just sling that little hellcat over your shoulder and come out. You know you want to…

HOLLIS: I really really want to. Been soooo long since I went to a party :((( Is this what it’s like having a gf? Constant snuggling?

I’m typing a response when another message pops up.

HOLLIS: I didn’t mean that. Having a girlfriend is the most rewarding experience in a young man’s life. Girlfriends are to be treasured.

ME: Rupi, did you steal Mike’s phone?

NO, is the response, and I start laughing because it’s so obvious that she did. Corny words aside, Hollis has never texted in full sentences in his life.

ME: Throw the man a bone, Rupes. He wants to go to a party, not a weeklong EDM festival. Basically means having a beer or two and grinding up all over you to shitty music. Be nice to him for once.

No reply. My phone remains silent all the way to campus, not lighting up until the guys and I are sliding out of the Uber.

HOLLIS: U are da fucking man, Davenport! SEE YOU THERE!!!!!!!!

Well. I did my good deed for the day.

A crowd gathers outside the Alpha Delta house. This terrific weather we’ve been experiencing is still holding up, and although it’s almost midnight the air is balmy and people are in shorts and T-shirts. The frat even set up a snow cone machine on the front lawn. I love college.

Conor thumps me on the arm. “Michelle says she’s out back.” He winks. “In the hot tub.”

Foster pales. “Oh, Jesus, no, do not go in that hot tub. You’re gonna get syphilis of the leg.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Don’t you remember that gross rash on Jesse’s leg? During preseason? Yeah, he got it from soaking in the Alpha Delt hot tub, AKA Bacteria Central.”

“It’s true, he did,” Bucky confirms. “I don’t think anyone ever checks the pH levels or whatever the hell you’re supposed to do.” He wags a finger at me. “Don’t bring Pablo anywhere near it.”

“Yeah, you might boil the fucker,” Foster guffaws.

“He’s already hard-boiled,” I argue. “He can’t get any more boiled.”

“So?”

“So I could crack him open right now and he’d be delicious.”

“Dude, don’t do that,” drawls Conor. “That egg has changed so many hands these past couple weeks it probably has syphilis.”

I snort and pat my breast pocket. “Congrats. You get to live another day, Mr. Eggscobar.”

The four of us walk around the side of the house and through the gate. The backyard is massive, housing a kidney-shaped pool, a large expanse of lawn, and the infamous hot tub. Luckily, the tub is full, so even if we wanted to get in, there’d be no room. Chicks are doubling up on guys’ laps, and each other’s.

Several partygoers let out a huge cheer at our entrance. “Briar hockey!” someone shouts, raising a red cup.

“Briar hockey!” the crowd shouts back.

Not gonna lie—it’s awesome being campus celebrities. The football team hasn’t done well for nearly a decade, but the hockey program has always been excellent. We kick ass on a frequent basis, and we’ve got no shortage of fans.

Guys come up to slap me on the shoulder. Girls begin swarming, one of whom makes a beeline for Conor.

The nice thing about Conor is that he’s a “one at a time” sort of man. When he sets his sights on a woman, they tend to remain on that woman. Granted, his focus doesn’t last more than a week or two. When it comes to hooking up, Con even gives Dean Di Laurentis a run for his money. But for the time being, his interest is directed solely at the cute blonde elbowing her way through the mob.

Conor slings an arm around her shoulder. “Hey babe.”

“Hi!” Her lips are stained red from the cherry snow cone in her hand. She raises it to Con’s mouth and chirps, “Want some?”

“Fuck yeah.” And he growls and chomps off the top of it like a savage.

Michelle giggles, and the other girls disperse unhappily as they realize they won’t be reeling in the big fish tonight.

Conor introduces me to Michelle and we chat for a bit, while Bucky and Foster dart off to grab us drinks. Michelle inquires as to why there’s a bulge in my shirt pocket, which forces us to explain the Pablo situation. You’d think she’d be horrified by the sheer scope of our immaturity, but instead she laughs in delight and tells Conor how adorable he is. He gives her the Penis Eyes and before long they’re making their way inside the house, likely in search of some privacy.

“Hockey man!” a loud voice exclaims, and I turn to see Nico sauntering over.

I blink in surprise. “Hey,” I greet Demi’s boyfriend. “Fancy meeting you here.”

We exchange a macho fist bump. “All these dumbasses here won’t quit cheering—I assume you just won a game?” he asks with a grin.

“Yup, yup.”

“Nice. I guess Briar’s unstoppable tonight—the basketball team won, too. Fucking destroyed Yale. We all just came from there.”

“Is Demi with you?” I peer past his shoulder.

“Nah, she’s at home. It’s boys’ night.” He gestures to a small group a few yards away, and I note that it includes more than boys. Quite a few scantily clad women are hanging all over Nico’s friends.

My brain suddenly summons Demi’s confession on the treadmill the other night. How she secretly believes, even years later, that Nico cheated on her in high school.

And now, running into him at a frat party with a bunch of chicks in tow, my internal alarm system is triggered.

But maybe I’m being a jerk. Just because he’s hanging out with some girls doesn’t mean he’s stepping out on Demi.

“Anyway, I spotted you from over there and wanted to say hello,” Nico says, raising his cup in a toast. Except he does it so abruptly that liquid spills over the edge, and the potent odor of vodka reaches my nostrils. His clumsy hands and hazy eyes tell me he’s pretty drunk. “Catch you later, ’kay?”

“Cool. Cheers.” I lift my own cup.

Nico strolls back to his friends. I’m mollified to see that he doesn’t stand next to any of the girls, but is immediately engrossed in conversation with a short, balding guy in a black tank top. I don’t care if Nico catches me watching him—I’m just looking out for Demi. She’s a good egg.

“Just like you,” I tell Pablo, patting my pocket.

“I. HAVE. ARRIVED!”

The majestic shout is courtesy of Mike Hollis, who emerges onto the patio from the back door, both arms raised in a victory pose. Rupi scampers at his heels like an annoyed kitten.

Despite being incredibly obnoxious, Hollis was quite popular when he attended Briar. Old teammates and a slew of fans wander over to say hello and he accepts their welcome and their praise as if he’s Meghan Markle greeting the commoners.

Rupi spots me and marches up. She’s clad in traditional Rupi attire: a knee-length, high-waisted skirt and a prim, buttoned tee with a high neckline.

“I really wanted to watch Riverdale tonight, Hunter,” she huffs.

I throw an arm around her tiny shoulders. “Sorry, Rupes. But sometimes we need to make sacrifices for those we love.”

A huge smile practically breaks her face in two. “Oh my gosh, that was the sweetest thing you’ve ever said. I knew you were a secret softie.”

“Don’t tell anyone. You want a drink?”

“I can’t. I drove us here.”

“I thought you didn’t have a license.”

“No, I don’t have a fake license. Ugh, Hunter, you don’t know me at all.”

I suppose I don’t, and I gotta admit—I’m A-OK with that. Rupi is exhausting on a good day.

“Is that Pablo?” Her expression brightens. “I didn’t know we had him this weekend,” she adds, as if discussing the custody arrangement of a human child. “Let me hold him!”

I extract the pink bundle from my pocket and pass it to Rupi. “Go nuts,” I tell her.

We mingle for the next hour or so. Foster passes me a joint and I take a deep drag before handing it back. I feel good. Loose, relaxed. Happy to just chill with my buddies and dance with Rupi to the crappy pop music blasting from the outdoor speakers. For the first time in ages, I’m not thinking about sex. Women try to catch my eye. Several come over to flirt with me. But I’m not feeling it. No libido for me tonight. Weed has that effect on me.

“Pablooooo!” Hollis crows. He’d been chatting with some dudes from the lacrosse team, but now he rejoins us near the deep end of the pool. “Hand ’im over, babe.”

“Leave Pablo alone,” Rupi chastises, protectively holding the egg to her bosom. “You’re too drunk to hold him.”

“I am not! C’mon, pass ’im to me.”

“No.”

“Fine, then I’ll just…TAKE HIM FROM YOU!” Like a ninja, Hollis snatches the egg from his girlfriend. Only, she’s right—he’s too drunk to be holding small objects. His big paw fumbles with Pablo, who flies out of Hollis’s grip and goes sailing.

Directly into the pool.

Bucky cries out in horror. Hell, even I’m momentarily stunned. We all stare at the little bundle bobbing in the water, which appears blue thanks to the lit-up pool tiles. Nobody moves.

“Did we just kill him?” Foster demands.

“Can pigs swim?” Rupi asks anxiously.

“No idea,” I admit. Pablo is still floating in the pool.

“Quick, someone Google if pigs can swim,” Bucky orders.

Rupi’s already on her phone. “Oh my gosh,” she says a moment later, her voice rippling with relief. “They can! It says here that some pigs take naturally to water, like dogs. Others hate getting wet. You can train them to swim.” She examines our aquatic egg. “If it was a real pig I don’t think he’d be able to get out of the pool by himself, though. There’s no steps in the shallow end.”

“Yeah, he ain’t climbing that ladder,” Foster agrees.

All eyes turn to me.

“What?” I say.

“You’re in charge of him tonight. You need to get him out.”

“Pardon me?” I stare at the empty pool, which an hour ago was teeming with people. Now it’s almost two a.m. and there’s no swimming to be had. “I’m not jumping in the pool, you fuckers.”

“We never trained him to swim,” Bucky argues. “Right now he’s treading water. Soon he’ll be dead.”

“This has gone too far,” I say firmly.

Except, to my genuine shock, everyone stands their ground, even Foster. Bucky crosses his arms tightly.

“Fuck’s sake,” I snap. “You’re seriously gonna make me do this?”

I’m cursing up a blue streak as I strip out of my shirt. Shoes and cargo shorts come off too, because I’m not sitting soaking wet in an Uber on the way home.

I step toward the edge of the deck. “You assholes don’t deserve me as a captain,” I mutter, and then I dive into the water in my boxers.

Luckily, the temperature is like bath water, and as I swim for Pablo, I force myself to think good thoughts about my team.

Captain rule number a million: Patience. Always be patient.

With Pablo in hand, I climb up the ladder, dripping water all over the concrete deck. “Here,” I mutter to Foster, shoving the egg in his hand. “I’m going upstairs to dry off and change.”

Rupi’s unhappy gaze fixes on my underwear. “Hunter, I can see the outline of your penis.”

Yup, because the boxers are white, and they’re soaked and sticking to my flesh. I scowl at Rupi before gathering my discarded clothing and stalking into the house.

It’s late and the party is winding down, so there’s no line at the main floor bathroom. But the door is locked and when I knock on it, an agonized voice slurs, “Go ’way, I’m busy in ’ere.”

So I trudge upstairs and try the one in the hall. Door’s shut, but I jiggle the knob and find it’s unlocked. I push the door open in time to hear a husky groan and see Conor Edwards fisting both his hands in a tangle of blonde hair.

“Ahhh fuck, I’m coming,” he rasps, his hips pumping. And on her knees Michelle swallows every drop.

Jesus!!

I quickly slam the door, not caring if they heard it. I’ve witnessed friends hooking up before, but never had the honor of staring into their heavy-lidded eyes fuzzy with bliss as they climax. Goddamn Conor. Hasn’t he ever heard of a lock?

My gaze turns toward a bedroom at the end of the all. I know the guy who lives there—Ben something or other. And he has a private bath. My wet body is dripping water on the carpet. I need a towel and a wastebasket to toss my boxers in. Ben’s bathroom, it is.

But I’ve only taken one step down the hall when Ben’s door swings open and I witness yet another thing I shouldn’t.

Only this time it’s worse than Conor coming in some chick’s mouth.

Much, much worse.