Wolf Like Me - 2. On the Field, On the Dancefloor

Part One – Bareback SteersNQueers

So, here’s the thing: I was bored out of my fucking mind. I came up here early to practice, but not early enough to start classes. I had nothing to do but go to preseason conditioning, binge watch Netflix, and crash from a combination of fatigue and ennui.

I’d gotten so bored, I had to find newer and more pretentious words for expressing this boredom.

I’d gotten so bored, I was too bored to beat off.

Since the summer term was divided into two six-week sessions, Romero and the others in the dorm were already swamped with mid-terms when I arrived and were now wading into the morass of mini-mester finals. I’d already signed up for a class for the second half so I would have something to occupy my extra time.

Preseason would be a welcome respite, but I didn’t get to practice with the rest of the team. Instead, they had me and the rest of us in Freshmen Camp memorizing a massive ass playbook because the coaches didn’t trust us to not fuck up regular practices. I was used to having to only know nine or so plays, nine being all that high school football coaches could remember themselves (or be creative enough to come up with in the first place). I compared notes with the other guys, no one else had to learn this many at once, and the ones we did learn were so simple we could still draw them out more than seven months after our senior seasons ended.

Luckily, I could participate in conditioning with the rest of the team. I fucking hated double burpees, but I hated them a lot less than memorizing playbooks. The trainers counted on the freshmen to suck balls since most kids don’t keep active between their high school football seasons.

But, I kept busy with soccer in my off seasons and did a lot of running and weight training. I maintained my muscle mass and my 40 stayed somewhere around 4.7. Not perfect, and the words “small for a linebacker” kept getting added to sentences in which I was mentioned, but they decided I was fit enough to run with the big guys after a couple weeks of breaking me of every bad habit I learned playing high school ball.

I got to know a few of my new teammates, but since I was the lone freshman training with them, and they didn’t see me at practice, I still wasn’t part of their social cliques yet. I’d been chatting with the guys assigned to the lockers on either side of mine, this white guy from the Midwest named JJ Teague and a massive black redshirt sophomore from Atlanta named Mitch Lithgow. They seemed friendly enough, but I hadn’t seen them socially outside of football.

So, with no classes to attend, no parties to get invited to, and nothing else to occupy my time, I’d been going slightly insane. The one bright spot happened to be Monday evenings, when I'd go to GSA meetings and hang out with Preston. We decided our drunken roll in the sheets was a one-time thing and kept it at that, but we still met for coffee or food from time to time.

Today, the GSA was meeting up for dinner. I was so thirsty for this that I enthusiastically offered to drive to the restaurant. Ironically enough, it was my gas-guzzling truck that was more fuel efficient than their little two door coupes. Preston called shotgun and two other members, bi-Delia and lez-Delia, came along.

“So, SteersNQueers, explain the truck,” Preston teased. “SteersNQueers” was his current nickname for me and was only slightly better than last week’s “Brokeback”, especially since it most often came out as “Bareback.” Sadly, everyone in the group had picked it up. It was still better than Romero calling me “Tex.”

“Not much to say about it, Virgin.” Goose, gander. “My parents bought Caiden and Connor cars when they turned 16. But when Cameron turned 16, Mom bought a new car and handed her old one down to him. Dad used my turning 16 as a good excuse to buy a new F150.” I really didn’t like trucks, but it pissed Cam off to no end because he fucking loved Dad’s Tacoma.

“God, your parents’ naming conventions are pretty fucked up.”

“We all have the same middle name.” Preston gagged a little and lez-Delia reminded him that his own name was pretty fucking lame.

“It’s like they were setting you up for gayness,” bi-Delia confirmed.

“Whatever, that isn’t even what I was talking about.” He pointed to the beaver wearing a red t-shirt and cap hanging from my key chain.

“Oh, the Buc-ee.”

“’All day I dream about beavers’?” he read, waving a hand at the air freshener dangling from the rearview. “Is that how you reaffirm your straightness?”

I even had a Buc-ee sticker on my bumper. It was right next to the “Puro Pinché Beavers” one that I was sure wasn’t really licensed merch.

“Bitch," he rolled his eyes. "You’re the most cock-thirsty straight guy I know.”

“For starters, I’m not cock-thirsty.”

“You guzzled mine readily enough.”

The Delias laughed at this. For some reason, everyone thought Preston and I were merely talking shit and not referencing something that actually happened.

“And, secondly, I’m bi.”

“You’re just being indecisive.”

“Uhm, bi-marginalization?” bi-Delia said. She may or may not have been trying to ride my dick. I may or may not have been interested in said riding.

“So, back to the beaver,” lez-Delia interrupted.

“You would focus on the beaver.”

“Suck my dick, Virgin.”

“You don’t even have a dick.

“I’ll grow one for the occasion.”

And so on and so forth until we reached the restaurant. Preston jumped down and the Delias tumbled out of the back seat. Kiley called ahead to reserve a spot and was waiting inside, so we headed over.

Just as I was about to open the door, it swung open and the person behind it walked into me. I found myself face-to-face with Efrain Garza, one of the sophomores on the team. I knew of him, but I didn’t know him. Lez-D and Preston, who were still bickering, walked into me from behind pushing me into him again. We made full body contact, and I was instantly aware of how great he smelled.

“Oh, hey, Card,” he laughed. Of course, it seemed like he was always laughing about something, as if everything was just one big inside joke that only he was in on.

“Hey, Garza.” I waved a little as we slid past them into the restaurant. I heard him say something that sounded like “interesting” under his breath, but when I turned around, he just waved again and says he’d see me at conditioning tomorrow.

I nodded and waved back before I followed everyone inside.

Preston and the Delias, by this time, had lost the original argument and had started exchanging insults.

“Cumslut.”

“Twatwaffle.”

“For fuck’s sake, get a room.”

~*~*~*~

“So, defense is here on the line of scrimmage,” I pointed to a row of taco sauce packets with O’s marked on them in permanent marker. “And, here’s your offense.” I pointed to the ketchup packets marked with X’s.

At lunch, Martinez looked like he was going cross-eyed trying to memorize these plays, so I set up our little condiment scrimmage. Pretty soon, the rest of the freshmen crowded in around the table and it snowballed from there. They added symbols to the packets to represent specific positions and we started running through the plays.

“Wait, which play is this?” Blanco asked. Montalvo flipped through the playbook and called them out. I didn’t remember the exact names yet, but I remembered the configurations.

I had the guys split up to move around the packets to the next position in the play, then we started debating the merits and pitfalls of their next moves. At some point, we started marking hypothetical moves on the table in dry erase marker because we kept forgetting the original positions.

We’re so wrapped up in this, all the guys talking loudly and all at once, that nobody noticed when Coach Vuis walks in.

“What the fuck is this?” He gestured down at the carefully arranged packets and dry erase arrows and squiggles.

“Scrimmaging, Sir.”

Vuis dragged his palm down his face in exasperation.

Montalvo thought for a moment. “Wait, maybe you can settle this” and he started laying out some issue we’d been arguing about some hole I found in one of the plays.

“Fucking hell, Card.”

“What?”

“Just, fucking hell.”

And next thing you knew, I was pulled from Freshmen Camp and thrown in with the rest of the team.

~*~*~*~

I remembered Card from the brief introductions when the freshmen arrived to join preseason conditioning. From my own experience, it would be awhile before they started working with us regularly, if at all, so I wasn’t really paying attention. Card, however, was hard to ignore.

His looks were that kind of prototypical All-American football hero handsome. Roughly my height, broad in the chest and shoulders with a trim waist and an ass you could sink your teeth into. If he were a bit lighter and faster, he’d be the QB and...

God, why the fuck was I checking out straight guys again?

But, yeah, Card stood out.

He ended up joining us for conditioning, ahead of the rest of the freshies, and ran circles around the more seasoned players. We were fucking sweating buckets, and he was bragging about how it was in the triple digits in whatever tiny tourist-trap town with a name that wasn’t pronounced like it’s spelled the recruiters fished him out of. Then he started going on about how much he fucking loved double burpees and I think we all wanted to slug him.

Last week, I literally ran into him when I was out getting dinner with some friends. At first, I noticed Card and we exchange greetings. Then, I noticed the group he just happened to be with.

I didn’t know the guy personally, but I recognized him from the commons where he tabled for the GSA. I thought well, that’s interesting.

I didn’t realize I said that aloud until Card turned around with an odd look on his face. I waved and told him I’ll see him at conditioning and he walked inside. Very interesting.

Today, he was in the locker room, gearing up for practice with the rest of the team.

“Hey, Baker,” I gestured over at Card, who was chatting with Teague and Lithgow. “Isn’t he supposed to be with the freshmeat?”

“Naw, get this. I heard Vuis saying that he’d memorized the playbook three weeks ago.” Fuck, I poured over that fucking thing for two months before half of it even stuck. “He’d been running the rest of Freshmen Camp through something he called 'condiment scrimmage' when the other coaches left the room.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“That’s what I’m saying. They redshirted me my first season. I didn’t get to practice with the team until the season started.” I nodded, I was a redshirt freshman myself and I thought I was liking this kid less and less, no matter how fuckable his ass looked in full gear.

Once on the field, the coaches ran us through the typical warm-ups and drills. Satisfied with our progress, they decided to run us through some plays.

We set up on the line of scrimmage. This play had Card on the outside, but I seriously doubted they had him out to handle me. He was just too small.

The ball snapped. I ducked through, dodging the bigger OLBs and darting close to Card. I flew out the other side and the QB passed to me. I caught on the run and bolted.

Pretty soon, I saw Card coming at me from the side. He’d followed me out and was gaining. I ramped up to a full sprint. The other receivers had huge pockets around them as I was supposed to pass to them in this play, but I already had the ball and Card couldn’t match me at full speed.

I was within ten yards of the next goal line. I added one last push of speed, just to rub it in. Then, I felt him crash into me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and we both fell over. The air left me in a whoosh and the ball slipped from my fingers.

How the fuck did that happen?

He looked down at me and spat out his mouth guard.

“You alright?”

He jumped up and grabbed the ball, then offered me a hand.

Coach Vuis bellowed at us from the sidelines. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who ran outside of the play.

“’No battle plan survives contact with the enemy,’ Sir.”

Card was so smug I'd swear he was quoting someone.

“If I remember this play correctly, Garza’s supposed to pass over to another back,” said the little shit. “But he didn’t, so I harried. Figured I’d at least run him out of bounds. He’s surprisingly easy to tackle. Best not leave him without protection in the next play.”

If he had a mic, he’d drop it.

Vuis rolled his eyes and the team walked off to set up the next play.

Once they were out of earshot, Card looked back over his shoulder at me, face split into a rather charming grin, and winked at me.

“You’re fun to chase,” he quipped and jogged back over to the formation.

I was torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to hit it.

As we were walking back to the locker room to shower and change, we passed the cheerleaders on their way to the studio for practice. One, the guy I saw Card with the other night, moved to the edge of the group and exchanged a fist bump with him. I moved over to get in step with Card.

“They frown on us dating the cheerleaders.”

“Oh, you mean Preston?” he said and shrugged. “We’re just friends.”

No denials, no insistence that he was totally straight. Just “we’re friends.” Interesting. Very Interesting.

~*~*~*~

Part Two – Twink on the Dancefloor

Now, let’s bitch about my dating life.

I could pull in all kinds of girls, but could never bring in guys. Or at least the ones I wanted. If they met my criteria looks-wise, they turned out to be bottoms. If they were tops, something about them seemed sketchy. One time, I gained the unwanted attention of some bears and Preston called me “Otter Pup” for weeks, which I looked up and I highly doubted he even knew what it meant.

About three weeks after I’d started practicing with the team, Preston invited me out to the gay bar.

According to Preston, I intimidated and scared off the relatively safe and sane tops. Which is why he wanted to take me dancing. He didn’t care if I sucked at dancing, he just wanted there to be fewer guys trying to pick him up.

I’m going to call that narcissistic fuck “Twink Toes” until I thought of something more clever (I exhausted “Narcissus” two weeks ago, and he liked it besides).

So, yeah, Twink Toes was rubbing it in that he’s getting all this male attention, when I couldn’t seem to lure anyone in that I didn’t immediately want to throw back. But I was game when he told me it’s Latin Night.

The high school I went to had a pretty big Hispanic population, so Cumbia and Tejano were just as popular as American Top 40. I talked the Mexican kids into teaching me the moves, which was what I was doing with Alonso Rios in the tool shed in the first place (before we ended up doing what we were doing when Cam walked in – fun times!). Among all that music on my phone, I still had a fuckton of Spanish dance music.

At the club, I made a good show of reticence as Preston dragged me out on the floor. Then, the music came up and I moved. I swung my hips into a solo bachata. I wasn’t the most amazing dancer in the world, but I was good enough that people gave me space and Preston gaped at me like I’d sprouted longhorns. I might have pissed off a go-go boy or two.

I grabbed Preston’s hand and spun him around, then pulled him up close and rolled my hips against him.

“Chingow! No sabes bachata?” He looked confused. Obviously, he didn’t know Spanish either. “Te enseñare. Mira.”

I pointed down at my hips and legs; he at least understood that. I showed him the basic steps, which he emulated. I put my hand at the small of his back and we moved together. When he mastered the basics, I added in a new step, and another, and another, until we’re spinning on the floor, moving in that sensual way of people who have been intimate, as if every movement is loaded with sexual intent and promise.

At least, this was how my dick was interpreting things.

But, from what I could feel every time our bodies touched, his was too. If we were drinking, and/or a little more hard-up, what we were doing could easily put us back in bed.

We had a pretty decent audience by the third song, other dancers who observed us as we danced. Plenty of cat calls and “yaaass girl, slay!” came at us. More ignored and pissed off boys in designer underwear. They were disappointed when we moved off to get water instead of throwing down and fucking right there on the dance floor.

“Fuck, where’d you learn to move like that?”

“Mis amigos.”

“Would you fucking stop that?”

“Lo siento.” Preston growled at me and I laughed. In my head, I transcribed it as ja ja ja ja. “Some friends in middle school.”

“You learned that in middle school,” he said doubtfully.

“Not the bachata,” I told him. “I learned cumbia and salsa first.”

Preston’s face lit up “Oh! Teach me to salsa next!”

I would totally love to bachata again, but it was just as well. I feared I’d end up embarrassing myself if we rubbed against each other anymore than we’d had already. The salsa, while still one of those really suggestive dances, was more involved and required that we had some space between us. We danced until we were sweaty and thirsty, stopped for water, then rinsed and repeated. Preston and I were too exhausted to walk by last call.

This performance earned me another spot in Preston’s social rotation and I got to add Latin Night to my list of things to look forward to each week.

~*~*~*~

It was taking longer than I’d expected, but the team seemed to be warming up to me. They finally realized that I was being fucking sarcastic when I enthused about loving double burpees.

“I mean, it’s all about yoga burpees,” I told Teague, who seemed a little slow on the uptake. Luckily, Lithgow was hip to my game.

“I know man, nothing beats a good yoga burpee,” he said.

“For real, dude, it’s like a religious experience or something,” I said. “I thought body blasters were the shit, but…”

“Fuck, man. Body blasters. That’s like some nirvana shit,” he said. “But, you know you haven’t lived until you’ve tried parkour burpees.”

This is about the fourth or fifth time we’ve had this conversation since I started conditioning with the team and we still haven’t exhausted the Wikipedia entry of cracked-out variants.

“Fuck, we did those in middle school.”

“We did them in pee-wee league.” By this point, Teague looked as confused as Martinez trying to memorize the team playbook. Garza walked up before I could think of something more absurd.

“We still on for tonight,” he said to Lithgow. He nodded in my and Teague’s direction. He looked fucking pissed when I first tackled him, but he seemed to have gotten over it quickly. Good thing as too many scrimmages since then capitalized on me throwing Garza on the ground.

Not that I really minded throwing Garza on the ground.

“Yeah.”

“By the way.” Garza pointed at me. “You’re coming.”

With that said, he walked off.

“I’m coming where?” I asked Lithgow doubtfully.

“Ah, some nightclub. Since he’s the only one of the crew underage, I think he wants a partner in sobriety.”

“We also need another designated driver,” Teague tactlessly added.

Their crew was sometimes called the “brain trust.” Jocks were supposed to be dumb as fucking bricks, but their little six-some liked to defy that. Lithgow was the salutatorian in high school, Garza graduated from the IB program, and Teague finished his undergrad in Physics in less than three years and was already working on his Master’s (he only acted like an idiot because his brain was consumed with the “three F’s – football, physics, and females”). The other guys on the crew – Paul Baker, Denholm Whitlock, and Adrian Rice – were just as gifted. They weren’t the only smart guys on the team, but they were some of the only ones not afraid to own up to their intelligence.

It was actually kinda hot.

I got back to my dorm and knocked out a quick nap before getting ready. I threw on a pair of dark blue jeans and a hunter green t-shirt. I added a grey linen button-up shirt and rolled the sleeves up to my elbows. This got topped off with black oxfords, leather belt, wrist watch, and a quick finger tousle of my hair.

“Unless you’re going line dancing,” Romero said in a disinterested voice. “The Stetson stays.”

“I wasn’t seriously thinking of putting it on.”

“Have fun, Tex."

I rolled up to Teague’s place at the appointed time. I was taking Teague, Whitlock, and Rice in my truck. Garza picked up Lithgow and Baker and would meet us. Teague asked me to explain the beavers. So, I told them all about the magic of Buc-ees.

“Dude,” said Whitlock. “Remember when we played in Austin? They had signs for this place all over.”

“What’s so awesome about a big fucking gas station with clean bathrooms?”

“You don’t understand,” said Rice, who grew up in Houston. “Buc-ees is like an institution.”

We were still arguing about beavers when we met up with the others. Teague grabbed my hand, which was still holding my keys, and says “Look, he’s got a Garza keychain” while pointing to Buc-ee. Everyone looked a little confused by this before he pointed out the red shirt. Garza rolled his eyes and the joke fizzled.

I was so used to seeing everyone in a uniform that it was a little jarring to see them dressed up. Admittedly, they’re all wearing some variation on the basic jeans and button-up/polo, but Garza looked anything but basic.

Black slim-fit jeans, black short-sleeve button-up over a blue (not red) v-neck that hugged his pecs, and black Doc Martens. He wore this all, effortlessly, on his tall, athletic frame. His near-black hair was pulled back into a top-knot, highlighting his ruggedly attractive face – high cheekbones, Roman nose, full mouth, hazel eyes, strong chin with a couple days’ worth of stubble. Modest diamond studs glinted in both ears.

In the most simple terms, the man was fucking gorgeous and I seriously needed to stop looking.

Yet, when he turned around to lead the way, it was all I could do to not fall over myself while checking out the way his jeans hugged his ass. He didn’t ever “walk”, his steps were somewhere between prowl and saunter. Right now he was prowling. I considered myself lucky that I decided against tucking in my shirt because I was already getting close to half-mast watching him move.

I shook my head to clear it and fell in with the pack. The conversation flited between subjects, barely staying on one topic for very long, as we walked the rest of the way to the nightclub. The guys walked past the line of people waiting to get inside and the bouncer took one look at our entourage before letting us in ahead of the line and without charging cover. It didn’t hit me until later that I’d just experienced my first perk as a player, but whatever.

A second bouncer checked our IDs and Efrain and I got a small black “x” across the back of our hand to signal that we were under 21. We could go to a club that served minors under the table, but that would defeat the purpose of bringing us along.

The nightclub was already in full swing when we walked in. The DJ was spinning some reggeaton at the moment, but he mixed subtle Latin beats into everything he played. I liked this guy already. People chatted at the bar and in the lounges around the sides of the room. Steps led down to the dance floor where women danced together in clumps. Men prowled the edges looking to pick one of them off or else fist pumped in time to the music. I scanned the crowd and recognized a chick named Marina that I met while out dancing with Preston.

Marina and a couple of her friends were dancing off to one side. I broke away from the guys to say hi.

~*~*~*~

Most of my teammates cleaned up nicely. I could say this objectively, without any hint of sexual intent. I wasn’t interested in straight guys, but they weren’t half bad for breeders.

Card, on the other hand…

For some baby-faced 18 year-old kid, who I’d only seen in Chuck Taylors and cargo shorts when he wasn’t in uniform, he knew how to put himself together. I was too busy checking him out without looking like I was checking him out when Teague made some dipshit comment about this stupid beaver keychain that I couldn’t think of a decent thing to shut him down with. I settled for rolling my eyes and leading the group to the club so I didn’t end up staring at Card the whole way there.

We walked into the club and Card barely stayed with us for longer than a minute before he walked off to talk to some Spanish girl. They hugged and she started enthusiastically introducing him to her friends. He tried to move off, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him further onto the dance floor.

I got the guys’ attention and pointed over to where Card and the girl were taking their places.

“This should be good.”

We found a decent vantage point to watch. Baker’s face was split in a sadistic grin. I wasn’t there to witness it, but I’d seen enough videos and pictures of the night Baker got shitfaced and danced like an asshole. He still hasn’t lived that down and it seemed his only respite was to inflict the same pain on other guys dumb enough to dance while out with teammates. He, Whitlock, and Teague all whipped out their phones to record Card’s imminent flailing.

On the floor, Card had the girl pressed against him.

“Ima call this ‘Card’s Texas Two-step’” Whitlock joked good-naturedly. They trade quips back and forth, you know, guys being guys.

Rice tried to defend him.

“Shit, you know you’d be out there making an ass out of yourselves if the chick was that hot.”

“He has a point,” Lithgow added. “God, I’d flop around like Baker on a rager for an ass like that.”

She’s beautiful, even I could admit that despite not being into women. However, this did not stop us from cracking jokes.

The jokes stopped when Card and his partner started moving.

Their steps were small at first, relying more on the motion of their hips. Other dancers noticed what they’re doing and a pocket opened around them. Their steps expanded to work the open space and they were given even more room. In less than a minute, he had enough space to dance her through complex dips, turns, and spins. Head, arms, shoulders, hips, legs, feet thrown into his movements. Those immediately around him stopped and gaped. He’s fucking good.

I looked over at the guys, their faces looking as confused as I felt. No one knew what to make of what they’re seeing.

“How’d a white kid learn to move his hips like that?”

I wasn’t sure who said it, but I nodded in agreement. For the moment, Card had his back to us and his hips rolled almost as much as hers did. Those rolling hips would haunt me at night for weeks to come, but I was still too stunned at the moment to appreciate this.

“You still recording this?” asked Rice. By this time another song had started. Card and his friend kept dancing. I thought they switched styles because I recognized some of the steps as merengue. How many styles did he know?

They danced for a bit before her two friends joined them.

I didn’t know how, but he worked it to where he’s dancing with all three girls – bringing in one close then spinning her back out, grabbing her friend and moving through some steps, taking the third by the hand and twirling them both around, spinning out the second, dancing close to the third, and on and on. He switched back and forth between them so no girl went long without being involved. The girls were all breathless and laughing. He seemed a little sweaty, but completely in command.

The guys cat-called at him and he sent back a smug grin.

“Fuck, man,” Lithgow clapped me on the shoulder. “Are you sure you’re Puerto Rican? He’s more Latino that you are.”

For some reason, that comment and Card’s face pissed me off. I’ve had to deal with the comparisons ever since the first time Card took me down – that he’s as fast as I am, or as good as I am at reading the field, or able to think as fast as I can, or any number of things. Every scrimmage had him hounding me, and it drove me insane with how he knocked my ass over every damn time. Then he turned around with that smug fucking look and I wanted to deck him. I didn’t care how good he looked in grey linen and hunter green.

Without thinking, I hopped off my barstool and wound my way over. When I got to the edge of their little group, he spun one of the girls and she went a little wide. She fell against me, so I cocked my eyebrow and offered her my hand. She took it and we danced. I didn’t know multiple styles like Card; I preferred to master one, rather than be merely competent in two or three. For his part, Card seemed undaunted in facing off against a much better dancer. He grinned that fucking good boy smile of his and said “Sup, Garza!”

I smiled back, you know, because there’s no hard feelings or anything, I was just here to dance.

~*~*~*~

By the time the last song played, Card, the girls and I had paused only long enough to get water and catch our breath. The five of us went to look for the other guys and only found Teague and Rice waiting. The rest had long since left with whatever hookup they found for the night or to drink somewhere else. We all decided to head home, and started heading for the cars.

Card had a girl under each arm and the third hanging off his back. The four of them were chatting animatedly in Spanish. My mom was half Cuban and my dad was Puerto Rican, like immigrated-from-Puerto-Rico Puerto Rican, I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household, but I could barely follow what they’re saying. Fuck me if I’d actually be able to respond in Spanish.

Teague, Rice, and I walked behind them in disbelief. Teague still had his phone out snapping pictures because no one would believe us if we told them. He’d apparently been live-Tweeting the whole thing and people still didn’t believe it.

“What the hell are they talking about?” Teague said to me quietly.

“How they can’t believe he’s only 18 and something about finding a third guy, I think.”

“Damn, if they weren’t hanging on him like that, I’d say you have a decent chance of pulling one,” Rice added. “By the way, since when have you been able to dance?”

I didn’t answer. Card was now talking about his friend Preston, who was a cheerleader and also knew how to salsa and bachata. He showed them a picture on his phone and they made appreciative noises.

“I taught him everything he knows.”

Berta, the one on his left said “Espera!” and leaned in to whisper something. The other two girls leaned in, too. He nodded his head and Berta and Luz, the one behind him, squealed. The one on his right, Marina, I think, giggled then shot me a look like she knew something I didn’t.

“What about you?” said Luz.

“Column A, Column B.”

“Ala,” Berta sighed. “The good ones are either gay or taken.”

“You’re only half right,” he said and the girls giggle. So, he had a girl somewhere, but it wasn’t serious. Which confirms that he was definitely not gay, even if he did hang out with the GSA and considered the openly gay cheerleader “just a friend.”

I felt let down. Then I felt more pissed off because of that.

When we got back to the corner, he turned back to us.

“Hey, Garza, do you mind taking back Teague and Rice? I’m not comfortable leaving the girls alone to wait for a cab.” He didn’t even wait for a reply, just said “Thanks, man.” The girls took turns hugging me and kissing me on the cheek. They even hugged Teague and Rice and promised to friend us all on Facebook (which they did the next day). Then, Card and his entourage walked off, giggling and talking over each other in Spanish.

“Card’s Texas Two-step” never dropped. Instead, a series of videos and pics blew up the collective VT football social media machine, and no one would shut the fuck up about “The Night Card Stomped Garza in a Dance-off Then Went Home with Three Senoritas.”

~*~*~*~

In case you're wondering about the chapter parts.  I've combined chapters from previous editions...and I kinda have to obscure the less than appropriate chapter titles.    Fun fact, this story exists in at least 4 different editions now because I am a glutton for punishment.
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