Thursday was like any other day for Brandon. It was mid-season, early October, which meant that after his gravy of a class schedule was over, he would have a couple hours to pack in the carbs and protein before round one of practice. Most of the freshmen and sophomores all still ate in the common areas, primarily because, by convention, all of them still stayed in dorms. It wasn’t until their junior year that he’d be joining the rest of the jocks in one frat house or another. That in turn meant more chances to hook up, as it was seriously hard to sneak in a pretty (or drunk) girl into an all-male dorm.
At least it’s only cold potatoes and mystery green vegan mash today, Brandon thought inwardly as he dropped his full tray on an empty table. Thursday was also the only day he didn’t manage to match his schedule with the other jocks. Trey – the defensive captain – as well as the rest of the defense filled up nearly one entire class of basic Economics before Brandon could get his request in. This meant that while Brandon was trying to choke down what’s been in the steam tray for a couple hours, everyone else was snoozing in one of the classroom buildings.
It would have been nice to have someone to complain to about the food – someone who might empathize with the general lack-of-effort given by the cafeteria crew. However, because he kept mostly within his clique (with the exception of the occasional hottie he tried to woo), he really had nobody to share his disgust with. To the left were a group of not-attractive-enough-to-keep-his-notice girls clucking away about some rudimentary politics. Behind him were the future business leaders of . . wherever. To the right . . . well, it was definitely a motley bunch. Freshmen, Brandon decided. All of them short, wearing outfits that ranged from rockstar drummer to emo-Mac-fanatic to motocross rider, and all of them were enamored with something they were playing with at the table. That something looked like a vaporizer with a couple spark plugs at the tip. Whatever it was, the young trio decided it was more interesting than what was on their plates, as nothing appeared to have been touched.
Rookie mistake, Brandon thought. If they don’t take a bite soon . . . On cue, the mild hum of conversation in the cafeteria jolted to a near roar as the rest of the defense came pounding in. The group Brandon was watching had quickly stashed what they were playing with in a backpack and stowed the backpack underneath the table. It’s then that they each, individually, caught Brandon’s curious gaze. The air hung with the kind of tension that hinted the football player was intruding on their privacy. He tried a lopsided smile just as Trey, the 6’5” 250 shaved-bald Senior and soon-to-be-drafted linebacker slammed his fist on Brandon’s table, jumping the single tray into the air and shooting that green sludge over its owner’s shirt.
Trey couldn’t contain his laughter. One uncomfortably strong arm hooked around Brandon’s neck, hauling him in for a jockular but-not-too-close hug.
“Oh, man! I could have totally YouTubed that! You, me, we could be stars!” bellowed the senior.
Your sense of humor is perilously poor, as always, Brandon mused to himself. Just as shirts started to get too close, Brandon was shoved nearly off the table as Trey tried to distance the two. The rest of the group was filling out all the adjoining tables now and Brandon decided it was time to discreetly remove himself from the group. Another big hand on his shoulder shoved him back down in his seat as one of those monstrous offensive linemen squeezed his way into the opening next to him. Too late. One of the fatter O-linemen was piling into a seat across from him, unabashedly sticking his finger into some of the gunk left on Brandon’s tray and slurping it off his fingers.
With his mouth full of the slop, the big guy’s gaze met with Brandon’s, trading a look of disgust from across the table for a sheepish caught-in-the-act expression. Rolling his eyes, Brandon pushed the rest of the tray to the too-hungry-for-his-own-good blob across from him and casually looked to where the trio of freshmen sat. Conversation was at an absolute uproar and the more sane types were trying to quietly file out. As he expected, some of the defensive second-stringers were praying like crows on a dead carcass, tearing through the untouched freshmen’s meals while those three just tried to get out with the rest of their stuff intact.
With everyone else on his bench now distracted with talk about chicks, money, and football, Brandon managed to push himself away and slink away from his seat. He made it to one of the large garbage cans and was starting to push the solids still on his shirt off when one of the three he’d been curious about, dressed in a red and white motocross jacked, blue jeans, and all of 5’7” sidled up to Brandon offered an apologetic smile. Glancing up from the napkin dispenser, the free-ride sophomore noticed a large splotch of slightly melted jell-o on the shorter teen’s shirt.
“I see they got you too,” Brandon mused, pointing a finger at the obvious-as-day stain. Looking down, the younger of the two shrugged and inspected the damage.
“At least it was just the t-shirt. Say, I never got your name. I see you around from time to time,” answered the freshman. “I’m Chester.” It looked to Brandon like it took a fair amount of courage just to get the words out, but Chester surprisingly managed to raise a hand to offer a shake. Deciding that any amount of courage should be rewarded, Brandon gingerly took the gentle hand in his own and gave it a squeeze.
“Brandon. And, unfortunately, I’m with those guys and I still get nailed.” Chester looked mildly surprised. An inner turmoil was playing through his face as the young freshman’s hand finally and seemingly reluctantly broke from the grip of the other. It seemed as if the younger freshman was coming to some sort of difficult decision and, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he straightened his shoulders and pushed out his chest.
“Would you like to go out for some coffee or . . maybe a drink sometime?”
It wasn’t a question Brandon was expecting, and the surprise on his face was evident as his brow lifted. The linebacker didn’t catch his own surprise in time and Chester quickly looked away, his shoulders slumping and his weight rocking back to his heels.
“No I . . I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Brandon hurried and stumbled through as Chester’s confidence was being visibly shattered with each syllable. “I mean, hey. I don’t have a problem with . . . with you . . I mean. Your kind. I just don’t swing that way.”
Chester was visibly twitching, looking like someone who was desperate for any kind of escape. Brandon tried to give him a reassuring smile and patted on the shoulder to let him know that, hey, don’t feel bad about it, but it didn’t seem to provide much reassurance. Of course, it didn’t help that now two of the taller D-line core were making their ponderously heavy way towards Brandon and Chester; the conversation wasn’t likely to end well.
Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon spotted two jocks trying to keep the other two freshmen that were at the table with Chester pinned inside a revolving door. Brandon’s hand quickly gripped Chester’s shoulder and he started walking the motocross rider towards the other two, taking a few steps with him before letting go and giving him a gentle but urgent push.
“You better go help your friends. Maybe run some interference so they can get out,” Brandon suggested hurriedly. He didn’t get a chance to say “Goodbye” or “We could still be buddies” before the two tall D-linemen were on him.
“What was that about?” barked one. “Yea. Were they mad about their little friends there?” mocked the other.
“No. No. He just . . wanted some coffee,” Brandon muttered. The expressions on the other two instantly changed from mild interest, to shock, and then what could only be described as delighted evil.
“Did he just ask YOU out?” spat out the taller of the D-linemen – Vincent, Brandon guessed.
“Look, it was just innocent. Leave it alone,” Brandon returned, giving him a warning glare. But the two defensemen would have none of it and each of them laughed. The sound of their own laughter kept amplifying and magnifying until Trey and a few of his friends came over to find out what was so funny. Once Vincent finished the story, Trey put on a more sinister look.
“Oh we have to get ‘em. And this time, we’ll be sure to Youtube it all,” Trey proclaimed.
Brandon tried to explain everything, convince everyone it wasn’t a good idea, that it was just someone trying to hook up. He tried to convince the defensive captain that they should let it go, that he didn’t want to be a part of it all, but in the end, with threats of hazing and sabotage on the field, Brandon reluctantly agreed to their plan. He felt terrible about it, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his time in college being mocked or shunned by the few people he related to. And besides – he could have a very bright future in the pros afterwards. He didn’t stand a chance going against the Captain, and reluctantly he finally came around.
I’m going to regret this. Brandon repeated that thought over and over before falling asleep.
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