Sage

The next day, I do the unthinkable—the un-fucking-doable, and push a teammate to the ground because he stretched too close to me. Yep, I shit you not. Quarterbacks usually try to protect their hands and arms, not shove them into other footballers’ personal space to start a fight.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” Michael asks, throwing his helmet to the grass and shoving my chest. I’m just looking for an excuse to rearrange some random dipshit’s face, so this is all the invitation I need to get in his personal space and growl, “You’ve been asking for this, motherfucker!”

I’m about to throw a punch—knowing that it’s going to put me in a very bad spot, knowing that scouters are roaming the training area, knowing that I could be flushing my whole future down the toilet—when I feel a big hand yanking me away from Michael. Tom and Dre are pushing Michael in the other direction while Mark is hugging my midsection and dragging me to the other end of the field. Lines of mud are forming beneath my feet. I’ve always been an aggressive player. Comes with the territory of being a huge-ass kid with a shit ton of issues. I was actually supposed to be an O-Liner. But it so happened that my first coach said I was too intelligent not to be a quarterback and forced me into the position. Today, I’m feeling especially confrontational. The kind of asshole that needs to be thrown inside the octagon or ring with Conor McGregor and Floyd Mayweather and can still come out of there unscathed.

“Are you trying to shit all over your future?” Mark bares his teeth, slamming me against the wall of the sports auditorium. I shrug, taking off my helmet and running my paw through my long-ish hair. I normally ask Jolie to cut it for me, but I’ve been too busy trying to get in her pants lately to ask her to take care of that shit.

“It’s fine. He won’t say a word to Coach Drescher.” I wave Mark off. He puts his hands on his waist and paces in front of me like an exasperated parent. Behind him, my teammates are arguing and yelling and I did this shit. The realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Doesn’t matter, bro. You’re still acting like King Douche of Cuntland, and you need to cut that shit before you get blacklisted. You can’t afford to do that. Not when you’re so close to getting drafted.”

I know he’s right. I also know that I’ve been acting like a dick all day, and that’s unlike me. I need to get my head back in the game, but it’s hard when I know that JoJo’s a few feet away, going about her day after smashing my fucking heart on the kitchen floor yesterday.

“So, I shouldn’t be a massive dick to everyone even though I have a massive dick. Gotcha.” I nod, trying to lighten up the mood. Mark lifts his head and pins me with a serious look.

“What’s gotten into you? Something’s wrong?”

Like I’d ever tell him.

“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s so dandy and fucking right I want to break into a dance.” The sarcasm drips from my mouth like drool. But the truth is, I know I’m in deep trouble. With JoJo. With the mistake I’ve made. With everything.

“Yeah? So this has nothing to do with you and Jolie?” He lifts one lonely brow.

Her mere name on his lips makes me want to punch the wall behind me, then run a fucking marathon to spend all the pent-up aggression coursing through my body.

“Everything’s great between JoJo and me. Don’t say her name again, please.”

Mark stares at me, dumbfounded. A smile spreads across his lips. We’re not super tight, Mark and I, but I know that he is good people. I also know that he was born and raised in a nice Southern family where people hug a lot and talk about feelings and shit. That makes me uncomfortable around him sometimes. Like he can see through me. See the parts I’m only really comfortable sharing with JoJo.

“You’re in love with her,” he says, chuckling. “Holy shit, man. You are in love with your roommate. That’s hilarious. Does she know?”

Does JoJo know? Maybe the better question is—do I know? Sure, yeah, I like her, but what, exactly, does it mean? Fuck, I can’t even seem to read myself anymore. Why else would I act the way I do? Like the Duke of Dickwads. But admitting to myself that I’m in love—not just love, but in love—with my best friend is somehow like admitting defeat. Because other than a couple times recently, JoJo has never flirted with me in her entire life, and I’m pretty sure if I ever told her how I feel, she’d laugh in my face and tell me it’s a phase.

It’s not a phase.

It’s here to stay.

I’m in love with my best friend.

With the girl who ran in the rain for me.

With the girl who did my homework all the way through elementary and high school so I could concentrate on my football, and gave me pointers and summaries when we walked to school together every day.

With the girl who believed in me before even I believed in myself.

And showed up at my games every weekend, her textbooks on her lap, doing homework in between cheering for me.

I’m in love with my roommate.

With the girl who cuts my hair and knows my favorite color is black and my favorite food is Cajun fried catfish.

With the proud owner of the sweetest pussy in Louisiana.

I’m in love with Jolie Louis.

And I’m going to conquer her. Consequences be damned.

* * *

Jolie

“I just had the best date of life yesterday. Not an exaggeration. A fact,” Chelsea swoons, throwing her arms across the library desk and burying her head between them. She blows a lock of raven hair from her face. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes are bloodshot, and her huge smile is telling me that she is crushing hard, all while riding the mother of all natural highs. I sit across from her, smiling as I rearrange my sensible blouse. I’ve always pegged myself as a maternal chick. It’s not the most feminist thing in the world to admit, but I already know my most rewarding role in life will be being a mom. But Chelsea? She’s something else. She aspires to become a nanny after we graduate. Save up for a few years before becoming a mother herself. She’s got a wedding and (at least) four kids on her (utterly crazy) brain twenty-four-freaking-seven.

“Where did Mark take you?” I probe, pretending to be typing on my MacBook. Really, I’m just stalling and trying to look like everything is okay. Like I’m not a mess of epic proportions. Sage and I haven’t spoken a word to each other today. No texting. No stumbling together, laughing in the hallway. Even the drive to campus was silent. He tapped the wheel, I texted my mama, and liked every single thing my friends posted on Facebook. It was awkward to say the least.

“We had a picnic under the stars. Then we went to my place. Nikki is gone for the week, so we had the place to ourselves. We watched Suicide Squad. Then we…” She blushes, looking away. “Then we did other stuff. And, so, yeah, he’s a great guy.”

“I’m so happy for you.” And I am. A friendship ain’t worth the time you spend together unless you can wholeheartedly feel the joy and love your peer experiences when something amazing happens to them.

“Thank you, sweets. So, what about you? Still mad about that jackass, Brandon? You should really put yourself out there more, lady. Guys will be lining up as soon as you give them the signal you’re interested.” She wiggles her brows and closes her thick textbook. I offer her a weak smile, looking around us to make sure the library is deserted. It is. I haven’t told her about the whole fake relationship with Sage yet. I kind of figured it would run its course before we even had the chance to explore it, as with many of Sage’s crazy ideas. I was even partly right. True, I did most of the ruining of said fake relationship, but it doesn’t matter. Not really. I don’t, however, want to keep anything from Chelsea.

“I kind of hooked up with Sage this past week. Nothing too serious. We just messed around.” I drum my collarbone with my fingers.

“I know,” she says, straight-faced. I raise an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Dude, I know, Penny knows, every single person on campus knows,” she reports nonchalantly, downing the rest of her latte and throwing the cup into the trash at the side of our desk, shrugging. “Mark and I talked about it. Sage told him. Apparently, he told the whole football team that if they as much as breathe in your direction, he’d cut their noses off. Kind of possessive, if you ask me. Never thought he was the caveman type.”

I’m staring at Chelsea with my mouth agape, realizing that it’s not a good look, and yet too shocked to respond coherently.

I look around me. There is only one more desk occupied in the whole library other than Chelsea’s and mine. It’s a bunch of sorority girls sitting across the room with their feathery pink pens and white, lush cardigans and blonde, high ponytails. They’re staring at me, and I know why. If eyes could stab, I’d be bleeding to death on the floor. To them, Sage is not a real person, with a story, a personal tragedy, and complex personality traits. He’s a legend. A status symbol. Like a Ferrari or a Versace item. Fierce protectiveness grips my throat. I don’t know how I’d be able to live if I ever found out that he got married to this type of girl. The ones who see him for so much less than who he is.

“Earth to Jolie.” Chelsea waves her little hands in front of me, smiling. I snap out of my stupor, shaking my head lightly.

“Sorry, you were saying?” I close my MacBook and grab my shoulder bag from under my chair. I admit defeat. There’s just no way I’ll be able to concentrate on anything other than him today.

“So things must be serious between you and Sage, if he is claiming you as his in front of the entire world.” We both stand up, gather our belongings, and make our way to the door. I’m about to answer Chelsea, when…

“Slut,” one of the sorority girls coughs into her curled fist, just as I pass her by.

“Social climber,” the other one hisses viciously. I keep walking, ignoring them, but just as I’m about to round the corner into the hallway, I notice that Chelsea is no longer by my side. I turn my head around and see her standing in front of their desk. My eyes nearly bug out of their sockets, cartoon-style. Oh, no. Chelsea has some serious mama-bear-on-steroids-when-aunt-flow-is-in-town bones in her. She takes care of her own and never passes down a chance to stand up for a friend. But this bitch doesn’t deserve her attention. Not one bit.

“Hey, girls.” Chelsea juts one hip out, her hand on her hip and her smile Type 2 diabetes sweet as she snaps a picture of them with her phone. “Just wanted to stop by and let you know that by talking shit about the captain of the football team’s girlfriend, you pretty much killed every opportunity you’ve ever had to date a jock in this place. Just putting it out there. So, good luck and so forth.” My friend shrugs, strutting her way back to me.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I blurt, but still squeeze her into an embrace, my arm wrapped around her shoulder. We walk out to the orange and pink fall, toward the students’ parking lot.

“I know I didn’t, but I wanted to. So, are you and Sage a thing, or what?” She stops by her sensible blue Buick and fishes out the keys from her back pocket.

“Um, no. I kind of got freaked out yesterday at the possibility of him leaving the state in May and basically told him I’m calling things off. It all started with him telling me that he wanted me to be his fake girlfriend until graduation. Something about a Christmas event in New York, or something, so I think his telling people that we’re an item is more because of his mysterious plan and less about a love declaration,” I sullenly admit. Chelsea whips her head and gives me her best are-you-a-complete-idiot expression. It’s a cross between puzzled and annoyed.

“You seriously think he’s playing a game? You don’t know that he likes you?”

I shake my head. I mean, I do. I know Sage likes me a lot as a friend. It’s hard not to see it. We do so much for each other. But more than that? Romantically other than a lay? Nah. He had countless chances to ask me out, to blur the lines, to take a chance. Literally, a decade of opportunities ticked by. He saw me with boyfriends. On dates. At prom with Clay Jacobs. He never gave me any indication that he was even remotely jealous. No reason he caught a bad case of the feels all of a sudden.

“Jolie, he is crazy about you.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Well, you should, because everyone else does.”

I bite my lower lip and marble at her words. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I’m just being a bit of a jerk. I mean, what exactly am I expecting from him right now? A declaration that he’ll always be mine? A goddamn ring? Who knows what’s going to happen in May? All we have is today, and today matters. Ugh. Now I sound like an inspirational meme people post on their Facebooks on Mondays.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him,” I say. Chelsea nods.

“I’ll give you a ride to work.” She winks.

“You’re the best.” And for the millionth time since I met her here a couple of years ago, I thank the Lord that He gave me one best friend that I love like a drug, and another who takes care of me like a fairy.