So I tell him.

“I feel like I’ve wasted too much fuckin’ time on this sport and not enough time on myself.” Does it sound like I’m whining? Hope not.

“What do you mean?”

“I have no life, dude.”

My teammate nods and stays silent.

“It’s like I woke up this mornin’ and realized…I’m sleepwalkin’ through my own damn life.”

“Sure.” He measures his next words. “I think a lot of guys feel like that at one point or another.”

“Do you?”

He looks embarrassed. “Well, no, but that’s because I’m Mexican. Dude, when I have a birthday party, eight hundred people show up. When I take a dump, mi madre is there to wipe my ass. I grew up in a tiny house with no privacy and we traveled in packs.

“So…I didn’t have the chance to sink too much time into playing ball, because family always came first.” He smiles at a memory. “Once, I skipped the grand march for my little sister’s homecoming dance, and I caught hell for it. She cried, mi papá cursed. You would have thought I got a girl embarazada.” Pregnant—even I know what that word is in Spanish. “Or committed a felony.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what that’s like.” I don’t recall having a birthday party, let alone attending a homecoming dance…or a dance, period, even though I was nominated a few times for the court.

Whatever, the past is in the past.

Is it, though?

“I’m sorry, man. You can borrow mi familia if you want—they’re enough to make a man loco.” Rodrigo reaches out and gives my knee a tap with the tips of his fingers. “Cheer up, brother. You have all the family you need right here, you know. Do you forget that?”

He’s talking about the football team, coaching staff, and the community as a whole. It’s been ingrained in us from the beginning that we are one—no man left behind, team spirit, we can’t win alone, yada yada and all that inspirational bullshit—only I never cared to foster any of the friendships at my disposal.

“Jennings, we’re your family when you’re not home.”

Jesus Christ with this guy—what’s he trying to do, make me start crying again? I can live without the waterworks in public.

I wipe my eye.

Shit.

“Look at you. Should we change your name to Sally?”

“Shut up, Rodrigo.”

“Aww, aren’t you cute when you’re sappy.” He’s giving me shit and it feels great. “Seriously, man—we’re brothers. We play together, work together, and bleed on that field together. Remember that when you’re feeling lost and alone.”

Damn, the kid could write speeches.

“What are you, a lit major?”

“Nah, international studies.” Rodrigo stands, stretching to the full six foot four his bio boasts in the football program. “I wanna be a translator for the government.”

“Shit, Carlos. What the fuck? How did I not know this?”

“You do now, and that’s all that matters, eh, amigo?” His open palm gives me a smack on the cheek then pats it twice. “You have nothing to cry about. Count your blessings, asshole.”

He’s right; it’s time to count my fucking blessings.

Me: Hey, what are you up to?

Charlie: Not much. You?

Me: Lots of thinking and now I can’t concentrate. You want to come over?

Charlie: Um, to your place?

Me: Lol yes. To my place.

Charlie: Are your roommates home?

Me: It’s Wednesday, so yeah. Is that a big deal?

Charlie: No! No. I just wanted to know what I’m walking into.

Me: Everyone is either eating or studying. It’s quiet, safe to come over. Hint hint.

Charlie: Well since you put it that way…

Me: I have something I want to talk about.

Charlie: Oh crap. You want to TALK??? What guy ever wants to talk? Answer: none of them. Are you sick? Do I need to take your temperature?

Me: Lol no I’m not sick. But you could come take my temperature.

Charlie: Are you sure? It’s a rectal thermometer.

Me: A WHAT?

Charlie: Rectal. You know, you insert it up your **wiggles eyebrows**

Me: Don’t ever say the word rectal and wiggle your eyebrows in the same sentence ever again.

Charlie: You’re a virgin—how do you know you wouldn’t like a rectal?

Me: How dare you rub my virginity in my face.

Charlie: I’m not rubbing it in your face! I’m just asking how you know you wouldn’t like it.

Me: Um, I don’t think you can just bring up butt stuff randomly—this escalated so quickly.

Charlie: Oh? How so?!

Me: Uh, I asked you to come over and talk, and now you’re discussing rectals…

Charlie: Oh. Shit. That’s right, you did ask me to come over…sorry. Sometimes I get off track.

Me: Lol I don’t even know what just happened there. Weirdo.

Charlie: I’ve been called worse things than weirdo.

Me: Seriously?

Charlie: Well. No…

Me: Lol

Me: You coming over or not?

Charlie: When?

Me: Now?

Me: You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It feels like you’re stalling.

Charlie: I’m not.

Charlie: It’s not like this is a date and I have anything to be nervous about **nervous, crazy laugh**

Me: Guess that depends.

Charlie: Oh shit.

Me: Just get your cute little ass over here.

Charlie: Whoa. WHOA. I cannot believe you said that.

Me: Neither can I.

…Still Wednesday

Charlie

Okay. This feels strange.

I raise my hand to knock on Jackson’s door—nay, the door of the football house—and pause halfway up, clenched hand poised just beneath the rusty, brass doorknocker.

Do it, a little voice whispers. Stop being a chicken.