Winger

“Yeah.”

I moved a little closer. I really felt like we were supposed to kiss or something, but I didn’t know. I mean, isn’t that the normal thing to do after people go away for a weekend together?

“I really did have a great time, Annie. Sorry I got mad about things this morning. You know, I just feel like . . .” I looked down at my sloshing feet and said, “Whatever.” I didn’t want her to go.

“It’s okay, Ryan Dean. Get better, okay?”

Then she let go of my hand and turned away. I sighed. I really wanted to grab her and turn her around right there in front of everyone and just kiss her, the same way we kissed in the sawmill, but I knew Annie wasn’t like that, and that no matter how I felt, it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. So I slumped my shoulders and followed Joey toward O-Hall, my feet slosh-slosh-sloshing behind him as he carried both of our bags.

“Hey, Nutsack, welcome back.” Seanie jogged up to me. “How was the trip?”

Of course, JP stayed back on the path, away from me. And when I turned around to talk to Seanie, I saw that JP was saying something to Annie. And I saw her smile at him, and I wondered if we had that same kind of tired-of-each-other look that Chas and Megan did.

No. I knew we didn’t.

“Dude, did you even hear what I’ve been saying?” Seanie said.

I wasn’t really listening to him. I was watching Annie give JP a hug. And then JP looked right at me. It felt like getting kicked in the balls by both of them. I turned away. God, I hated him.

“Huh?” I said. “Oh. I had a great time, Seanie. It was great.”

He followed along as we walked to O-Hall, and we talked about things, but I wasn’t paying attention at all. I know I told him I’d gotten sick, and I know Seanie was laughing about something he’d done to someone on the Internet over the weekend, and it was probably me and probably had something to do with a Band-Aid, but it was all fogged through the filter of my sickness and how much I wanted to kill John-Paul Tureau at that moment.

Chapter Sixty-Five

AT MIDNIGHT, SOME ASSHOLE PULLED the sheets off my head and beamed a flashlight on my face.

“Get up, Pussboy, we’re playing poker.”

Ugh.

“Let me sleep, Chas. I’m sick. I don’t mind if you guys go ahead and play.”

My throat felt like I had swallowed a handful of sewing needles. Sideways.

Sheets.

Off.

On the floor.

Gravity.

Hands grabbing my legs. Being pulled over the edge.

My feet slapped down onto the cool of the floor, and someone held me up by my armpits to stop me from recracking my head open.

Crap.

I really hate Chas Becker.

I yawned, and when the fluid cleared from my eyes, I could see Joey, Casey Palmer (of all people—why’d Chas ask that dickhead to play?), and Kevin Cantrell, standing there in front of me with his right arm folded inside a black cloth sling.

“Kevin. Wow. Are you okay?” Awkwardly, I shook his left hand.

There is something really weird about being cornered into shaking a guy’s left hand. It felt creepy and dirty. Standing there in my boxers didn’t do anything special to make it feel closer to normal either.

I picked my sheet up from the floor where Chas had thrown it and wrapped it around me. I was shivering a little, and sweating, but I wasn’t going to get dressed. I refused to.

I fully planned on going back to bed.

Chas began setting up the game, and the guys sat in a circle on the floor. I stayed on my feet.

“I’ll be okay,” Kevin said. “They have to see if there’s going to be nerve damage. The season’s over for me, though.”

“That’s fucked up,” Chas said. “I don’t know who we’re going to get to lock with me now.”

In rugby, locks came in pairs, like training wheels. Like balls. Chas and Kevin were arguably the most important guys in the forward pack.

Chas began shuffling.

“Get your twenty dollars out and sit down, Pussboy.”

I guess he’d gotten used to my new name.

It did have a lyrical sound to it.

I said, “Pussboy’s going back to bed.” I looked at Casey and started to climb back up to the top bunk. I still couldn’t believe he was there in my room.

Then Chas said, “Sit the fuck down and get your fucking foot off my bed.”

And he sounded seriously dangerous. I knew he was pissed off about Megan. I knew we were going to have to settle it.

Joey said, “Leave him alone, Chas. He doesn’t want to play.”

Chas started to say something, and I could tell it was going to be horrible, too. You know how you just kind of get that oh-here-comes-Chas-Becker’s-fucked-up-comment-about-me-and-Joey-being-gay-together-when-he- knows-goddamn-well-his-smoking-hot-girlfriend-loves-to-make-out-with-me feeling? So before he even fully got the first word out of his mouth, I rasped, “No big deal, Joey. I’m in.”

At least, I figured, with five players instead of four, my odds were 5 percent better of not receiving the consequence. I grabbed a twenty from my desk and tossed it down to the Bank of Chas.

“Here,” I said. “And screw you, Chas.”

That’s not cussing, is it?

Then Casey tried to be funny and said, “Is it just me, or is someone here about to get his ass kicked?”

“Well, if you’re scared, Casey, you could go back to your room and get your pads on, you fucking human tampon,” Kevin said.

That was cool. I would have high-fived Kevin, but I felt sorry for his arm.

Casey glared at Kevin. I watched him. Joey was right about Casey Palmer. There was something cruel and cold in that kid’s eyes. Casey Palmer really did know what hate was.

“Hey, come on,” Joey said. Damn, Joey always stuck up for everyone. Even tools like Casey Palmer.

I sat, cross-legged, shirtless, and barefoot, with my sheet wrapped around my waist. I probably looked like Gandhi or something, so I put my hands together and said, “Namaste.”

But Joey was the only one who got it. He laughed, while Kevin looked politely confused, and Casey looked like he was still pissed off about being called a human tampon, and Chas said, “Whatever, you fucking puss. Let’s have a drink.”

God.

I looked at Joey’s feet. He and Kevin were wearing our rugby socks again. But this time, Kevin pulled his sweats up and showed he had a full bottle of whiskey tucked inside the top of one of his socks, and a Maxine’s House of Spirits in Atlanta shot glass in the other. I rolled my eyes, but I still had to wonder if Maxine was hot, and if she lived in a haunted house, or was that just made up, and if it was a haunted house, were there any girl ghosts, and can a ghost be hot?

Yeah . . . I just knew someone was going to die tonight.

Chapter Sixty-Six