I punched him in the ribs with the heel of my right hand, a short jab that knocked the wind out of him. He fell against the coffee table, striking the top of his cheekbone on a corner. I stood and zipped my shorts. He was on all fours on the ground, pressing his palm against his face, and I left before he had the chance to say anything.
I was dumb with adrenaline as I sped to Carsonville, my shoulder bearing a phantom tightness from having been pinned to the couch. Turning into Carsonville, the adrenaline started giving way to fear, and that fear almost instantaneously boiled into anger. Reviewing Chase’s every vulnerable word and gesture, I saw how he had been laying the groundwork for tonight. I thought about driving back to Central and throwing a brick through his truck’s windshield, identifying a hundred opportunities I’d had to leave before things turned. Why did I keep coming back to him?
And had I just cheated on Thao?
I softly entered the house’s living room. The lights were off. Thao and his roommates were on the green couch, watching a movie. Thao made room for me, sniffing.
—Where were you?
I tensed, thinking Chase’s deodorant was detectable.
—You smell like a fireplace, he continued.
—The team had a bonfire.
—Shhhhhh!
Thao quieted, wrapping his arm around mine and leaning his head on my shoulder. I can’t remember what movie we watched.
Each Sunday a different roommate was responsible for making breakfast, and the next day was Thao’s turn. I woke to find him gone, off to buy groceries, and when I walked downstairs he was already busy cooking French toast while instructing his roommates on how to finish making the Vietnamese iced coffee. No one could find the can opener to open the condensed milk, and his roommates were helpless with laughter as they took turns puncturing holes into the tops of the cans with the claw end of a hammer. I checked my phone again, hoping for a text from Chase. I wanted an apology. An apology would allow me to forgive him, move on.
When breakfast was almost ready, I helped set the table with Abby Scone, a senior who was president of the campus LGBT association and an honorary roommate. Abby was one of my favorites of Thao’s friends. She was from Iowa and had a midwestern way about her that reminded me of my family—deliberate without being abrupt, transparent but far from simple. She was also the only girl I’d ever met who knew more about football than I did. Her father was a high school coach in Cedar Rapids, and she had served as the team’s water girl her entire childhood. She’d wanted badly to play football herself, but her father had forbidden it.
Abby surprised me by saying she’d bought her plane tickets to South Bend.
—You’re going to the game? I asked.
—So are half the seniors I know. King’s offering discounted hotel rooms near campus.
—People are that excited?
—Yeah! I mean, it seems like we might not lose by a hundred points.
She stopped, remembering who she was talking to.
—No offense.
Chase still hadn’t texted by the time we finished eating, but that was fine. I could talk to him at the Hay, where meetings started at eleven. I drove over and entered the peaceful locker room. White paper McDonald’s bags were rustling, hungover players lying on their backs on the carpet and speaking in soft hungover tones.
I carried my purple laundry net to my cube. Cornelius and a couple other players were already sitting in their lockers, and they quieted when they saw me.
GWEN
The name was written in permanent marker on a torn piece of cardboard that had been glued to my locker’s nameplate. I was being watched. I needed to act like I didn’t know what was happening.
—Who did this? I asked Cornelius.
—Chase came to the Football House last night with a big ol’ gash under his eye and said he caught you texting gay shit to a dude named Gwen. Said he called you out and you clocked him.
—And people believed him? I said, forcing out a laugh.
—Shit ain’t funny, Furling. You need to quash it, quick. Damn near the whole team was at the house last night.
The sign was glued to my nameplate with an epoxy, and I couldn’t tear it off with my hands. I went to the equipment room to fetch Cyrus Pyle, who was in the middle of adjusting the air in Scan’s helmet with a hand pump while Scan stood there. I pretended to wait patiently for Pyle to finish, not wanting to seem too eager in front of Scan but knowing that all the while more players were filtering into the locker room, passing my locker.
Pyle finally followed me in. He was annoyed as he inspected the sign.
—That glue’s going to damage the wood, he said.
He returned to the equipment room to see what he could find to remove it, and in the meantime I took a pen I kept in my locker and tried effacing the effacement, doing my best to ignore the players who shouted “Gwen!” as they passed our cube.
Chase walked in, setting his laundry net on his locker seat.
—The fuck? I said, walking
