GIN AND JUICE pt 7

“Look, Shawn,” Coach seethed, the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and pointer finger, “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I need you to snap the **** out of it. We have three games before the postseason. I need you to be focused on football and forgetting whatever personal bullshit you’re bringing onto my field.”

Shawn’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to argue, but Coach shut him down, “No, don’t argue. After that shit I just saw on my sideline, you’re lucky I’m not suspending your ***. I know that Brian provoked you. Other players came up to me in your defense. But, people saw. And your little girlfriend hiding in the stands didn’t help the situation. What the ****, Mendes?! Do I need to review that practices are closed to any and all distractions? THAT INCLUDES *****.”

Some spit landed on the desk when he finished punctuating this last point. Shawn hung his head, not knowing what to do. He didn’t regret throwing that punch. He regretted not knocking him the **** out.

When he heard the loud crack from Brian’s helmet hitting the ground, Shawn had to stifle an eye roll. The guy had always been a hot head and it only got worse last year when he had lost the QB1 spot to a freshman. “HEY, MENDES,” he shouted, predictably pissed that a little water had hit him, “I saw your little ***** with you last night.”

Shawn whipped around, red threatening at the edge of his vision. “What the **** did you say, asshole?!” He moved toward Brian, trying to control his rage, shaking slightly at the implications this fucker was making about her. Brian smirked, getting the reaction that he wanted from him, “Oh yeah, I saw you stumbling up the stairs with her at the house.”

Shawn stood there, feeling the rest of the team circling in his periphery. The whispers were reaching deafening levels around him. They had all seen her. He could feel his fingers curl into fists, shaking just a little more violently, fighting for control at his sides. Brian fed off of them, getting right up in Shawn’s face, “I guess she’s your pity **** on speed dial there to suck your **** when you choke on a wide open pass. She must be something desperate to come to you when you’re the reason we’re fucked for playoffs now.”

Shawn could feel the rage spreading, numbing his face, his chest, his arms. The adrenaline coursing quickly through his veins, he was deaf to Brian’s words after that, hearing only a buzzing that was intensifying by the second. Somewhere between the words “overrated pretty boy” and “glad you had a hole available to finish something in,” his fist twitched and the scarlet tendrils threatening his vision finally closed in.

“SHAWN!” Her voice cut through his red haze, receding to oversaturated blue and green. Brian was on the ground holding his nose against the crimson fountain spewing from it, looking at Shawn’s fist dripping blood onto the turf. Everyone had turned their eyes toward the scream from a high spot in the bleachers, where he could just make out her frame, arm outstretched as if she could have stopped him if she had only been a little closer.

A hard fist against the desk in front of him pulled Shawn from his instant replay, “MENDES?! Jesus, I’m benching you for the first half of this week’s game. Did you hear that? Or were you too busy daydreaming?” He had gone back to pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get out of my office and don’t come to practice tomorrow. You better have your shit together before you come back,” he paused, sighing, “you’re supposed to be my guy. ARE YOU STILL MY GUY?!”

“Yeah, Coach,” he said, eyes on the floor, embarrassed, “I’m still your guy. I promise I’ll be ready for the second half on Saturday.”

“You fuckin’ well better be. We have a championship to win.” Coach waved him out, disappointed and dismissive, two things Shawn had never caused on a coach’s face in his years of playing football. Walking out of the locker room, he vacillated between ashamed and pissed. He’d never lost his cool like that in practice. Usually, the shit people said just rolled off, and if Brian had just been talking about his shitty game that would have been one thing. But, when he brought her into it—made it a point that he’d seen her and then called her a whore—Shawn hadn’t been able to control the bitter, hot rage that burned the back of his throat.

“Shawn?”

At first, he didn’t see her. She had folded herself in a concrete nook beneath the stadium seats, hiding deep in the shadows. He walked over as she crawled out of the small space, itching to put his arms around her. She crashed into him, bunching his shirt in her hands, and pressed her face into his chest. He felt her inhale, taking in his freshly showered scent. This was the first time they’d been so close that he wasn’t sweating gin or Jack.

“Are you okay?” she asked, pulling back and taking his bruised hand in hers. She pressed her lips to his knuckles, causing him to wince a little, fresh cuts still stinging, his hand burning from the inside every time she touched him. He was mesmerized by her ministrations, unable to focus on her question, just wanting her to keep stroking the back of his hand and start little fires with her lips. He felt her pull away, looking up at him expectantly.

“I’m f-fine,” he stuttered as he tried to refocus on her question, “Coach benched me for the first half of the game on Saturday.” He exhaled heavily. He still hadn’t fully let it sink in, and he knew he was using her as a distraction. Letting her fill his senses was a lot easier and immediate than dealing with possibly losing something he’d worked all season for. One more misstep, one more loss, would lose him the Heisman no question, but more than that, would seriously jeopardize the team. Two-loss teams don’t win championships.

“I’m sorry,” she hung her head, like punching Brian had been her idea, “I shouldn’t have screamed. I’m sure that didn’t help.” He took her chin in his hand and lifted it, forcing her eyes to meet his.

“If you hadn’t screamed, I might have kept punching him,” he said, voice low and sinister, breaking eye contact to spare her the rekindled rage in them as he remembered Brian’s words. She touched his cheek with her soft fingertips and he leaned into them, closing his eyes and taking a cleansing breath, letting the anger dissipate into her touch. He turned back to her, opening his eyes wide.

“Wait, why are you here? I thought you were going to the library?” he asked, alarmed, “Did you forget something at my place? You could have texted me later…” He stopped at the sound of her tinny giggle, “No, I just wanted to see you play in person.”

“Oh.” He sucked in a breath, unsure of what to say. They hadn’t really left this morning with anything concrete planned. She had failed miserably at playing coy, an image that still turned his mouth at the corners, and had practically run from his house in a full blush. He was surprised that she would come here, especially since it looked like she had come straight here from his house.

“Sorry I ruined the show so early,” he scrubbed the back of his neck, pissed all over again that he had reacted to Brian’s bullshit. She cocked her head, “what did he say to make you punch him? It must have been bad. You don’t seem like you lose your cool that easily…”

He snorted at that, unable to keep his amusement in check. “I channel my aggression into football,” he said, puffing his chest out a little, “it allows me to let go of all the rage that builds up when I’m trying to focus and not escape. This week was just particularly hard with the game…Brian was just spouting bullshit about losing the game and how it was my fault.” His voice was a little hollow at the end, knowing he was leaving out the crucial part…the part that made his fist connect to that fucker’s nose. His reputation wasn’t worth it, but hers was.

“I’m sorry,” she said, earnestly, placing her hands flat on his chest and standing on her tiptoes to underline her apology. He didn’t know why she was apologizing, especially when he should probably be apologizing to her, but she was so honest looking at him like that, there was no way that he could ruin the moment with something as ugly as the truth.

He looked up and down the deserted corridor just to make sure there was no one around and cautiously dipped his head, pressing his lips to hers. He felt her sharp intake of breath against his lips, saw her eyes blow wide, before giving in to the moment. She melted against him, allowing his hands to wrap around her back, cradling her in his arms. He tilted his head to the side, gaining deeper access to her mouth and exploring with his tongue. She was so sweet, like mint and tangerine, he could lose himself in her taste for hours.

Just as she moaned and threaded her fingers into his curls, moving her mouth with his, Shawn saw movement in the corner of his vision. Before he could separate himself from her, before he could look her in the eye and plead with her not to panic, Zubin called from the other end of the corridor.

“HEY MENDES, IS THAT THE GIRL BRIAN WAS TALKING ABOUT?!”

* * * * * * * * * *

You must have jumped ten feet away from him at the booming, echoing voice no more than twenty yards from you. The guy was laughing, doubled over, and pointing at Shawn.

“Jesus, Mendes,” he sniggered, “why did you have to punch him if what he was saying was true? You DO have a piece on speed dial for when you’re feeling shitty. I can’t believe I didn’t know! I’m your fuckin’ roommate!”

“ZUBIN,” Shawn seethed, “SHUT THE **** UP.” You were angled behind him, hidden from his face, but you could imagine based on Zubin’s petrified eyes that it wasn’t a look that you ever wanted to see. Shawn turned his head toward you, masking his anger for you and mouthed, are you okay?, forehead creased in worry. It wasn’t until this point that you realized that Shawn wasn’t yelling at this guy because he had seen them, he was yelling because Zubin had outed his lie. Shawn hadn’t punched the other red shirt, Brian, Shawn had said his name was, because of what he had said about the game—he punched him because of what he had said about you.

The adrenaline pulsed, beating heavy in your chest and whispering run, run, run in your ears. Nausea quickened in your belly. You paced backward, toward the gap in the concrete where your bag still slumped. Grabbing all of your things, you quickly moved past Shawn, dodging his arm as he reached for you, and broke into a sprint.

The buzzing in your ears was deafening. You could hear wordless shouting behind you, not sure if Shawn was shouting for you or at Zubin. You just knew that you had to get out of there. Away from Shawn, away from strangers who could see you two together, away from the panic that never actually left you no matter how hard you ran from it. The whip of the wind on your face was refreshing, drying the silent tears that were free-flowing from your face. Body on autopilot, it wasn’t long before you were standing on the threshold of your dorm room, quietly opening the door.

Caroline was sitting at her desk with headphones jammed in her ears. She barely acknowledged you when you came in the room. Not wanting to give up your lie, you had been distant with her for the past week and it had caused her to shut down. It was just another thing for you to run from. You dropped your bag and immediately sat with your back against the closed door, drawing your knees up to your chest and leaning your forehead on your thighs, breathing with a distressing irregularity.

What were you thinking? What were you doing at that practice? Why did you yell his name thinking that would stop anything? Make it better? What were you doing? Where did these feelings come from? Why did you feel so connected to him?

Most of those questions felt trivial now, having already played out, but the last one…the last one stuck in your mind like glitter from last week’s art project. Sometimes, living like you did, your existence felt so unreal, so insignificant that you thought you might be invisible. Shawn, on the other hand, embodied a person so vivid, so viscerally real, and yet so hidden from the world that you wondered how he played both sides. You envied it. You envied his ability to turn the man encased in steel on and block out his truth so effectively. To be able to turn into a different person, to turn off the demons, was like a dream. There was a part of you that simultaneously wanted to free the boy inside him and yet learn how to step into his armor.

Knock-knock. You felt the door behind you pulse. Your head shot up, eyes wide. He didn’t know what dorm you lived in, right? No. There was no way. A more insistent knock-knock followed the first. Caroline turned around in her desk chair, visibly annoyed, “are you going to get that?”

“I’m not leaving if you think you can wait me out,” he called through the door. ****. Caroline’s eyes grew wide, recognizing his voice even though it was muffled heavily by an inch and a half of wood. She’d watched enough interview videos since seeing him at the party, thinking you didn’t notice, that you probably could have recognized his voice even if you’d never met him before—let alone slept in his bed. God, you were never going to live this down.

You slowly got up off the floor, and smoothed your jeans, hearing your roommate’s gasp behind you as she finally got a good look at the MENDES still emblazoned on your back. You swung the door open wide to find him raising his massive fist, about to knock on the door again. His face split into that smile, the one that you were starting to think he reserved for you. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made you want to claw at that armor that hid this boy from the world.

“Hi.”

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