Chapter 26
Wow, Football Players Stink
Sebastian
I'm wearing a football jersey.
Me. Sebastian Moretti. The guy who spent high school actively avoiding anything sports-related. The guy who once got hit in the face with a volleyball in gym class and used it as an excuse to get out of PE for three weeks.
I'm wearing a football jersey with ROBINS and the number 52 on the back.
"You look like a groupie," JP observes from beside me.
"I look supportive."
"You look like you want to have his babies."
"Biologically impossible."
"Science is advancing every day." JP's mouth twitches. "I'm sure they'll figure it out."
Max bounces on his toes, scanning the field with an intensity usually reserved for robotics competitions. "Holy servo motors, there are a lot of very large men down there."
"That's generally how football works," I say dryly.
"No, I mean—" Max gestures vaguely. "They're so... big. And muscular. And sweaty."
Leo, on Max's other side, glares at the field like it personally offended him. "It's just sports. Organized violence with arbitrary rules."
"Organized violence performed by extremely athletic men in tight pants," Max corrects. He tilts his head. "Which one is yours, Seb?"
"Number 52. Defensive end."
Max squints. "Gavin really is a mountain with legs?"
"Yuuup-p!" Popping the P just feels right.
"Oh wow," Max nods approvingly. "He's huge in pads." He waggles his eyebrows at me like he's not as innocent as we think. "All over?"
Leo's glare intensifies. I'll think about that later.
The stadium is like a really ambitious set of bleachers; it's packed with people in teal and silver. Flags wave. Someone's got an air horn that they're using way too liberally.
The Navigator, PCU's mascot, is doing some kind of interpretive dance near the fifty-yard line, involving a lot of telescope-pointing and dramatic poses.
It's ridiculous. It's loud. It's absolutely not my idea of fun.
I love it.
"This is good," JP announces, surveying the crowd with an analytical expression. "This is us experiencing college. Integrating into campus culture. Expanding our social horizons."
"You sound like you're writing a grant proposal," I tell him.
"I'm mentally documenting our progress. We've gone from five socially isolated individuals to—" He pauses, counting. "—five socially isolated individuals attending a sporting event. Growth."
"Technically, Seb's not isolated anymore," Max points out with a bit of a sigh. "He's got a whole football player."
"I don't have him. We're… "
"You're wearing his jersey."
"That doesn't mean—"
"You're wearing his name on your back. Like a brand. Like property."
"I'm being supportive."
"You're being claimed." Max grins. "It's cute. Disgusting, but cute."
I flip him off. He blows me a kiss.
The exhibition is in full swing, some kind of skills competition that I don't fully understand but involves a lot of running and catching, and the crowd is going absolutely feral every few minutes. I spot Gavin on the sidelines, helmet off, laughing at something one of his teammates said.
Even from here, he looks massive. Shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. Thighs like tree trunks. That easy smile that makes my stomach flip.
God, I've got it bad.
"Your heart rate just increased," JP observes. "I can tell by the flush creeping up your neck."
"Shut up."
"Also, you're smiling. It's disturbing."
"You're all dead to me. Especially you, Max."
"No, I'm not." Max hooks his arm through mine. "I'm your favorite. That's why you're mad."
He's right. Annoyingly, frustratingly right.
The skills competition wraps up, and there's now some kind of touch game Gavin told me has some high school players mixed in. It's a recruiting thing, apparently. The young guys are in yellow jerseys and look equally terrified and thrilled.
"Okay, I have a question," Leo says slowly. "Why do they keep stopping? They run for three seconds and then everyone just... stands around."
"Strategic planning?" I guess.
"It's inefficient."
"It's tradition?"
"Inefficient tradition."
Max pats Leo's arm. "Just watch the tight pants, buddy. That's what I'm doing."
Leo's jaw tightens. "I don't care about the tight pants."
"Sure you don't."
The touch game continues. I watch Gavin move. Even in a casual scrimmage, he's something else. Fast for his size. Powerful. He looks like he knows what's going on before it happens, like he's got some kind of football ESP.
My football player. Mine.
The thought sends a warm pulse through my chest. Dangerous. Probably stupid.
Mine.
"Uh oh," JP says quietly.
I follow his gaze to where a cluster of players has gathered near the sideline. Their body language is all wrong for a fun game, hands are fisting and the guys are squaring up. Something's happening.
"What—"
Then I hear it. The speakers are picking up someone's mic, and the words cut through the crowd noise like a knife.
"—fucking fairy can't even catch a ball without making it look gay. What's next, gonna blow kisses to the crowd?"
Everything goes cold.
"Who said that?" Max's voice has an edge I've never heard before.
One of the players, number 87, some guy I don't recognize, is laughing, gesturing at another player. A few people around him look uncomfortable, shifting their weight, not meeting anyone's eyes.
And then Gavin moves.
It happens so fast. One second, 87's laughing at his own joke, the next he's flat on his back with 280 pounds of pissed-off defensive end standing over him.
"Holy shit," someone near us breathes.
The crowd has gone quiet. The mic is still hot, picking up everything.
The guy scrambles to his feet, face red. "What the fuck, Robins?"
"Shut your mouth." Gavin's voice is calm. Terrifyingly calm. "Now."
They are close enough to someone wearing a mic so we can hear everything. It's echoing around the field, but I don't think the player knows that.
"Or what? You gonna tackle me again? Over a joke?"
Another player steps forward, Omar, I think. He gets right in the guys face. "Say it again."
"Say what?"
"What you just said. Say. It. Again."
Instead of backing down, his face twists into something ugly.
"Are you fucking deaf? I said the fairy can't catch. And while we're at it, half this team's gone soft. Too worried about being inclusive and shit to actually play football. It's fucking pathetic."
"You really are a dumb fuck, aren't you?" Omar shakes his head slowly.
The team has gathered now, forming a loose circle around 87. He's finally starting to look nervous, eyes darting from face to face, finding no allies.
"What... what?"
Then the coaches are there. I recognize the Head Coach Daniels and the defensive coordinator, Coach Williams, pushing through the circle of players.
"Bradley." Coach Daniels' voice carries through the mic, calm but cold. "You are a disgrace to this team and the uniform you're wearing. It's 2025, and if you have your head lodged so far up your ass that you can't see that, then there's nothing else I can teach you."
Bradley's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"Leave the field. Now. Wait in my office. We'll discuss your future with this program… or lack thereof, after the exhibition."
For a second, it looks like Bradley might argue. Then he seems to register the expressions on his teammates' faces, the disgust, the anger, the complete lack of support, and something in him deflates.
"This is bullshit," he mutters, but he's already walking away. "Fucking bullshit."
The stadium is dead silent as he disappears into the complex.
Coach Daniels takes the mic from Omar and turns to address the crowd. "I apologize for what you just witnessed. That individual's views do not represent this team, this athletic program, or this university."
He pauses, jaw tight. "Pacific Coast University believes that everyone deserves a fair shot. Everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and respect. If that's too difficult a concept for some people, then they don't belong here."
A beat of silence.
Then someone starts clapping. Someone else joins in. And suddenly the whole stadium is on its feet, applause thundering through the bleachers.
My eyes are burning. I blink hard, but the tears come anyway.
JP's hand finds mine. Squeezes. Max grabs my other hand. Leo reaches past Max to put his hand on my shoulder.
We stand there, four queer kids in a sea of teal and silver, watching a football team publicly declare that people like us matter.
"Well," JP says quietly, his voice a little rough. "That was unexpected."
"Yeah." I can barely get the word out. "It was."
The rest of the exhibition goes by in a blur. I'm still processing what happened, still feeling that applause echo in my chest. The crowd is lighter now, happier, like Bradley caught acting like an asshole somehow purged the toxic from the air.
When the final whistle blows, I watch Gavin scan the bleachers. His face breaks into a sunshiney grin when he spots me, and he's jogging over before I can even process that he's moving.
"Doc!" He doesn't slow down, just scoops me into a hug that lifts me clean off the ground. He smells like sweat and grass and distinctly Gavin. "You came!"
"I said I would."
"Yeah, but—" He sets me down, hands lingering on my waist. "You're wearing my jersey."
"Don't make it weird." He’s smiling at me from ear to ear.
"Too late. It's weird. It's amazing." He's looking at me like I'm the best thing he's ever seen, which is ridiculous because all I did was put on a shirt.
"You were incredible out there," I tell him, and his whole face lights up even more somehow.
"Yeah?" He ducks his head, almost shy. "The skills stuff went okay. Fumbled one catch, but Coach said it was—" He stops, shakes his head. "Never mind. Not important. What's important is you're here, and you're wearing my jersey, and I'm so fucking happy right now."
"You're ridiculous."
"Probably." He spots my friends and waves. "Hey, guys! Thanks for coming!"