I stared at him, wondering how the hell he’d managed to get by as a Biochemistry major. It was moments like these that made me want to beg professors to stop passing athletes just because we won championships.

“If you’d used one gallon, we could’ve easily ended this party within an hour and a half,” I said. “And like usual, we can kind of get away with it because it won’t leave that big of a mess on this fucking lawn that we don’t own.”

“So, you want me to show you my math skills, then?” He took out his phone. “One and a half hours per can divided by five equals three tenths, and that means—”

“It’s one and half times five, Josh. Times five.”

He tapped his screen, and his eyes widened. “It’s going to take seven and a half hours to clean this up?”

“Yes.” I noticed that the pile of wood was far larger than it usually was, too. “It’s also five times the acreage.”

He blinked. “So uh … Should we just make the party last until seven in the morning then? Is the math your way of saying that I did the right thing?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Tell the third string to start dousing the edges of it so we can have the option to get out of here by three.”

“Who’s being Mr. Cautious now?” He rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we just wait for Grayson to yell at us all?”

I let out a sigh. “I just want to go four for four, when it comes to Coach never seeing this.”

He placed his hands onto my shoulders. “You won’t. I’ve got you. Now, can you go pick a few girls and get laid as soon as possible? Then, maybe when you’re finished, call me with the buzzkill, cleanup directions?”

“Fine.” I walked over to a group of freshmen and attempted to take his advice.

In the morning, I woke up to three passed-out freshmen on my living room couch.

They’d followed me home from the bonfire—teasing me as I drove, but their entire tone changed once we made it into my apartment.

They refused to give me the text message contracts that I asked for, telling me that I was being “ridiculously over the top.” I’d almost given in, but I caught one of them attempting to record our conversation.

Without saying another word, I locked myself in my room and pretended like this was last year. As if they’d taken turns giving me drunken hand-jobs without any regard for the future. Or if they had any thoughts of using me for later gain.

But even those memories weren’t enough to get me off.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I picked up my phone and scrolled through my messages, looking for an exchange with an open ending --for someone who would be up for another round months later.

All I found were the endings and restraints that I’d placed on myself.

Me: Thanks for a good time.

Me: Thanks for last night.

Me: Glad you made it back safe.

Sighing, I tapped my fingers against the screen. I had a reputation to uphold, and I needed to find a way to have the reckless senior year that I'd always wanted.

Even if I had to pretend for a while.

As I was scrolling through the messages a second time, Josh sent me a new one.

Josh: We stayed up late and made sure the fire was completely out. Coach will be 100% out of the loop for another year.

Me: Thank you.

Kyle: Then

Senior Year

Pittsburgh

Subject: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire ...

How about making sure that you won’t burn down the grounds in the process?! How about ASKING your neighbors if they’ll mind having five hundred students in their streets until three in the morning?

I know damn well that this was not a “team” idea, and whenever KYLE and GRAYSON want to own up to this shit, I’ll reduce the extra five daily miles you all now owe me to three miles.

I’m waiting.

—Coach Whitten

 

* * *

 

Subject: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire …

It was me, Coach.

Grayson had nothing to do with it this time. He didn’t even show up. Speaking of which—

Dude, where were you? I fucked like three girls from this bonfire. You probably could’ve hooked up with at least five. I don’t think I’ll need another blowjob for a month after how amazing these were.

P.S.—Are you back at our apartment yet? I need to tell you these stories in person when Coach isn’t acting like this shit is a big deal.

—Kyle

 

* * *

 

Subject: Re: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire …

Kyle,

Meet me in my office at the complex NOW.

—Coach Whitten

 

* * *

 

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire …

I meant to send that last part to just Grayson. Not to you, Coach. Can I come in a few hours? I mean, now that you’ve read what I said, surely you understand how exhausted I am. Three girls, Coach. THREE.

—Kyle.

 

* * *

 

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire …

Right. Fucking. NOW.

—Coach Whitten

 

* * *

 

I shook my head as I reread his messages, wishing I could tell him and Grayson the truth instead of the lies.

They wouldn’t believe me in a million years, though.

I debated whether I should go to my first class of the day to delay Coach’s berating session for another hour or deal with it now.

Clicking on the syllabus for my course Debating Yourself & Others, I saw that today was “Revealing Your Vulnerability” day.

Coach’s berating session it is.

“Have a seat, Kyle.” Coach Whitten shut the door once I arrived. “And turn off your cell phone.”

I obliged and set my phone on his desk. “I’m sorry about sending you those emails, Coach. They were meant for Grayson’s eyes only.”

“I’m glad you sent them to me,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s rather interesting to see how my star receiver behaves whenever he’s off the field.”

“It’s what happens on the field that matters, Coach.” I leaned back in my seat. “I haven’t let you down once since my freshman year.”

He tapped his fingers on the desk, looking at me in the way he did when he first recruited me in my living room years ago. It was a cross between confusion and admiration.

“Look, son,” he said, finally. “Life is not all about women and sex.”

“I know,” I said. “There’s also football, achievements, and success. Not to mention the parties. It’s important to have those as well.”

“Damnit, Kyle.” He rolled his eyes. “Stop talking. I know, without a doubt, that you’re going to be selected within the first round no matter what antics you pull this semester, but since you’ve purposely picked the lightest major and you clearly have plenty of time for recklessness, I think you can make space for a little female appreciation.”