The student section went wild when Tarvarius Johnson, the team’s best running back, gained ten yards and another first down on the next play. Everyone in the stands was on their feet, cheering at the tops of their voices—us included. Mick handed the ball off to Tarvarius a second time, which apparently was a mistake because the Bulldogs were ready and tackled him behind the line of scrimmage, costing us four yards. On the next play, Mick dropped back again, and this time he found Callahan O’Reilly with a pass into the end zone for a touchdown.
When Callahan pointed the nose of the ball at the stands where Jamaica was watching the game, Piper, Saylor, and I cheered even louder. All of us bounced up and down and laughed as our friend pulled her Wildcats scarf over her face right as a cameraman caught her on film and broadcast her reaction on the Jumbotron.
Involuntarily, my eyes strayed down the rows from where Jamaica, Axel, and Drake were seated to the Wildcats’ bench. I caught Finn engaged in a complicated sort of ritualistic hand game with Callahan. After their congratulatory silliness, he stepped back to the bench, snagged his helmet, and joined the rest of the defense on the edge of the field to watch the kicking team kick off to the Bulldogs. Right before he tugged his helmet over his head, he gazed up into the stands, his eyes zeroed in on me, and the corner of his mouth tipped up.
Ugh!He’d caught me watching him again—and judging by his smile, he was enjoying it.
Jerk.
I needed to find some self-control, pronto. No way did I want him to think I was harboring any interest in him whatsoever. After all, he was involved with Tory Miller, which proved he wasn’t my type at all.
“Anyone else need a hot chocolate refill?” I asked my friends.
“Ooh, I could use one,” Saylor said.
“Count me in,” Piper added.
Yes, the defense was back on the field—Finn was back on the field—but I needed a break from watching him. And from thinking about him and the way his smiles lit up my insides against my will.
As I headed to the concession stand, I promised myself under no circumstances would I ever get involved with Finnegan McCabe.
Ignoring every excuse I gave, Saylor insisted I attend the post-game party at the big Victorian on Jock Street where Finn and his roommates lived. The Wildcats’ win today had moved us one step closer to the conference championship and the playoffs, so the party was likely to be wild and rowdy—not my scene at all. If only I’d had to be on call at the dorms...
After the game, we’d headed to our favorite pub for a mountain of loaded nachos and beer. I’d backed off on the chocolate and peppermint schnapps before the end of the first half. The cloying sweetness of Saylor’s favorite game-day drink made my teeth hurt. At the halftime tailgate, I drank a couple of White Claws and switched to black coffee to stay warm during the second half. By the end of the game, I was still sober, which was most of the problem with going to a party with a bunch of jocks and the jersey chasers whose mission it was to bag one of them.
“At least pretend to have fun,” Saylor admonished as we walked up the sidewalk to Finn’s house. “Who knows? Maybe if you fake it, you’ll make it.” She elbowed me in the ribs and laughed uproariously at her bad joke as we stepped onto the front porch.
The house was teeming with people. A big guy who seemed to have no neck sat on a folding chair in the foyer checking IDs. When I saw the party had a bouncer, I let myself relax. We shouldered our way through the throng dancing to thumping hip-hop in the living room and discovered Jamaica standing close to Callahan in the kitchen.
“Hey! Look who made it,” she said as each of us hugged her.
“Football parties are way more fun than frat parties,” Saylor said with a smirk. “We’d much rather be here than over at the ADRs.” She laughed. “But if either of you ever out me to one of my brothers, I’ll toss you under the bus so fast it’ll leave tread marks on your bones.”
I shot her a look. “Overdramatic much?”
Beside Jamaica, Callahan laughed. “Grab a beer and join the fun.”
Right as he said that, Saylor glanced over and caught the eye of the gorgeous Black guy from the other night at Stromboli’s—the one with the knowing smile who couldn’t stop staring at her then either.
“Don’t mind if I do. You want one, Chess?”
“Only if it’s still cold when you hand it to me.” I was sure she’d have no trouble deciphering what I meant from my sardonic tone.
“What was that all about?” my best friend asked as we watched our other friend sashay over to where the hot lineman was manning the keg.
“We met Jeremiah Fitzgerald the other night over pizza. Saylor put on the flirt, and he jumped right in. If not for the fact he and his buddies were on their way out the door at the time, she probably would have shown up at this shindig with him instead of me.”
“You would have liked that too, wouldn’t you?” Jamaica teased.
“Too bad you weren’t on call this weekend. I could have covered for you again. No charge.”
I didn’t miss the way Callahan’s face lit up when I made my offer. Nor did I miss the way his hand snaked around Jamaica’s waist as he held her close to his side.Interesting.
Saylor handed me a red cup full of nasty keg beer, but at least it was cold. “For you, milady. Enjoy.” She touched her own cup to mine and downed a healthy swig, her eyes twinkling over the rim. Without another word, she returned to where Jeremiah was filling cups for the line of people streaming in from the living room.
Addressing Callahan, I said, “Guess we know why your party is more fun than the frat party where Saylor is a little sister.”
Speculation narrowed Jamaica’s eyes. “Guess we do.”
