Thank god.
“And this is how you do a punny Halloween!” Zack lifts a cup in my direction; everyone follows suit, and while they all drink I’m glad I decided to bring the plastic pitchfork to really round out the whole ensemble.
Zack is dressed in a graduation robe and cap, chocolate chip cookies fastened to his front.
I nod in understanding. “You’re one smart cookie,” I point at him with the pitchfork. Zack points back at me before jokingly bowing in front of me. Someone yells for him at the door and I’m left alone.
This year, the party’s at Zack’s—it sounds like the host rotates each year and whoever hosts picks the theme. I’m pretty sure this floor could fit six of my studio apartments. With floor-to-ceiling windows, and tucked in right on the edge of the city, there’s a skyline view of New York that’s hard to beat. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, it still makes me feel some type of way. Like, something so individualized can be so gorgeous together. A bunch of random buildings, lights, windows, silhouettes—they have no business sparkling the way they do when the sun goes down.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Tyson’s voice cuts through the sound of the party.
He’s wearing an orange shirt with the pi symbol on the front.Pumpkin pie.As soon as it registers, he leans forward and points to his cheeks.
“Wait, are those temporary tattoos?” There’s a little pumpkin on the top of one of his cheeks and a pumpkin pie on the other.
He laughs, one of my favorite sounds, and says, “Zack told me that since I didn’t have a full costume, it’d only be appropriate with a little extra oomph. Apparently, this is what he meant.” Ty shrugs, playing it off like he doesn’t love to go all in on a theme.
The smirk which tugs at one side of his mouth does something to me. Something it shouldn’t, because I’m fairly certain that melting into a puddle, thinking of that smirking mouth on me, at a team party, isn’t it.
I need a drink.
I find the bar, tip my head towards it, and Tyson follows me. There’s a list of featured cocktails, because why wouldn’t there be, and I act like I’m enthralled by the list. Tyson’s hip bumps into mine as he leans on the bar.
Once I’ve got a drink that’s supposed to be vampire blood—champagne and raspberry liqueur—Tyson leads me to a group of guys. While I’ve loosely met everyone and seen them at games and at practice, it’s hard to get to know this many people. Teams usually have months to do something I’ve tried to do in a few weeks.
A pit of nerves starts to open in my core—like walking into the first day of school when you don’t know anyone. Fuck, does the Halloween costume make this better or worse? Before I have time to get into it, the standing table erupts with a collective “hey” and a few “Blairs!” The excitement eases my nerves and I settle in, taking a sip of my cocktail, as teammates reintroduce themselves and let me into the group.
“Thankgodwehavethe day off tomorrow,” Tyson groans, taking in his teammates—some of whom have had a bit to drink. He takes a slow drink of his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the swig.
Clapping and cheers come from the door—someone else must be here. I crane my neck to see Benny White, the multi-million dollar kicker for the Cosmos who broke his leg during the first game, sidelining him for this season. He’s wearing a blue button-up dress shirt and has a Dunder Mifflin decal on a crutch—he’s Michael Scott when he steps on the George Foreman grill from The Office. Solid choice.
Tyson stands, I follow suit, and soon Benny is slowly making his way over. When our eyes meet, a flash of recognition hits him. We may have never met but we both know who the other is.
“Blair Miller. I’ve been dying to meet you,” A crutch props him up under his arm pit and he offers his hand. His voice bubbles with energy and it’s like an out of body experience—an NFL player who is dying to meet me? Who would’ve thought?
I put my hand in his, shaking it, and smile back at him. “Likewise. I was so sorry to hear about your injury. How are you feeling?” I glance down at the still-casted leg.
“Better, now that I know they have someone who can step in. I wish you could’ve seen me on the phone with Dylan when he called to tell me about you. I thought it was a joke until I saw it for myself. How the hell did you learn to do that?”
“I did play college soccer, but this is all the product of older brothers and a mean competitive streak.” I shrug my shoulders.
He laughs and the way he looks at me has me feeling lighter. It’s like his face is filled with gratitude, and maybe a bit of relief. I get it—if I was a key part of my team’s strategy and not able to deliver… that would eat me alive.
“I’d like their addresses so I can send them a thank you gift. You’re a solid add to the team. You guys know each other from college, right?” He gestures between me and Tyson.
Turning to look at Tyson almost turns my mouth to sandpaper. His blue eyes dart to mine and they’re the color of the ocean crashing on the coast—the one you dream of. I take a sip of my vampire blood drink, realizing it’s practically empty, and answer, “Yes. We’ve known each other a long time.”
Before Tyson can jump in, someone stands too close to me, hitting my hip with theirs. He’s looking down at a cell phone until he realizes he bumped into me. Awkwardly, his eyes find my face for a brief second, before they go back to his phone, and to me again for an enthusiastic double take.
“Oh look, you’re dressed like my ex-wife.” He jokes but it lands flat. He’s wearing a suit that’s too expensive to be a costume and he’s the only one laughing.
“She’s a deviled egg…” Tyson says, almost in a question, his cheeks scrunched in the same confusion we’re all feeling, the temporary pumpkin and pie tattoos crinkling.
The man gives Tyson a glimpse of a look and returns to his phone, “Oh. Well, the devil part. You get it.” His fingers move over the keyboard and he doesn’t look back up until too many long seconds have passed between us. “Hey, you’re that girl.” He snaps his fingers at me and I don’t know where the strength comes from but I hold everything back not to give him a ‘what the fuck’ look. “Claire?”
No.My blood starts to boil but before I can correct him, everyone around me says, “Blair.”
“Right, Blair,” he says while looking back to his phone. The man doesn’t even have the audacity to apologize or make eye contact. “Well, thanks for keeping this guy’s spot warm. He’s going to be back before you know it.” He grabs Benny’s shoulder, jostling him a little harder than I think is okay for someone on crutches.
