“Pissed isn’t the right word. I’m…”
“Irked, befuddled, annoyed?”
I nodded in agreement. “You sound like you swallowed a thesaurus but yes, that’s exactly it.”
I gave Evan a brief rundown from my game that morning, highlighting key points of my underwater wrestling match with Gabe.
“Sounds like a regular day at the office. What’s the big deal?”
I yanked my button-down shirt from my jeans and turned to show him the wicked-looking scratch on my side. “Look what he did to me!”
Evan gamely leaned to check out my war wound. “Poor baby. Didn’t Amanda do that to you too?”
“That was different,” I huffed. “This isn’t a love mark in the heat of the moment. This fucking hurts!”
“Hmph. But it was a heat of the moment thing. Maybe Gabe swings both ways, and he’s trying to let you know he wants you.” Evan’s faux-serious tone made me laugh.
“You’re an idiot.” I smacked him upside the head, then flopped back into the armchair. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t think twice about any of this, except Coach informed me Gabe is transferring. He’s going to be my new teammate.”
“Oh…the plot thickens.” Evan rubbed his hands together gleefully and waggled his eyebrows. When I didn’t crack a smile, he cocked his head. “C’mon, Der. You’ve been talking about what a kickass player Gabe is for years. And if he’s occasionally kicked your ass, doesn’t that mean he’ll be a fierce teammate?”
“Maybe, but he’s a dick,” I groused.
“Hey, he could be a great guy outside of the pool, but who gives a shit? If you ask me, I bet you’re mad no one cleared his transfer with you first. You like to be consulted on these things.”
“Yeah, well…” I didn’t deny it. As team captain, I would have appreciated a heads up. My anally retentive nature demanded to be in the know.
“Why’s he transferring anyway? Isn’t he a senior?” Evan asked, glancing back at the television distractedly.
“Yeah, but I don’t know if he’s staying on for another year or not. As far as why…I think he just made the national team. It’s basically a pre-Olympic training squad. Their coach runs practices at a nearby pool. But that’s just a guess. I have no idea.” I swiped my hand through my hair, then reached for my beer.
“You can ask him tonight. I bet you twenty bucks Chelsea invited Gabe to her party.”
“What? Why would she?”
“You know Chels. She loves fresh blood. If she’s heard Gabe’s transferring, she’ll invite him. Which means…your new best buddy may be there tonight. If he is, it’s a great time to shake hands and agree to be friends. And if things go well, maybe you can get him to scratch you in a way you might actually like.”
“You’re hysterical. Get dressed and let’s grab something to eat. I’m hungry.”
We stopped at a bar on 2nd Street for a pre-party dinner. We chatted about sports, school, and current events over burgers, fries, and a couple of beers and then walked to Chelsea’s place. It was a wise decision to leave our cars behind. There was no parking in front of her house. I had a feeling that would be the case. School started next week and summer wasn’t quite over, which meant beach towns up and down the Southern California coast were bombarded, and parking spaces were hard to come by.
I paused in the doorway to get my bearings and blinked at the instant sensory overload. The lights were dim, the music was at near concert-level decibels, and the living room was a swarm of humanity. I spotted our hostess dancing on a coffee table. Chelsea Ramirez was one of my best friends and a self-proclaimed party girl. She was outgoing and friendly, and she loved hosting impromptu get-togethers for fifty or more people. Her roommates were obviously in on the fun, but we all knew Chelsea was the catalyst. Her bi-monthly parties were a staple in the five years I’d lived in Long Beach.
Chels was a pretty, petite Latina with long brown hair and a bohemian vibe that drew people to her. I glanced at the good-looking blond, blue-eyed guy dancing with her. Mitch was one of Chels’s “party pals.” Her words, not mine. He was one of those high-energy, life-of-the-party types. In other words, Chelsea’s male equivalent. Over the past few years, he’d morphed from a shy, quiet kid to an out-and-proud member of the cheer squad and a leader in the university’s Queer Alliance club. I didn’t know Mitch well, but I liked him and I respected his relentless confidence.
Chelsea yelled my name, holding Mitch’s arm for support when she teetered on her high-heeled boots. I couldn’t hear a word she said, but I thought she was inviting me to dance. Hell, no. Not without liquid courage. I waved, then tipped my hand toward my mouth in a universal “I need a drink” gesture before greeting a couple of my teammates standing near the galley-style kitchen.