A bartender wearing a vest was mixing drinks, though I saw three kegs on the porch as well. Younger-looking boys— the freshmen, I reasoned— were darting to and from the older guys, bringing them drinks, snacks, their phones…whatever they wanted.
Pecking order indeed, I thought.
It wasn’t until we were walking toward a few of the older guys that I realized two things: One, that girls seemed to more or less be exempt from the pecking order, laughing and being waited on every bit as intently as the older players, and two, that college football players were all huge.
Which, of course they were. Football was a contact sport. They had to smash into each other or whatever. And the football players at my high school had been sort of big. But nothing like these guys. The seniors, in particular, were enormous. Tall, broad shouldered, muscular beyond reason. Their jaws were chiseled and their arms protested against their sleeves.
“Ladies,” a young player said, sweeping toward us with three matching cocktails in his hands. He passed them out. “Who’s your friend?” he asked Piper, nodding toward me as if I was a mute.
“This is Sasha. She’s the New Lily,” Piper explained.
“Got it. Someone was asking,” the young guy said, then skirted off before saying whom.
“Someone was asking?” I said, looking at the drink warily.
“Newcomers to Football House are noteworthy. I told you, Sasha, this is a big deal,” Piper informed me, looking pleased that I was attracting attention.
Piper took a careful sip of her drink, while Kiersten gulped hers and then tossed the cup to the nearest football freshmen.
I hesitated.
“Oh god, don’t tell me you don’t drink,” Piper said, looking horrified.
“No, uh, I just…you know. I didn’t see who made this, and I’ve heard more than a few horror stories,” I said.
Piper gasped a little and looked embarrassed. “Oh, honey, no. Not here. I mean, yeah— good thinking. But like I said, Football House is a big deal. That sort of shit just doesn’t happen here.”
“Promise?” I said, glancing down at the drink again. The last thing I wanted was to become a statistic my first day of college.
“You’ll be fine,” Kiersten said seriously. “But hell, here—“ She snatched the drink from my hand and downed it, then tossed it toward one of the freshmen. The boy caught it soundly, then continued on his path. Kiersten looked back to me and grinned. “Go have the bartender make you another.”
“Thanks,” I said, flushing a little, and made my way to the bar. Kiersten and Piper watched me go, then turned their backs on me when one of the older football players— a tall, Latino-looking guy with dark eyes and cheekbones carved by angels— approached them.
“What can I get you?” the guy behind the bar asked as I slid up to it. There were no seats— just the tall bar table— but I still found myself clinging to its edge like a life raft.
“Something easy to drink?” I asked.
The bartender smiled— he was wearing eyeliner that was so on point, I wanted to ask him for tips on doing my own. “How about this?” he asked, and opened a cheap beer.
“Yes, please,” I said, taking it from him. “Will I be the only one not drinking something fancy?”
“Nah— everyone dissolves to PBRs by the end of the night,” the bartender said. He rested his elbows on the bar and leaned across. “So. You’re new.”
“Yes. I came with Piper and Kiersten,” I said, turning to motion toward them. “Oh!” I said, feeling my face flush.
Piper was steadily making out with the Latino guy, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. He reached down and lifted her from the ground like she weighed nothing at all which, given the size of his muscles, she probably didn’t so far as he was concerned.
“Piper, Piper, Piper,” the bartender said, shaking his head a little. He sounded unimpressed. “That’s Stewart Adams. He’s a rising junior, future star quarterback. Just ask him.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what else I could say. “So he’s a jerk?”
The bartender shrugged and tidied the neat bowtie at his throat. “He’s fine. She’s just using him. Trying to get to the real prize,” he said, and grinned.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
The bartender side-eyed me. “You are new. Well, honey, first off: Welcome to Harton. Second off, allow me to be the first to point out the hero of Harton, the king of this particular castle. He’s the fire in the loins of every girl and at least one of the boys in this room,” he said, raising his own hand. “And the king’s name is Jacob Everett.” As the bartender said the name, his voice got low and sultry, as if even uttering it was somehow decadent.
The bartender motioned over to his left and into a room just over his shoulder. There was a fireplace with a brick mantle, and around it were dozens and dozens of posters, photos, and newspaper cutouts celebrating the Harton Rams’ football achievements. A beaten but cozy looking leather couch was positioned along one wall, and was occupied by a variety of girls (who looked like off-brand versions of Piper and Kiersten).