On a Wednesday (One Week 2)

For one, she always threw up her middle finger whenever I winked at her from the sidelines. For two, I’d seen her a few times on dates at coffee shops with a guy who looked much older, which confirmed that she was the “good girl” type. The exact opposite of the type I wanted.

Still, the “I’m turned on, but I refuse to admit it” look on her face when she realized that I was on top of her was going to play on a loop in my mind for days to come, if I didn’t break my record soon.

To make matters worse, Sports Illustrated: College Football had randomly decided to release a special cover edition that featured the back of my jersey and the words “Next Year’s Potential Draft Class: What They’re Worth,” as its main story.

There wasn’t a single quote from me in the article, but the numbers that were being discussed were “expert verified,” so quite a few people on campus had asked me about them.

One of my professors said, “I guess my claim to fame will be teaching a guy who’s already worth twenty-million.” A junior I’d met at a bar rubbed my chest mid-conversation and whispered, “I think you’re worth double what they say.” A woman I’d met on Carnegie Mellon’s campus was seconds away from getting invited back to my place until she said, “If you need any help investing any of the money you’ll get from your first set of endorsements, I’ll always be here for you.”

People have lost their damn minds.

“Come do a few shots with us, Kyle!” My teammate, Josh, suddenly tossed a can of Coke to me.

I walked over to him and picked up a bottle of vodka.” Is it me or do tonight’s flames look a lot higher than they did in previous years?”

“They’re definitely a lot higher.” He patted me on the back. “We used five gallons of gasoline this time.”

“You used how many?”

“Five.” He furrowed his brow. “Why is your face losing all of its color, Kyle? You feeling sick?”

“I told you that we only needed one gallon for this, Josh. One gallon.”

“Well, maybe I got a little too hype after our ‘W’ to remember that.” He smiled. “Is it really that big of a deal? I didn’t add them all at once or anything. It was a gradual process, like the line of girls who are currently waiting for me to stop by their rooms later tonight.”

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.