Wrangled

I just stare at Harrison, blank-faced.

My shoulder and arm sting where he slapped them.

“Oh shit, it’s Lance!” comes another voice, which causes me to spin around yet again. Now Tanner Strong himself stands right in front of me: a thickly-muscled man in a tight white t-shirt that stretches over his pecs, and even tighter jeans that look like his football thighs are about to burst out of them Hulk-style. He was the big-shot, popular, star football player back in my day, earning himself the title of “the Spruce Juice”. Last I heard, he was heading to college to become a pro. I don’t know if that dream was ever realized. “Dude, wait ‘til I tell Billy you’re here! He’ll flip!”

But really, what the hell is going on?

Why am I suddenly surrounded by hot football players?

Am I dead? Is this Heaven?

Did the steak kill me?

“Billy Tucker? Yeah, I’m pretty sure he won’t flip anything but a finger,” I throw right back at Tanner—my signature brand of sass kicking on just in time to save face. “Billy and I weren’t really chummy back then—Wait, you guys are friends? You and Billy?”

Tanner and Harrison share a look, then burst out laughing.

I furrow my brow.

Clearly I’m missing something here.

“Anyway,” Tanner goes on, ignoring my question, “Once Billy gets here—he had a quick errand to run—I’ll bring him to you. Damn, it’s great to see you, Lance. I hope you get your fill of the punch, because I’m—” Tanner blinks. “I’m on my sixth cup, and even I’m feelin’ it. Dang, that’s strong! Ha! Shit, can’t believe you’re here.” In a renewed fit of teary-eyed laughter, Tanner heads off.

After he leaves, I find my eyes wandering past him, catching sight of Chad again. He’s turned away chatting with his buddies, which grants me an agonizing view of his ass in those tight, dirty-looking jeans of his, cinched by a thick brown belt. His sleeveless plaid shirt tapers perfectly up his V-shaped body, dragging my eyes up to his wide shoulders and the strong base of his neck.

It isn’t fair. An evil high school bully—responsible for every second of torment one might’ve experienced in one’s childhood—should not be so devastatingly hot.

It actually makes me angry, if I’m being totally honest here.

One person shouldn’t have it all: the satisfaction of torturing me for years, the support of all his equally-hot jock buddies, and the fact that ten years later, he’s somehow gotten ten times sexier.

It. Isn’t. Fair.

“Wait, you really don’t know?”

I snap my eyes back to Harrison, yanked mercifully out of my Chad daze. I nearly forgot we were in the middle of something. “Uh … Don’t know what?”

“Billy and Tanner.” Harrison laughs. “Dude, they’re married. They’ve been married for, like, four-ish years.”

I blink.

Married?

“Well …” I mask my surprise impressively well. “I guess this is what I get for not joining the Facebook group message. Just kidding, there isn’t one. So … Billy and Tanner, really? I mean, is that so surprising when you think about it? A closeted football player comes out. That’s practically expected now in every small, repressed town: big manly football player turns out to like it up the butt. Ooh, shocking.” I let out a dry laugh, go for a sip of punch, then stop myself. “Maybe I shouldn’t press my luck with alcohol in my system. I’m feeling snappish enough without it, apparently.”

When I look back at Harrison, he’s wearing a strange, faraway look on his face. All the cheer seems to have fled his eyes.

“Sorry,” I blurt, noting his instant change in mood. “Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean—”

“Nah, of course not,” Harrison says, at once putting a smile on his face and shrugging away whatever dark cloud had just passed over it. “It was just … uh, just funny, I guess. The Tanner, uh, being closeted thing. Yeah, no one knew back in … in the day. Then …” He scratches anxiously at a spot on his neck, then swallows. “He, uh … came back from college, reconnected with Billy, and the rest is … is history. Heh, crazy stuff.” He wipes his forehead. “Fuck, it’s hot in here. Is it hot in here? Sorry, excuse me. Nice seeing you.”

Then Harrison darts right off, cutting through the crowd, and before I can even process what happened, I’m assaulted by a group of no less than six chatty ladies from my class who squeal when they realize who I am and immediately strike up a conversation about the “good ol’ days”. They grill me on everything I’ve been doing with my life for the past decade.

But really, what did I say that sent Harrison flying off? It feels like I struck a nerve, but I have no idea what nerve I struck.

“Right, I’m in fashion,” I answer one of the ladies mildly.