“To find my brother.” I tug, but he doesn’t release me. I could twist my wrist and stomp off. In fact, that’s what I should do. I shouldn’t enjoy the feel of his rough fingers around me. I shouldn’t tingle in my private places at the thought of that touch elsewhere on my body.
Why is it so hard to do what you should do instead of what you want to do? Maybe the better question is: Why do I want things that are bad for me? Because there’s no question that Knox Masters is bad for me. While I may have daddy issues—who wouldn’t with my old man—ever since Travis, I’ve made good decisions when it came to guys. Granted those decisions primarily ended up being avoiding males, but even if Masters didn’t play football, he’d be someone to stay away from. I don’t like overconfident players and despite—or maybe even because of it—Masters’ virginity claim, he’s as confident as they come.
He knows he’ll be playing on Sundays and he has to know that he’s the king of this campus. If he crooked his little finger, 99.9% of the women and maybe half the men would be at his side saying, “Yes, please” to any request he may have, no matter how degrading or ridiculous.
This time when I move away, I do the tug and twist, and my hand comes free. The music changes and Silento’s “Watch Me” plays. Watch me disappear. I wave to him before I let the crowd swallow me up. He stares at me, a thoughtful expression on his face. I’m afraid of what he’s thinking, afraid that his interest might draw me back in, so I turn and dance with the nearest drunken student, hoping that somewhere in this mass of people is that chess player I told Jack I would date this semester.
But my plan is waylaid when a circle opens up in the center of the room, and the football players that aren’t hiding in some room playing Madden egg each other on to show off their whips, Nae-Naes, and Dougies. You can barely hear the music over the shouts of the crowd. Matty Iverson, the All-American Mid Conference linebacker, starts it off, swinging his hips and grinding low to the ground before jumping back up with one foot in the air. His mop of curly black hair shakes with him.
Another player follows up with his teammates hollering for him to get low. His arms pop and lock, and then he places a hand behind his head and wiggles his elbows as he bounces in a wide circle. I can’t help but smile and cheer along with everyone else as one after another gives us a short display of their moves.
The part of me that loves football is the same part of me that responds to this show right here—the pageantry, the athleticism, the energy of the crowd. The beats of the music, the synchronized shouts, all thrum throughout my body.
“You want to dance?”
I didn’t even sense him. Masters bends low, his hands finding a perfect resting spot on my waist. His lips are so close to my ear that one could classify it as a kiss. Realistically, though, it’s loud in here.
“Not really.”
“Yet, here you are. On the dance floor.” His mouth curves up by my cheek. He starts to turn me around into his embrace when I’m saved by a shout.
“Masters! Get your white, unrhythmic ass over here!”
Masters shakes his head and laughs, and it’s like before, deep and rumbly, as if he does everything with his whole self. My stupid body tightens in response because I know he’d be a beast in the sack. He’d throw every ounce of his energy and enthusiasm, and it’d be dirty, loud, and exhausting. Girls would walk funny for three days.
“We’re playing this song on never-ending fucking repeat if you don’t come over here and throw down,” Hammer calls out. He turns to the crowd, waving his arms up and down, and starts to chant, Masters, Masters. The students pick it up and soon Masters—and I—get propelled to the front of the circle.
He rubs a hand down his face and turns back to me. “Don’t forget I was an All American pick for both freshman and sophomore years.”
Finishing his uncharacteristic bragging, he steps into the empty space and spreads his arms wide, like a ringmaster in a circus big tent. He bellows into the room, “We having fun yet Warriors!”
Everyone jumps up and screams, “Yes!”
He snaps his fingers, the music spins up, and we watch open mouthed as Knox Masters, soon to be professional football player, the pride of the Warriors national championship hopeful team, begins to dance. He’s…terrible.
Knox jerks his arm between his legs followed a half a beat by his second arm. He doesn’t look like he’s whipping anything so much as attempting to get a hold of an out-of-control jackhammer. His teammates fall into each other laughing. It’s obvious they’ve seen this show before.