Chasing Jonah Mchale

chapter seven

Sitting out of a football game fucking sucks.

I tap through my snap stories watching as my teammates fool around in the school locker room, adrenaline and excitement bursting through their bodies. They're geared up, and ready.

And I'm sitting on a coach at a pregame I don't really even want to be at because I'm not officially cleared to play till Saturday.

"It doesn't look like you're having fun." Nicole says, plopping down on the living room sofa that I've been moping on for the past ten minutes. She balances a white claw in between her thighs as she takes a white lipstick and writes our schools name across my forehead.

She looks so adorable with her eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed in concentration that I don't resist. Plus our schools student section always goes all out during games. Painted faces, DIYed shirts, baby powder and annoying chants are a staple of our games. This white out will be no exception.

"I want you to have fun. This is the only time you'll ever be able to pregame." She whines.

I roll my eyes as she pulls away from my face, her white dotted face and tackily bejeweled crown coming into view. The rest of the house is littered with our friends. Well Nicole's friends and the few males I kind of talk to that don't play football.

Mobamba plays in the background as two of Nicole's friends swing back a shot in the kitchen. They quickly chase them down with a bite of lemon as everyone cheers them on, their phone cameras on flash as they record them. There's no doubt in my mind that I'll see the same video on everyone's story for the rest of the night.

"Fun. Babe." Nicole says, popping her lips. "Pleasee."

I sigh letting her pull me up from my seat.

"Hey Mchale's finally joining in." Chris says, flashing a perfect set of teeth.

I force a grin across my face as we clasp hands, his friend sends a shot glass screeching across the marble kitchen island in my direction.

Chris is filthy rich. He's the kind of rich that can afford throwing parties and pregames without fear of the consequences of getting caught. The kind of rich that can buy their way out of trouble. And Chris is known for trouble.

The kind of trouble that consists of  treating girls like disposable objects. Driving drunk in his Mercedes. Slipping powders into peoples drinks.

But because it's High School we look away.

It's getting harder to look away from something so close to my eyes nowadays.

I'm not playing tonight. Schools beating the shit out of me. I popped my last pill an hours ago even though I only got them this morning.

Without hesitation I swing back the shot, my throat burns before I quickly chase it down. After taking more I feel a warm tingling spread over my cheeks and eyes, my lips get numb and all my worries slip away.

I have fun. I drink some golden four lokos, rip someones juul and someone else's dab pen. 

I lock myself in the bathroom with Nicole, pressing my lips against hers in sweaty desperation. Limbs against limb. The alcohol we drank heavy on our breaths. She was fucking irresistible with those fucking tight white jeans on, buts she even more 
Irresistible with them on the floor. We don't have a condom but it's fine. We're fine.

Everything's fine.

I somehow get to the game. And that's even more of a shit show. There's no place more that I'd rather be than in the field, under the glare of the bright lights with the rumble of footsteps against the bleachers, of cheers in anticipation, in anger, and in joy.

But I'm not.

I'm not there. And I'm not here.

Not in this body. Not in my head. I don't feel like me anymore.

I don't feel like I'm me anymore.