Page 38 of Palm South University: Season 3
“You’re in the final game!”
“Hell yeah, we are!” his friend, Malik, says. He high fives Grayson, running a hand over his short buzz cut. “Those Greek boys don’t stand a chance against musicians. We’re too good with our hands.”
He adds that last line with a wink and a lewd gesture as a group of my sisters walk by, all of them giggling and helping his inflated ego. Suddenly, a bright red dodgeball is thrown directly at Malik and he catches it last second in his stomach with a grunt.
“That’s a lot of talk for a future runner-up,” Adam says, crossing his arms over his chest with a grin.
Sweat sticks his light-blue team t-shirt to his chest, outlining the ridges of every muscle. With the sleeves ripped off and the sides stretched to hang down low, my eyes can’t move from the ebb and flow of his ribs as he catches his breath from the last game. When they finally trace their way back up to his eyes and they’re staring back at me, I clear my throat, turning to Grayson.
“So much testosterone. You guys do know the trophy is just plastic, right?” I joke.
The left side of Grayson’s mouth quirks up but falls quickly, his glare still pointed at Adam. “I don’t care if it’s made of paper. It’ll be on my bookshelf tonight.”
Adam scoffs, still grinning, not looking the least bit intimidated.
Just as Malik puffs his chest out, ready to fire back, Erin strolls up, pointing her glittery pen in all their faces. “Five minutes, boys. Save the shit talking for the game and go get water.”
Grayson and Adam are still leering at each other, but Grayson shakes it off, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “Dinner with the winner after this?”
I laugh. “Sounds perfect.”
He winks, glaring at Adam once more before jogging off behind Malik.
The tension is still thick once he’s gone, and I tuck my hair behind my ears, but luckily Erin isn’t the least bit fazed and is already rattling off the last of my duties for the evening. But I can’t help but watch Adam as his jaw flexes and without another look in my direction, he heads in the opposite direction of Grayson, and my eyes follow him the entire way.
The last matchup is best three out of five, with the entire crowd of my sisters and other Greek students crowding around court one for the final showdown. The bleachers are full, Kappa Kappa Beta girls lining the boundary edge and cheering for the team they want to win. I just stand in the middle, pretending to help the line judge, not sure which outcome would make me happier. Or if either one will really make me happy at all.
I can feel it. The night isn’t going to end well. I just don’t know what will spark the bomb.
Each game makes my stomach hurt worse. Grayson’s team wins the first and second one, and Adam’s team wins the third. Every single guy on both teams is dripping with sweat by the start of the fourth game, and I’m biting my nails down to the beds, watching and overanalyzing the way I feel when things happen.
Grayson gets hit, I cringe. Adam gets hit, I feel like I’m watching a dog get kicked. Grayson’s team wins, I smile and clap, all the while watching Adam with a pit in my stomach. Adam’s team wins and I sigh with relief, all the while wondering what that means and why I feel it.
My sister once watched a football game between her two favorite teams — the school where she went to undergrad, and the school where she did her Masters. She said she felt sick watching and had no idea whom to cheer for. She thought she would be happy either way, but when her undergrad team won, she was more sad than happy. That’s when she realized she felt more connected to her graduate school.
I didn’t get it then, but now I do.
“We couldn’t have asked for a better finale,” Erin says as Adam’s team clinches the fourth game. They’re jumping up and down celebrating while Grayson huffs and huddles his team up to strategize. “These two teams are brutal.Andwe made it to game five. Here,” she says, thrusting the brightly decorated donations bucket toward me. “Go make another round while the crowd is all amped up.”
“On it.”
I take the bucket from her hand and try to keep my mind busy as I walk up and down the bleachers collecting donations. The fifth and final game starts with my back turned to the court, and I try to keep it that way, wondering with every cheer and boo which team is winning.
But it doesn’t take long before I’m standing back beside Erin, bucket full to the brim with donations, and all that’s left to do is watch to see who wins.
I play with my hair as the game continues, twirling it around my fingers and chewing the inside of my cheek. Adam’s team is down to only him and Jeremy, with Grayson still holding on to his entire team so far. But Jeremy catches two balls thrown at him at once, one in each hand, and with a roar from the crowd, Grayson’s team is down to three.
Adam strikes Malik in the leg, and he curses the entire walk to the sideline, leaving only Grayson and Steven, a drummer from one of his friend’s bands.
For a while the four circle each other, throwing balls and dodging them just the same, and it feels like there will never be a winner. But then Steven gets antsy, chucking his ball square at Jeremy who catches it easily. He laughs, holding up the ball in one hand with an oversized pouty lip aimed at Steven walking off the court, which earns him a hard ball to the ribs from Grayson.
And then there are two.
This can’t get any worse.
“I feel nauseous,” I whisper to Erin, but she just laughs, thinking I’m joking, thinking I’m so excited to see who wins. But I’m not. I’m dreading it. Because either way, I’m screwed.
Grayson and Adam tiptoe around each other for a long while — advancing on the line and then backing off, throwing balls at each other’s feet and retreating back with eyes ready for the backfire shot. They’re both too coordinated, too powerful, and now I’m convinced there really won’t be a winner.