“You really wouldn’t mind helping me keep up?”
“Of course not. Especially if it means I get to maintain distance from the chewing. And we don’t have to figure out all the details now and plan a whole study schedule. Get through this essay, and we’ll go from there.”
“Cool. It’s a date.”
Looks like you’re about to go up to number two, little bro, Barrera texts me about thirty minutes after I got back fromhanging with Vale, while I’m doing my best to actually try to fill five pages with something that sounds like reasonable thoughts. Barrera sends a link, looking like some Florida International University news site, with an article titled,Torrey Comes Out and Heads Out.
I’m only just starting to read it when he FaceTimes me, immediately all, “Congrats, Piña.”
“What’s this about?” I say, assuming he’ll give me the rundown so I don’t have to do more reading than I’m being forced to tonight.
“One of FIU’s freshmen who was on the list with you came out as gay. Said that he felt like he needed to with all the homophobia around. I mean, in a state like Florida, they probably would’ve kicked him off the team if he hadn’t quit.”
“He quit?”
“Oh, yeah. That was part of it too. Didn’t feel safe around his team and having to hide his jotería. Pues, they’re better off without him. That kind of shit around? Nah, not in my locker room, that’s for sure.”
“I—” I go back to the article, only half listening to Barrera talk his shit. This guy, Carter Torrey—a white-boy name if I’ve ever heard one—was super promising, was brought up in club teams, had it all going for him. “You don’t think that they’re losing someone who could be really good for them? Boy’s talented, it looks like. Shouldn’t his team be supporting him?”
“Why should he expect everyone around him to change just for him? To fucking go soft just for one person? Nah, he’ll be fine. If some team in California or New York wants to take him in and have him lead their little parades, they’ll pick him up.”
“So, you’re saying if there was a Carter Torrey on our team—”
“He wouldn’t be. I already said it. Not in my locker room. Not on my squad. We’re just getting to a point where we’re being taken seriously. You want some little bitch carrying a Pride flagaround to be the face of our team? Nah. I want those of us who’ve put in the work and guys like you who are setting us up for years to come to be getting that attention. And I want us to be comfortable. A brotherhood. We’ve got that. Some joto would break it all. So if it ever happens, you break them first.”
“You—” I’ve got the words in my chest.You’re wrong. You’re being an idiot and homophobic as hell.I saw the same sort of shit happen in high school, and for some reason I thought maybe, moving on to a college squad, we’d have also graduated from this kind of stupid-ass hate. That we could all be better than that. I want to tell him so. That he should be better. That, having lived it, I can saywith my whole heartthat having a gay teammate doesn’t break a squad. It showed me who the punks were, that’s for sure. But, besides that, nothing changed.
Instead, all I let out is a tired “Yeah. Sure.” Because he’s not someone I’m trying to create discourse with in the middle of the night. And because, as fucked up as he’s being right now, I don’t want that to destroy the really good relationship we’ve got going on. My team captain taking me under his wing? I should be okay looking past this really asshole-y part of him that’s only come out one day out of the now nearly couple of months I’ve known him.
“Piña. Bro,” Barrera says, some sternness in his voice. “I thought you’d be happy about this. One less guy for you to worry about. Sure, he’ll get some attention, everyone who’s fucking riding the LGBT’s dicks are going to want to give him his fifteen minutes. But, after that, it’s you and your shutout and your future and this team adding even more Ws to our record. Alright? Damn. Be happy.”
Yeah. Be happy. At the very least because it’s not me he’s talking trash about. Not that he’d have a reason to. Also, at least he’s not looking for me to agree with his shitty take. And, even better, he’s not out on the streets talking about it. If he’skeeping his honesty between me and his boys on the squad and it stays that way, I think I can swallow down all the words I’d like to tell him.
“I am. Sorry. I just—homework.”
“Chingale. Well get on it. Don’t want you getting behind only a week in. And if you are, I better not find out it’s because of that girl. Time management, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. For sure. Night, Cap.”
“Night, little bro.”
11
“YO!” AHMED SHOUTS ATNguyen, Pérez, and me when he catches us coming out of the University Center at the same time he’s rushing out of the engineering building right across from us, running through more students and grass and palm-tree-lined medians. He gives each of us a handclasp, hug combo, dapping down the line, before we start our slow walk to our next class—and our first exam of the year—all of us wearing the same bold blue Islander Soccer tees and some kind of black gym short. The only real difference is the footwear, from Nguyen’s Nikes that had to have cost some kind of three-digit number of dollars, to Pérez’s worn-in Vans, Ahmed’s Birks that he swears are actually a fire fashion choice, and my go-to white Crocs (that he says tank any opinions I might have about what he wears).
Did not plan this. Swear. No one told us to wear the same shirt today. But maybe that makes this worse. Shows that we’re getting closer and closer every day to a sharing-the-same-brain-cell type of relationship.
“Quiz me,” Ahmed says. “I need to get my mind into Nutrition mode. Ask me something. Oh, and did someone get me a—”
“Here,” Nguyen says, tossing him a fat turkey and avocado wrap.
“Savior, bro.” Ahmed tears apart the plastic and takes a huge bite, looking at us as he chews and waves his free hand in circles, like, even though there’s no way he can talk right now, he asked to be quizzed and he’s still waiting.
“Three keys to a healthy diet. Go!” Pérez says, turning to walk backward past white and orange-brown brick buildings so he can face our roommate.
“Mah-ay-on, ba-ans, va-rye-eh-ee,”he answers, his hand hovering over his mouth so he doesn’t spill turkey, lettuce, and tortilla everywhere.
“I’ll count it. Tell me the differences between high-intensity interval training and sprint interval train—”
