Page 36 of Sweat

Shit.I’d know that crooning Swedish accent anywhere. I don’t even try to mask my groan when Oscar slides onto the stool beside me. Weeknights are usually safer than this, but I forgot to account for summer break.

I roll my eyes at Oscar’s smug, angular face. “I’m just here for the karaoke.”

“Sure you are.” Oscar waves toward the bartender and tells the bearded man he’ll cover my check.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say in a tone I hope convinces him to fuck off.

“I got an A on that paper you wrote for me, so I owe you a drink. Looks like you picked a good one.” He leans over and sucks up a sip from my straw. “Blackberry. Yummy.”

“I’m not gay,” I tell him, and the words sound as hollow as they feel.

“If you weren’t sitting in a gay bar, I might actually believe you.” He slaps my shoulder and leaves his hand there too long. “Between the outfit and your sour look of contempt for everyone here.”

“That’s not—I don’t have contempt—”

“Relax.” He squeezes my shoulder, expression softening to something more friendly. “I’m not going to hit on you or try to convince you of something that only you can determine, but if you’re looking for places to go where you won’t be noticed by someone from school, there are other places. I’d just hate to see you go that route. Those places aren’t for people who want to have fun and make connections. They’re for desperate people with no other choices.”

“Maybe that’s me,” I mutter, swirling my skinny straw around in my drink until it’s cloudy. “No fun and desperate.”

“Come on.” Oscar’s hand travels from my shoulder to my bicep and gives it a tug as he stands.

I pull my arm back. “No.”

“Come on,” he says more pointedly.

“I don’t wanna fuck you, dude.”

He howls with laughter, pale face turning red. “I’m going to take you over there to meet my friends. Then, you are going to have fun with us. No fucking. Fun. Okay? Come on.”

I relent, if only to not feel so cornered. Once I’m on my feet, I can slip away easier. Go back home and beat off to jock porn like I should be doing now. But Oscar’s grip is firm on my arm as he pulls me through the bar, across the dance floor and to a half-moon booth against the far wall.

One by one, Oscar introduces me to the four people at the booth. Cleo, Indy, Jake, and Trenton. I don’t recognize any of them, but they look my age, and Indy is wearing a rainbow Sac State pin next to one that saysthey/them.

“Everyone, this is Rowan. He’s captain of the varsity soccer team.”

Welp, this is the exact opposite of discrete. “I’m not gay,” I tell them, and they all just snicker and size me up oddly.

“Yes, he’s not gay,” Oscar says, patting my back like we’re friends. Inwardly, I want to beat his ass, but if I did that here, it might be a hate crime. I don’t hate him because he’s gay, though. I hate him because he sucks. “He got lost on his way to go hook up with all the girls who always throw themselves at him. That’s all.”

“Hey, you think y’all will win the championship this year?” the normie-looking dude at the table asks. Jake? “Heard this coming season will be the best chance we’ve had in decades.”

“For sure,” I nod. “We’re pretty stacked. Been trying to fill in the weak points. Get new talent onto the starting roster. Some guys that aren’t really on anyone’s radar yet.”

Guys meaning Tommy. My ace in the hole.God, that sounds gay.

“Jake played soccer in Stockton,” Oscar says before nudging me into the booth. He wedges his towering body in right after me, and now I’m more cornered than before. “So you see, soccer players can be gay.”

While I’m glaring at the blond buffoon, Jake says, “I wasn’t very good. I’m more just a fan.”

Sounds like something Tommy would say, but I have no desire to find out if Jake is just being humble. He’s not bad looking, but he doesn’t look athletic. He’s average. Bland. He seems nice, but he’s not special.

Everyone talks, jokes around, and makes references I don’t understand. They ask me questions sometimes, and I answer honestly, for the most part. I don’t know what Oscar thinks he’s doing. If he’s trying to convince me gays are just like everyone else, I already know that. I’m not a bigot. The only person I can’t accept is myself.

“I gotta go,” I tell Oscar, only because I need him to move his body so I can leave. “Got an early run in the morning.”

Oscar had been in the middle of a conversation about some TV series I’ve never watched, but dips out of that to tell me, “You should come back sometime. We’re here all the time. I can introduce you to more people.”

“Maybe.”

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