9

 

 

 

"No shorts! No pants! Hear our roars and hear our chants! No trousers! No jeans! We'll get our way by any means!"

When I pull up in front of one of the freshmen dorms early Sunday morning, I'm greeted by an unexpected and unpleasant sight.

A gathering of twenty or so college guys are marching in a circle, waving homemade posters and wearing nothing but underwear.

Boxers, briefs, fuckin' tighty-whities...

I'm gonna need some serious eye-bleach to erase this from memory.

Before I know what's happening, the ring-leader of the group is at my open window, a whiff of dank weed accompanying his presence.

"Yooo, man. Salutations, brother." He shoves his bearded-face all the way inside my car, words leaving his mouth at a glacial pace. "Here for the protest? Park in the back, bud, and jump in wherever. No rules."

I shake my head. "Just here to pick somebody up."

His bloodshot eyes travel lower, and the guy literally recoils in disgust when he sees I'm wearing soccer shorts.

Calm the fuck down, weirdo.

"While I've got you cornered..." He rests a clipboard on my steering wheel, Pants are Poison! written in red ink at the top. "Mind signing the petition? All for a good cause, my friend."

I glance out the window, taking in his pale chicken-legs on full display. His boxers are highlighter yellow with little slices of pizza covering every inch.

They're also waaaay too short for comfort. One mis-step and dude's gonna be baring it all for the world to see.

"Think I'm gonna have to pass on that." I place the petition back in his arms with a shrug. "Pants never did shit to me."

"Word, man. But did pants ever do shit for you? Marinate on that for a sec."

He stands up, bumping his head against the roof of the vehicle. A lethargic laugh escapes him before he continues his drug-influenced speech.

"Like, what even are pants when you really think about it? They're a symbol, bro. A physical representation of the man keeping us down, caging us in with denim and cotton and like, fabric, dude. You diggin' what I'm throwin' out?"

Mr. Pantsless is tripping balls over here.

"Yeah...not exactly," I say as I tap my air conditioning vents. "I gotta put up the window now. All the cold air's escaping. Good luck with your rally, man."

He finally gets the hint and backs off. With a lazy wave, he tucks the clipboard under an arm and lifts the megaphone to his mouth. I roll that window up as quickly as possible before another round of their shitty rhyme torments my eardrums.

Avoiding eye contact with the group, I grab my phone and send off a few texts.

Me:Outside your place

Me: Getting harassed by some stoners in their underwear.

Sydney: omggg still?! they've been out there all night :0

Me: Hurry up before I join them.

Sydney: Don't fall prey to the pressure!

Me: Idk...they make a good point. Upper thighs dodeserve a cool breeze once in a while ;)

Sydney: Nooo lol. I'll be down in sixty seconds! Stay strong!!

True to her word, she comes barreling out the front glass doors a minute later.

One of the protestors tries to lure her into the undergarment mosh pit, but she bats his arm away and continues on her path towards my car.

Funny thing is, she fits right in with the pants-haters. The minuscule pair of spandex she's got on are black, skin-tight, and could easily be mistaken for boy shorts.

They also make her legs look fine as fuck.

Damn.

If she'd been the one asking me to sign the petition, my signature would've been on there faster than a bolt of freakin' lightning.

She hops into my front seat, bright smile aimed my direction. "Morning!"

"Mornin'. You ready for th—"

My greeting trails off as I watch her try to squeeze three bulging soccer bags under the dashboard.

I slant my head in confusion. "Am I missing something?"

After stomping a cleat on one of the sacks to flatten it, she gives me a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?"

"Are we going to the practice fields for a couple of hours or am I dropping you off at the airport for a week-long vacay? Why'd you bring so much shit?"

"You never know what you might need." She pulls the largest bag onto her lap. "I brought the essentials."

I rub my jaw, an amused smile tugging at my lips as I put the car in drive. "And what exactly do you consider 'essential'?"

"Pre-wrap, water bottles, extra cleats, extra soccer balls, air pumps, cones, agility ladders..." Her long list of items goes on and on. After a full minute, she finally finishes. "You know, stuff like that."

"Damn. Do you even play for the team or are you the freaking equipment manager?"

A chuckle comes from my right. "Definitely a member of the squad, but maybe I should apply for the management position, too. I've got enough supplies to run an entire summer soccer camp."

"Where'd you get all this stuff? Buy out the local Academy or Dicks or what?"

"Actually, I didn't purchase any of it," she reveals. "Anytime a coach or teammate was gonna throw something away, I took it off their hands. What do I care if it's got a little wear-and-tear on it? A quick spin in the wash or a date with some mending tape and it's good to go!"

"Resourceful," I comment with a laugh. "So you hoard this shit?"

"Hoard's a strong word." Her mouth rises into a guilty grin. "But it's accurate."

"I'm afraid to ask what your dorm room looks like. Can you even see the floor?"

My teasing smirk earns me a shove to the bicep.

"Stop! It's not like that. My collection is super organized, all color-coordinated and categorized under my bed. I'm in no danger of getting a call from a TLC rep asking if I'd like to be featured on their show—I swear!"

"If you say so."

"I do! Plus, my stash never grows out of control. I give a good chunk of it away."

I glance at her out of my peripheral. "To who?"

"Like everyone," she says with a grin. "They used to call me Santa Steel in high school because I always showed up to practice bearing gifts. My teammates would sing Jingle Bells every time I busted out the goodies."

Santa Steel?

That officially confirms it.

Sydney is weird as fuck.

I'm biting back a laugh when her face illuminates.

"Oh! I almost forgot. I was thinking about you late last night and—"

"Late last night, huh?" I turn her way, brows high and an intrigued grin on my face. "Kinda TMI, Syd, but go on. I'm listening..."

"Oh God." Her cheeks flush pink and she shakes her head. "That came out wrong. That is so not what I meant!"

"Right, right. Of course not."

I shoot her a good-natured wink and she rolls her eyes.

"I was thinking about our session today, and I realized I had something in here—" she pats the bag in her lap "—that'd be perfectfor you."

She begins fishing through the sack in search of said item. Odd as it sounds, she seriously does give off some Santa Claus digging out a Christmas toy vibes.

Minus the white beard and red suit and 'Ho Ho Ho' shit, of course.

"I've had these for years. Since I was fourteen or something," she explains. "You'll be happy to hear these aren't used; I got them for free. Apparently, nobody wanted to buy these bad boys at the athletic supply store. Not a soul. A worker saw me laughing at them, told me I was the first to show any interest in the item whatsoever, and then handed them over, no charge."

"Uhhh..." I scratch my chin. "Alright."

Wtf is she gonna pull out of that bag?

"Here they are." A squeak of approval leaves Sydney's lips. "Ta-da!"

And with that, she whips out a pair of goalie gloves and holds them in the air triumphantly.

But these are not your everyday keeper mitts.

No sir.

These things are loud, girly, and look like an arts-and-crafts project gone horribly wrong.

The bold color is the first thing that stands out to me—a nauseating shade of bright pink. Bubble gum is too damn sweet-sounding to use as a descriptor, so I'm gonna go with the more accurate Pepto-Bismol.

They're Pepto-Bismol pink.

Just one glance at these gloves could cure your indigestion.

But the color isn't even the issue here. It's all the other special details that really send these into 'what the hell am I looking at' territory.

They're covered with golden glitter, shimmery strands of tinsel hang from the wrists, and embroidered hearts and stars are sewn all over.

Seriously think you could spot these suckers from Mars, that's how damn gaudy they are.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" Sydney asks with awe, shaking the gloves vigorously.

The sequins glued onto the fingertips catch the morning sun, producing a blinding glint of light that completely obstructs my view.

"Shit, Baby Blue. Warn a guy, why don't you?" I flip my sunglasses down to shield my eyes and grin. "Those things are flashy as fuck. You're gonna make me drive into a damn ditch."

"Oops. Sorry." She quickly sets them on the center console. "They're wild, aren't they?"

"Wild?" I grunt. "Hideous is the first word that crossed my mind at the sight."

Sydney lets out a loud laugh. "Over the top is putting it mildly. The employee that gave them to me said they were originally designed for youth girls' soccer." She taps the gloves with her index finger. "I think that goes without saying."

Her words from earlier have my brows scrunching together.

"And that made you think they were perfect for me because...?"

Her shoulders lift casually. "Because you look like a guy who appreciates glitz and glam."

"Glitz and glam?" I poke my tongue into my cheek and shake my head. "You must've been smoking the same shit those pants protestors were. How many bong hits did you take?"

"I'm just kidding," she says with a wide smile. "The sheer bulkof these gloves reminded me of you. Something went majorly wrong during the manufacturing process and they ended up making a batch in men's sizes. Like, massive man-hand sizes."

"Okay, that reason is a lot more appealing to my ego." Relaxing my grip on the wheel, I stretch my fingers out and give a quick nod. "My hands are fucking giant."

She clears her throat as her pupils bounce to my outstretched hands. "I noticed."

Look, I'm a mature dude. A grown-ass adult. For the most part, anyway.

But am I tempted to make that infamous and outdated 'you know what they say about big hands' joke?

Fuck yeah I am.

Boy, man, elderly fellow on his death bed...doesn't matter your age. If you've got a Y chromosome, you just can't resist. That shit never gets old.

A haughty grin spreads across my face, but just as the corny line is about to leave my mouth, Sydney speaks.

"You're the first person I've met who they would actually fit, so they're yours by default! Merry Christmas!"

I rub the back of my neck.

"Appreciate the sentiment, but I dunno if you'll ever see me rockin' these. I've got a reputation to uphold."

"Real men wear pink," she teases.

"Come on, Syd. You're gonna have to try harder than that. An overused, 2004 t-shirt slogan isn't gonna convince me." I shake my head. "Also, pink? Not opposed to it. Glitter and sequins and whatever those damn tassel things are? Yeah...not gonna fuckin' happen."

"Fine. Here are three more reasons." She starts counting on her fingers. "One: I want these things out of my stash. Every time I get a glimpse of them, I swear my eyesight deteriorates a little more. Two: they're good-luck charms. These crossed your path for a reason. Don't mess with fate, Cameron."

"I don't really think pink gloves are my destiny." We come to a stop at a red-light and I snicker. "This crystal-ball mumbo jumbo ain't workin' for me. Third reason?"

"The final, and most convincing, reason is this: If you take them, I'll stop talking about them. Win-win for both of us."

She gives two thumbs up and I bark out a laugh.

"There it is. That last one did the trick," I joke before emitting a sigh of defeat. "I surrender. Hand 'em over."

With a satisfied smile, she places the gloves into my open palm. The traffic light turns green just as I finish stuffing them into the seat pocket behind me.

I'll accept the gift to please her, but am I ever gonna wear these god-awful things?

Not a snowball's chance in hell.