It's Not A Side Effect Of The Cocaine, I Am Thinking It Must Be Love

high school au

i don't want to go through and put all the itallics in so if you see something in between underscores just pretend it's italicized 

The first game of the season always drew the biggest crowd. Freshman poured in like rats from every side of the stadium, and the even those self-proclaimed nerds who probably fucked their calculators were sitting in the bleachers. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed my booth until I got back and dusted off all the equipment. I'd started doing voiceovers at the games halfway through my sophomore year when the old guy had to move or some shit and I was the only guy not on the football team who showed interest in the job. It was a nice gig, to be honest. I had great seats at every game and didn't have to pay to get in, all in exchange for talking into a microphone.
If the rest of the season shaped up to be as good as tonight was looking, I'd be fucking ecstatic. Not only was I glad to be back, but there was a new kid sharing the booth with me, running the concessions, and _god damn,_ I would have looked at him all night if I didn't have to watch the game. His jeans hugged his thighs really nicely, I noticed, as he counted the cash in the locked box thingy that they kept the money in. I didn't even care about the cheerleaders out on the field at that point, whoever this new guy was, with his dirty blond hair tucked under a baseball cap, messing with the buttons on the popcorn machine, was stealing the show. I made a mental note to introduce myself to him when I got the chance, but right now the pep band was firing up a tune, which was my queue that it was almost time for me to start talking.
"Alright, folks, it's Friday night, the lights are on and the field is _beautiful_ and it is time for the first varsity football game of the season!" I had forgotten what my voice sounded like over the speakers, and I loved it. Sure, we'd run tests and stuff, but when you run tests there's no eruption of cheers from the crowd in response. This shit was fucking legit. I paused, and glanced over my shoulder at concessions guy, who was looking over at me from the other side of the booth. He was leaning against the counter with one knee bent slightly, and waved his hand in greeting. I grinned at him, raising my eyebrows, before reluctantly turning my attention back to the field. Sure, there was nothing like the glow of the field under the bright white lights. It was one of my favorite views, having been knocked down to second place after I got a glimpse of my new booth-mate. "And I'd like to introduce to you, the two-thousand-and-fifteen varsity Bulldogs!" It was a generic mascot, yes, but it looked hella great on the orange and white banners that flew above the field and on the uniforms as the team charged onto the field.
I read off the names of the players as the band played some cheer song, leaving space in between each name for the crowd to clap and cheer, and for me to stare at concessions boy. He looked mildly bored; I think I saw him picking at his fingernails at one point. Mostly he pulled at the hem of his shirt, only occasionally looking back at me. When he did, he gave me this funny look, like "why-are-you-staring-at-me?" or "don't-you-have-a-job-to-do?", to which I smirked. But he was right, I did have a job to do. When I finally finished introducing the players, all I could think was that I couldn't wait for halftime. I couldn't wait to find out what this kid's name was, talk to him, and maybe at least get his number. That shouldn't be too hard, right? I was pretty good at that kinda thing. However, something told me that this one might be a little more difficult.
I took the time before kickoff to strike up a conversation. I made sure to turn off the mic before I asked with a smirk, "So, you come here often?"
He was blushing, I could tell, but he otherwise coolly replied, "Ha. Do your job, voiceover boy."
Glancing out to the field for a second to make sure, I replied, "Eh, I've got a little time."
"Are you sure?" He looked pretty skeptical, looking periodically over his shoulder to make sure there was nobody in line.
"Yeah, course I'm sure. Starting halfway through the season last year, I've been covering every sports event that I can." It was a fact that I was proud of, something that most people can't claim to. "They're just warming up right now."
He made a weird face at me, but nodded. "Yeah, okay."
I spun around in my swivel chair, spinning a few times before it slowed to a stop facing him. I grinned to myelf. That was fucking smooth. "So, what's your name, pretty boy?"
He sighed, looking like he really didn't want to be having this conversation, but walked over towards me to get a better look at the field. It also meant I got a better look at him, which I did not mind at all. If this guy was gonna be doing concessions every game, then I was definitely going to have a hard time paying attention to the games. He was leaning against the soundboard, hands in his pockets and still checking to see if anybody was approaching the concession stand. I was fine with waiting for an answer, because it meant I got to look at him. "Bedussey," he finally said.
The look on his face told me he was expecting me to snort with laughter or turn on my mic again and announce it to the crowd. I did laugh a little, but I was trying not to. "What the fuck," I had to talk quietly so I didn't burst out into a sudden fit of really rude laughter, but from the look on his face I guessed he could hear me. "Did your parents hate you or something? You know what that--"
"Yes! Yes, what the hell, yes I know what it fucking means, okay!" he cut me off, looking annoyed at me, and I didn't blame him. "It's not even like that though, you sicko. It's spelled B-E--"
I cut him off this time with a wave of my hand. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I get it." He looked a little less annoyed with me now, which was good because I wanted him to like me, of course. "I like 'pretty boy' better anyhow."
He sort of snorted at me, then asked, "Anyway, what's yours, sugar?"
"Ooh, good one. I like that," I smiled. He was good at this. "It's Pancho, so I really don't have much room to be laughing at yours."
"Damn, you're right," he was laughing as he talked, and I really couldn't blame him. My name was absolutely ridiculous. It sounded like something someone would name their pet chihuahua, but I was working on coming to terms with it.
"What a coincidence, huh? The both of us, stuck in this booth together with our terrible names."
He smiled at that (which was fucking adorable) and bit his bottom lip (which, _god damn,_ was fucking _hot_ ). "Yeah," he replied.
"So, you gonna work concessions every game?" I asked.
"Y'know, I don't actually know yet. Maybe. I'll see how I like it." He gave me this sort of smug smile, like he knew I was totally into him, and he was gonna play hard to get. I didn't necessarily mind; it'd be a fun challenge. But I did hope he wouldn't make me work too hard.
"Well, I'm enjoying having you here so far," I said, "but if you keep this whole thing up," I made a vague gesture in his direction, "you might distract me from doing my job."
He looked out on the field, bit his lip again, then walked back over to his part of the booth. Leaning against the counter, he said, "Looks like you've gotta start talking soon. Don't let me stop you."
I smirked, looking out at the field again as the excitement towards the coming kickoff grew, then back at Bedussey, who finally had some customers. He was reaching up on his tiptoes to get the bag of chips the teenage girls with orange and white ribbons tied in their hair had asked for, and they were eyeing him like I probably had been earlier. It annoyed me, but I had a job to do. Spinning my chair around to face the soundboard, I flicked my microphone back on and prepared myself for the first half of the game.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the weather tonight is looking mostly clear, with little to no chance of rain. Tonight, your West Lincoln Bulldogs are playing against the Jefferson Vikings." I paused for a second to look out onto the field to see if the band was ready. The team was off the field, the formation was set, and we were good to go. "Please rise and remove your hats for the national anthem, performed by our very own West Lincoln band, directed by Mr. Vicks." I turned my mic off and stood up, glancing at Bedussey, who had taken his cap off and placed it over his chest. I stared at him for most of the anthem, only taking my eyes off when the song ended and I cheered. The band did a good job. They went back up into the stands to play the school fight song as the team came back out onto the field.
It looked like a pretty damn good team this year. From what I'd seen at practices where I was testing the equipment and what I'd heard from around the school, it was shaping up to be one of our best seasons yet. And from the way they played, I believed it. Kickoff was explosive, everyone bursting into motion at once as the game started. The crowd was a rowdy one, and the cheerleaders were waving their pompoms and shaking their miniskirt-clad hips with an enthusiasm that wouldn't ever quite be matched for the rest of the season. I had to be very careful about what I said while my mic was on, something I learned the hard way last season, but it had gotten progressively easier to just calmly comment on what was happening on the field every game. This time, though, I kept finding myself getting kind of distracted every couple of seconds from glancing at pretty boy. He seemed devoted to the popcorn, checking it to make sure it was perfect and being painfully precise with the amount of salt and butter he added. Every time he got a customer, he greeted them with a smile, but in-between, he looked kind of tired and uninterested. I hoped he wasn't too bored to not come back again. The girls with the ribbons in their hair came back a few times, each time giggling a little more, and each time, they annoyed me a little more. A couple of times, I caught Bedussey looking at me, and I smirked, and he waved and gestured for me to turn around again.
By the time the first quarter ended, we were behind one point because of a bad kick. It was nothing we couldn't bounce back from, of course. The game had been a breeze up to that point, and everyone except the players on the other team seemed to be in a good mood, including me. Especially me. With the game going by this quickly, it would be halftime soon enough, which meant more time with pretty boy. He really was pretty. Even from just a couple of stolen glances, I'd been able to check out the length of his eyelashes, his hair peeking out from under his ball cap, the curve of his legs, and it really wasn't helping me focus on the game. I seemed to be doing an alright job, though, since nobody had yelled at me about it. That was good; I wouldn't want to lose my job. I mean, it wasn't like I was getting paid, but it was a good job, and tonight had only taken it up another notch with the addition of Bedussey.
The second quarter ended with us well in the lead, which put everyone in the mood for lots of cheering. And as much as I loved my job, I was fucking thrilled that it was halftime. I couldn't wait to get his number, couldn't wait to ask him out, couldn't wait to kiss him. But I would. As much as I wanted to, kissing him right then and there probably wouldn't be such a great a idea. After the initial surge of customers was gone for the most part, I picked up our conversation again with, "So how do you like working concessions so far?"
He shrugged as he opened a new box of Pepsi and restocked the fridge. After he shut the fridge, he turned around again to look pointedly at me. "It certainly has its lower points," he said as he rolled his eyes, smiling with half his mouth.
I raised my eyebrows at him, deciding to go along with it. "What, like the fact that you're too busy working and you can't talk to me? I'm sorry, pretty boy. We can meet up at the movies sometime and talk for real."
Bedussey half-sighed, half-laughed, and glanced away from me for a second before looking at me again. "You wish." He shook his head and looked around the booth. He paused, then added, "'S one hell of a view," as he listed his chin towards the field.
I looked over my shoulder at the turf, and everyone milling around in the stands, the lights glaring over everything, and smiled before looking back over to him. "You're right. I never get sick of it."
He smiled back, and opened his mouth to say something, but another customer approached the snack bar. "One sec," he said before turning back around to help them. I was a little disappointed that our conversation was put on hold, but while he was talking to the customer, I got a great look at his ass. When he was done serving the customer, he turned back to face me, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "So, anyway," he said, "Where were we?"
"The view, I think." I looked out at the field again. The band was playing some pop song that I couldn't quite place, and the cheerleaders were dancing along.
"Right." He paused for a second, biting his lip like he was thinking about something. "You were staring at me for that whole time, weren't you?" he asked.
"Pretty much, yeah," I affirmed. I wonder what had given it away: the fact that I'd been flirting with him all night, or that for most of the game, I'd been stealing glances of him whenever I could?
He laughed and looked down at his sneakers, biting his lip again (which was probably going to be the death of me).
"You're a junior, right?" he asked me.
"Yeah, you?" I answered.
"Mhm. God, I can't wait 'til I graduate," he sighed.
Now this was an interesting conversation. I mean, every conversation with him was interesting so far, since every word came out of his perfect, kissable-looking lips, but still. "How come? I mean, like, same, but why?"
"I got stuff to do. I'm getting out of this town." He furrowed his brow, looking up at the ceiling for a second distractedly. "I dunno why I'm telling you this, you probably don't care," he added, shaking his head a little.
I pushed towards him in my chair, and he gave me a tight-lipped smile, a little like a grimace in all honesty. "Aw, hey now, pretty boy," I said, "I care."
His smile softened just a little bit, and scuffed his tennis shoes against the cracked and dirty cement floor. "Sure you do," he exhaled in a breathy way that could have been a laugh or a sigh. Either way, it didn't sound like he believed me.
"Hey now, hey now, I'm serious, man," I assured him. The last thing I needed him thinking was that I didn't care. "C'mon, what kinda stuff are you gonna do?"
Pretty boy shrugged, and gave me a thoughtful look. Damn, could I get lost in his eyes. "I don't know. Anything as long as it's away from this place. Hell, I'd deal drugs if it meant getting out of here."
I laughed, ruffling my hair and winking at him. "Well, I don't do drugs, but I would if you were selling."
"Alright, well, at least I know I always have that option," he laughed. He took off his hat, ruffling his hair a bit before tugging it back on. It was just barely off center, and I had to distract myself with taking another drink of water so I didn't stand up and straighten it for him. And, I don't know, kiss him or something while I was at it.
We paused for a second, looking out at the field. We still had some time left before the third quarter started, and then all the band kids would come rushing over for food during their break. My own stomach grumbled, and I sighed. I had been hoping I'd be able to hold out until after the game to eat, but I was starting to get hungry, and we still had half of the game to go. Bedussey raised his eyebrows at me, and I shrugged, rolling my chair over to the concessions side of the booth. I'd always gotten free snacks during the games, but in the past I'd mostly been sharing the booth with middle-aged ladies who had kids on the team and weren't even paying attention to me unless I announcing a final play call, or students who were taking free food for themselves anyway.
Pretty boy, though, he was a whole different story. His sarcastic, cynical comments were unexpectedly entertaining, and only made me like him more. I couldn't even figure out why, god dammit, save for the fact that I thought he was super fucking cute. There was just something about him that made me want to talk to him for hours but also pull him in and kiss him until he tasted as familiar as that salty popcorn they sold for concessions that I'd been eating since last season.
Speaking of which, a bag of popcorn sounded pretty good right about then, and I doubted he'd give it to me for free. I fished my wallet out of my pocket and pulled out a dollar. "Popcorn, please," I grinned at him, handing him the bill.
He raised an eyebrow again, but half-smiled back at me, taking the bill and putting in the lockbox. "Sure."
I watched him scoop the popcorn into a brown paper bag, and I thanked him when he handed it to me. It smelled as deliciously greasy and salty as ever, and the first handful I ate crunched perfectly in my mouth. "Damn, pretty boy," I smirked. "You're way too good at everything."
Bedussey rolled his eyes again and laughed. "You're such a flatterer," he said.
"Nah," I countered, "I only tell the truth." I winked at him.
He laughed again, but different than the last time. Almost like he giggled or some shit. God damn, he was adorable.
"Tell you what," I said, in the process of forming an excellent plan. "Catch."
I tossed a piece of popcorn vaguely in the direction of his mouth.
"I--" He flinched, blinking as the popcorn hit his cheek. "What the fuck?"