Under the Crimson Swoosh: Chapter 7 Part 1/2

See Chapter 6 here

Chapter 7: Sewell-Thomas Stadium
(Note chapter is in two parts due to length restrictions)

The air at Lake Lanier carried the scent of pine needles and grilling meat. From the sprawling deck of a DKE brother’s parents’ lake house, the water glittered, a vast, blue-gray mirror for a perfect late summer Georgia afternoon. It was the picture of fraternity bliss: brothers and pledges splashing in the water, the beat of a Jelly Roll playlist, the easy clink of Michelob Ultra beer bottles.

I stood at the foot of the bed in the room I’d been assigned, my Briggs Chevrolet duffel bag open like a wound. The weekend pledge retreat was mandatory. I’d spent the previous week performing the part of a dutiful pledge, my mind a scrambled mess of Luke’s freckles and the constant, low-grade panic that Adam might piece the two of us together from last Saturday.

The messages had come all week, a persistent, unnerving pulse on the S24.

bluehenginger82: last night was fun

bluehenginger82: you around this week?

bluehenginger82: or u ghosting me now frat boy lol

Each notification had been a jolt, but not of excitement. It was the alarm of a security system being tested. Clingy. The casual "lol" did nothing to mask the expectation. Luke knew my first name. He knew my dorm. Every message felt like him gently tapping on the glass of my firewall, seeing how much pressure it could take. I’d been deliberately vague, non-committal, the guardian of my own secrets. When he’d pressed about the weekend, I’d told him I’d be out of town. For once, it wasn’t a lie. It was a necessary tactical withdrawal.

My hand, buried in the duffel, brushed against the cool, hard rectangle of the prepaid Samsung, tucked into a sock. A reckless idea had simmered in my mind on the ride up: Atlanta. A bigger city, a bigger grid. A reset. But it died just as quickly. I had no car here, no means to leave. I was already managing one potential leak; I didn't need to open another spigot.

I let my fingers fall away from the burner phone, leaving it buried. The urge wasn't to escape to something, but to release the pressure Luke was putting on the world I was waiting to build at Alabama.

I needed a momentary anchor: a voice from the other side of the glass.

I pulled out my iPhone instead of the Samsung. Scrolling past the DKE group chats and Caroline’s messages about the concert we were going to next Friday, I found my sister’s name. Her last message that I hearted was: they just started boarding, see you soon wy, if you ever need me, I’m one call away.

I typed. Hey. On a pledge retreat for the weekend. Lake Lanier. Realized we’re not far from you.

The reply came faster than I expected for someone who works as hard as she does.

Macy: Oh! That’s right up the road. A DKE retreat, I’m assuming?

The one and only.

The typing bubbles appeared, lingered, then delivered her response.

Macy: Proud of you for putting yourself out there. I know that world can be a lot.

The words were right. Supportive, sisterly. But I could read the unspoken text, as clearly as if she’d typed it. Proud of you for following the script. For walking the line Dad drew for you. It was the same tone she’d used back at the stadium. A quiet, clinical disappointment that I was choosing the gilded cage, even as I rattled the bars quietly behind everyone’s back.

Before I could reply, another message came through.

Macy: Have fun. Try to breathe some real air out there, not just bourbon and ambition.

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I wanted to tell her that the air out here was just as suffocating. That the "real" me was a hidden phone in a duffel bag, and spandex in a drawer in my dorm. A secret so volatile it could detonate this entire picture-perfect weekend.

But I kept those secrets.

I just typed back: Will do. If dad asks, tell him I didn’t pack a swimsuit and locked the phone.

Shoving my iPhone into my pocket, I turned and walked out onto the deck. The sun was warm on my face. Miles pressed a cold beer into my hand. Someone yelled my name from the dock. I lifted the bottle in acknowledgment, a country club smile settling automatically onto my face.

The performance was back on. But underneath, the silence from the duffel bag in the room was a ticking clock, and every tick sounded like a notification.

During the afternoon before the big party, I half-heard a conversation drifting over from the dock. A couple of the other pledges were ribbing Elliot about something: his voice, the way he dressed, the way he wasn’t chasing the girls who’d come by on pontoon boats.

“Elliot’s gay anyway,” one of them said, laughing, like it was a throwaway fact.

He didn’t deny it. He just rolled his eyes, muttered “shut up,” and kept sipping his beer. The others let it drop, chasing a football into the shallows. I convinced myself it was just frat-boy noise. But the line stuck in my head like a burr, replaying every time I looked at Elliot’s shirtless, smooth body.

That night, the party wound down in a haze of cigar smoke and slurred Morgan Wallen lyrics. As brothers began claiming the better bedrooms, Carter pushed Elliot into the bedroom with me.

“You two Legacy pledges get the king,” he announced. “Think of it as a brotherhood exercise.” He winked, a gesture that was probably meant to be chummy, but felt like an accusation.

My blood ran cold. Elliot, the nervous sophomore from the alumni dinner, son of the Withers banking dynasty, just shrugged, a faint blush highlighting his cheeks. “Sure, Carter. No problem.”

The door clicked shut, leaving us in a silence thick with unspoken rules. I’d never shared a bed with anyone, not since I was a small child. The idea of it, the forced, platonic intimacy, felt more exposing than anything I’d done with Luke or anyone else. That was a choice, a transaction. This was an obligation, a test of my ability to perform normalcy in the most vulnerable of states.

“I, uh, I can take the left side,” Elliot mumbled, not meeting my eyes.

“Fine,” I said, the word coming out too cautiously. I turned my back to him and began changing into a pair of soft, Brooks Brothers pajama pants and a t-shirt, a ritual that suddenly felt obscenely personal. I could feel his movements behind me, the rustle of his own, probably as expensive sleep clothes.

We climbed into opposite sides of the vast bed, leaving a canyon of mattress between us. The lights went out, plunging the room into a deep, pine-scented darkness. I lay rigid on my back, staring at the ceiling I couldn't see, every one of my senses screaming. I could hear his breathing, the soft sigh of the mattress as he shifted. The warmth of another body, a foreign presence in what should be the most private of spaces, was like a spider crawling across my skin.

My mind, panicked, began to spin. This is what normal frat boys do. They share beds on trips. They don't think twice about it. But I was thinking about it. I was thinking about the few inches of space between us, about what would happen if I rolled over in my sleep. About the stark, terrifying contrast between this: a sanctioned, fraternal closeness, and the illicit, secret closeness I craved.

Every rustle of the sheets from his side was a potential landmine. Was he awake? Was he as uncomfortable as I was? Did he sense the wrongness radiating off me, the sheer effort it was taking to lie still and pretend this was fine? Everyone in DKE knew about Caroline, but had they begun to suspect why I had never even been to her dorm?

The darkness amplified everything. The scent of his shampoo, the sound of his swallow. It was a different kind of exposure than a Grindr hookup. That was about revealing a curated, physical fantasy. This was about the involuntary self: the way a body breathes, the heat it gives off, the unconscious sounds it makes in the night. It was a vulnerability I had never signed up for.

I didn't dare move a muscle. I held myself in a state of paralyzed alertness, a soldier on a forbidden watch. The performance wasn't on the deck anymore; it was here, in this dark, quiet room, in the absolute stillness of my own body. And it was the hardest role I’d ever had to play. The ticking clock of the Samsung was now drowned out by the deafening beat of my own heart, thumping out a rhythm of pure, undiluted fear against the premium Egyptian cotton sheets.

Somewhere past midnight, Elliot’s breathing evened out into sleep. I lay flat on my back, frozen, counting the seconds between each inhale. The mattress shifted, barely, and suddenly the gap between us wasn’t a canyon but a sliver. His arm brushed the sheet near mine, the contact feather-light, but it was enough to send a shock through my whole body.

Did he mean it? Was it just sleep?

The rumor from the dock flared hot in my brain: Elliot’s gay anyway.

If he was, what did that mean about right now? Did he know? Could he tell?

I clenched my jaw, staring into the dark ceiling. The tiniest shift in his sleep had me wired like I had just had three cappuccino shots, terrified that one more brush would unravel me completely.

The truth was unbearable: I trusted horny strangers on Grindr more than I trusted this.

It was at least another hour later when Elliot’s breathing steadied into something deep and even, the kind of rhythm that belonged to real sleep. I clung to it like a life raft, counting out the seconds between each inhale, waiting for the current in my own chest to slow. The mattress was warm beneath me, the air stale with pine and beer, but exhaustion finally dragged me under.

When I blinked awake hours later, the first pale wash of dawn was cutting through the blinds. My neck was stiff, my limbs heavy. Elliot was on his side, turned away, the distance between us restored to a polite gulf. His arm was tucked under his pillow, the sheet rising and falling with each untroubled breath. Whatever had brushed too close in the night was gone, erased. A dream. Nothing more.

By the time we packed up and piled into Brody’s Highlander, blaring Luke Bryan back toward the Alabama state line, I’d buried the whole weekend under a fresh coat of performance. Back in my room, the Samsung stayed zipped in the duffel. I told myself the firewall was intact.

But the script didn’t wait. Caroline texted before I even unpacked:

Caroline: Don’t forget you’re driving on Friday. Jason Aldean, gates at 6.

The message pulsed on my screen like an appointment I couldn’t dodge. I thumbed back the only safe answer.

Got it. Pick you up at 4:30 in front of Ridgecrest.

Her reply was a heart emoji, a perfect stamp of the life I was supposed to be living. I locked the phone and stared at the ceiling of my single, the silence pressing in. Friday was coming, with its beer-soaked country chorus and the perfect boyfriend act.

And all the while, the other phone stayed buried in that sock, waiting for me to crack it open again.

I didn’t until Thursday. My one free night.

I left my books piled on my desk and took the Denali out, not toward the Strip, not back toward the dorms, but to the lot wedged between Mal M. Moore and Sewell-Thomas Baseball Stadium. The sun was still up, the stadium’s glass windows throwing it back in jagged gold. From the driver’s seat, I pulled out the Samsung. 

The grid refreshed. One profile caught my eye almost immediately: close, .1 miles. Not caucasian. The torso shot had a different grain to it, light brown skin pulled tight over muscle, with a baseball cap emoji in the headline. Subtle, but not. My pulse jumped.

I tapped it open and typed out: hey

Blue letters blinked back at me after a few minutes.

what’s up?

The profile name was forgettable, 3810475pr. But the cap, the timing, the distance, all of it screamed baseball. Even off-season, they were in conditioning. Right here.

I just sat there for a few seconds, thumb hovering, watching the glow of the screen and the shadow of the stadium looming beside me. Thursday night was open, and I had just found my next mission.

The message thread lit up faster than I expected.

3810475pr was bolder than most. After the usual low-pressure start, he cut straight to it.

send me something. not face or just skin.

My stomach dropped and surged at the same time. I glanced around the parking lot, empty, except for a couple of campus police cars closer to the stadium. No way I could risk it here.

be right back, I typed.

I shoved the Samsung into the console, gunned the Denali, and drove straight back to my parking spot. The whole ride, my heart thumped louder than the tires on the asphalt. After running back to Riverside, I locked my door, yanked my jeans and underwear down, and angled the phone. The flash went off like a firecracker in the dark room. One quick, surgical shot.

I sent it before I could second-guess.

The reply came almost instantly.

😈 damn gringo. nice.

The approval hit like a drug. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, reckless.

u baseball?

Three blinking dots. A pause long enough to raise my blood pressure. Then:

maybe. u tryna find out or what?

The confirmation was there without being there. My pulse wouldn’t slow.

When? I typed.

Friday night, came the answer. Simple. Final.

My stomach lurched. Birmingham, Caroline. Jason Aldean. Her sorority sisters. The cowboy boots and the smiling photos she was already rehearsing.

can’t.

then never. U host came the reply. 

I stared at it, blood hot in my face. He was right. Alabama vs Georgia was the next day. The whole campus would be buzzing watching the game if they weren’t at the stadium in Georgia.

ok. Friday. 

The chat went quiet for a beat. Then I couldn’t stop myself.

wear your uniform.

The typing bubbles flickered, then his reply dropped.

so estás loco 😂 they keep 'em locked up. staff only.

My mouth went dry. Shut down, flat. But giving up wasn’t an option. I needed something tangible, something to tie the fantasy to the body.

Cool, I’ll let you know when I’m free I typed, but my mind was already racing.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in the Denali again, campus fading behind me as I pulled into the Dick’s Sporting Goods lot. Beside the sculpted mannequins in tight workout gear, I grabbed a red Nike Pro compression shirt off the rack. Size large. Just an estimate: big enough to hug his chest, maybe stretch across his arms.

At the register, I shoved the secondary Amex Black card tied to my dad’s account into the reader without looking the cashier in the eye. The plastic bag crinkled loudly as if it were an engine backfiring as I carried it back to the SUV.

By the time I dropped the bag onto my desk, it felt like a talisman. If 3810475pr wouldn’t bring the uniform, I’d give him a brand new one.

After my classes on Friday, I opened up Grindr to 3810475pr and then flipped open my laptop to the Alabama Baseball roster. I clicked and scrolled. A dozen tan faces in maroon polos. Dominican, Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Cuban hometowns. I zoomed in on torsos and shoulders, trying to match the grain of muscle in the photo to the headshots. It wasn’t as easy as Track and Field or Swimming and Diving, so I just gave up my quest and started getting ready for the concert.

Following the drive with Caroline to Birmingham, we parked near Protective Stadium and boarded a free shuttle up to the Coca-Cola Amphitheater. Country music fans pressed in from every direction, cowboy hats bobbing above the crowd like buoys. Caroline was practically glowing under the neon lights, her sundress traded for denim shorts and boots, a red plaid shirt knotted at her waist.

I’d dressed for the part too: jeans stiff from the dryer, a button-down plaid shirt I’d borrowed from Miles, sleeves rolled up just enough to look casual. To anyone watching, we were another smiling couple at Jason Aldean, another snapshot in the picture-perfect college Instagram slideshow.

Inside, Caroline dragged me to the merch stand, her eyes sparkling over the racks of foam koozies, t-shirts, and cowboy hats stacked in neat rows. She picked up a white felt one, plopped it on her head, and spun toward me. “Do I look ridiculous or perfect?”

“Perfect,” I said automatically, the word rolling out with a smile that didn’t quite reach my chest.

While she preened in the mirror, I slipped my hand into my pocket. The Samsung was a weight I couldn’t ignore. Shielding the screen with my palm, I tapped open Grindr.

The chat thread was still there, glowing like a fuse. My thumbs flew before I lost my nerve.

11:45. Pedestrian bridge to Riverside.

Seconds later, the reply lit up, sharp and cocky:

that late? Better be worth it, blanco.

Heat shot through me. I locked the screen fast, shoving the phone deep in my pocket, heartbeat thumping in time with the bass rumble from the speakers.

“Wyatt!” Caroline’s voice cut through. I turned just in time for her to jam a wide-brimmed straw cowboy hat onto my head, the price tag swinging down into my eyes.

She laughed, the sound pure and easy. “Now you look like you belong here.”

I forced a grin, tipping the brim low like I was playing along. The crowd cheered as a roadie’s sound test rattled the amphitheater. Caroline grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the pit.

The cowboy hat scratched against my scalp. The Samsung burned in my pocket.

I felt the rope of both lives tightening around my neck, pulling me in opposite directions under the stage lights.

When the amphitheater lights cut out, and the crowd erupted as Jason Aldean strode onto the stage. The opening chords of Try That in a Small Town hit like a shot, and the place went feral. Beer cups lifted in the air, girls on shoulders screamed the lyrics, and the night spun into that blur of denim, neon, and sweat.

Caroline was alive in it, hair swinging, boots stomping, belting every word with her sisters. I stayed beside her, clapping where I had to, letting her grip my arm and pull me into the sway. Around us, plastic cups sloshed amber and gold, the air thick with the sour tang of cheap beer. My own hands were empty, as we were still underage.

The songs blurred, verse to chorus to chorus again, each one an anthem of trucks and heartbreak. Caroline tilted her phone up during the second chorus, angling for a video with me in frame. I leaned in, let my smile flash at the right beat, and felt the brim of the cowboy hat shadow my eyes.

The minutes bled out in neon. 8:45. 9:30. Every check of the time was a countdown. The Samsung weighed in my pocket like a ball and chain. 11:45. Riverside bridge.

By the encore, Caroline was breathless, cheeks pink, and tugging me toward the exit. “Selfies first, come on, Wyatt! Fountain shot!” She posed with her sisters, shoved the cowboy hat back onto my head, and snapped three pictures with me grinning stiffly beside her.

“Perfect,” she declared, sliding her phone back into her boot.

I laughed on cue, looping my arm around her waist as the crowd funneled toward the street. But inside, every second was agony. The shuttle. The drive back. The clock creeping closer to midnight.

All I wanted was the open interstate, the Denali, and the dark stretch back to Tuscaloosa.

Our trip back from Birmingham was a rush of taillights and Caroline humming along to Aldean on low volume. She scrolled through the selfies, choosing which to post, her screen glowing against the dark. When we pulled into Ridgecrest, she leaned over, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, Wyatt. Tonight was perfect.”

I forced a grin. “Glad you had fun, babe.”

She hopped out, boots crunching against the curb, already laughing as she texted her sisters. I watched her disappear into the lobby before shifting the Denali into gear.

By the time I parked in my usual spot in the booster lot, it was 11:28. Just enough time. I grabbed the Samsung from the console and checked the message thread. Still locked in: 11:45. Riverside bridge.

The night air was thick with the smell of sweat and stale beer from the Strip. I cut across toward Riverside, heart pounding with every step. But as I rounded the corner by the DKE house, a shadow pushed off the wrought iron fence.

“Wyatt Briggs.”

Grant. His voice was low, casual, but his posture was anything but. He stepped closer under the glow of a street lamp, his khakis crisp even at midnight.

“Caroline dragged you to Aldean?” he asked, eyes flicking over the plaid shirt, the cowboy hat still slung in my hand. His smirk curled sharply. “I was in the neighborhood looking for you, but your brothers said you went to Birmingham.”

I forced a laugh. “Yeah. She wanted me dressed up.”

Grant’s smirk didn’t fade. “Your boys will always get that the girl comes before them, especially on a Friday night. But I’m not here to see you about that.” his voice dropped, “A little bird has been telling me something.  That donor pass you’ve been using at Mal M. Moore? You know Wyatt, each time you use it, it gets tracked.”

My stomach knotted. “It’s donor access. We’re donors. That’s what it’s for.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah, see, there’s donor access… and then there’s hanging around. Staff talk. Athletes talk. You don’t wanna end up on the wrong side of the NCAA. It’s not a good look. For you. For your house.”

Sweat pooled at my back. “I already know,” I said, keeping my voice unbothered. “My dad made it clear.”

Grant stepped closer, gave my shoulder a little pat, like he was a coach correcting a rookie. “Good. Just… don’t embarrass where we came from. Or your old man. Clear?”

I nodded once.

Grant walked off toward the Strip, leaving me frozen under the street light, cowboy hat in one hand, Grindr phone burning in the other.

I glanced at the time: 11:35.

The arched pedestrian bridge loomed ahead, its lamps throwing long, pale streaks across the empty span. The street below was dark, save for the occasional car coming down the curve of Hackberry Lane.

My chest was still tight from Grant’s words, his hand on my shoulder like a brand. Don’t embarrass where we came from. Or your old man. I shoved it down, faster, harder, until all that was left was the pulse in my ears and the glow of the Samsung in my palm.

11:46.