Mess You Made

20.

Miguel.

"What the fuck's up with you?" James nudges me as the bouncer at Sapphire checks our fake ID's in line, "You won that game by a long shot."

The team all wanted to celebrate afterwards and head to the routine nightclub, like usual, but I don't much care for any of it. It's difficult to care since I don't know where Malibu is. She isn't with me, that's all I understand. I came with the girl and she hasn't been with me all night so the way I envisioned tonight isn't living up to my expectations. At all. Ruining my fucking mood.

"She's with Cal. They're heading over here." James says, looks at me weirdly, "That's fine, right?"

I try not to grit my teeth together, nod, "Yeah— fine."

Because I shouldn't care. Probably. Like— technically, I shouldn't.

He looks at me a bit uncertainly, "You sure?"

"Sure she's coming here?"

"Yeah, think so." He affirms as the bouncer lets us through and we start to head down the steps, into the nightclub. Sapphire's the best one around this side of the city and we usually end up here after most games to fuck around.

Usually, I look forward to it. This part of the night's often been my favourite bit, the exhilaration from a win, the chaos of it all and the freedom. The parties are always wildest after a good game and I have no hesitations throwing myself in the middle of it and all the girls that are usually brought around.

The girl I brought to the game, though — she's with my teammate right now somewhere, so I'm not exactly in the mood. Can feel it hanging over my head.

I changed into one of my favourite hoodies before I left the court, donning the black script hoodie from Represent and I pull the hood half over my head as we walk in, turning my shoulders to get past the throngs of people. It's Friday night, packed as fuck already and my team's scattered all over the place in here like usual.

I see a couple players at the bar and smack my palms against theirs as I walk past, attempting to act how I usually do but my head's a bit all over the place. I was the one who wanted Malibu Adams at my game. I'm probably the one whose seen her the least tonight and it's been steadily irritating me. What a fuckup of a night. What the fuck?

"Good game, captain." Ry's grinning, hooks an arm around my shoulder, "That last trickshot was clean, Mig, they'll run it in that local sports magazine again."

"Can't get my pivot right like that." Ollie says — such a funny fuck when he's drunk, and he already is drunk. He sighs, dramatically, "Teach me, Cap— what'll it take, huh?" He turns his bleary eyes up to me, "Can't suck you off but I'm good at—" He sniffs, looks away, tries to think of something.

"Nothing?" Ryan taunts, eyebrows high.

Ollie points, "Fuck yourself. And your mom, and your sister— how's your sister?"

Ryan shoves him lightly, "Shut up about my sister, Ols—"

Ollie clambers to stay onto the stool, laughing his ass off, "I miss her."

I look at Ry, eyebrows raised, "Him and your sister finally—"

Ryan looks away, looks like he might vomit.

Ollie's grinning at me, winks.

I shake my head, fight a bit of a smile as Ollie calls for some tequila shots. I cast a glance around as they both introduce themselves to James. The purple lights of the club enshroud everything in a haze of dancing figures, drunken bodies making out and all the debauchery that bleeds off this club. It's a perfect mayhem that I tend to like, but for now, I just lean down and rest my forearms on the bar.