Blondie Wannabe: A Billy Hargrove Fanfic

Bad Winners and Sore Loser

Have you guys seen the new trailer with Billy at his lifeguard job??? He's so gorgeous; seeing that really reinvigorated my passion for this story and helped break through my writer's block. Hope you enjoy this chapter!!

"I don't know why you're bothering with coming, I'm not even one of the starting five," Steve said the morning before his game. He'd made himself a massive turkey sandwich and a side of hashbrowns, which I thought would make him puke his guts out on the court, but he insisted was standard pre-game fare.

"Well, I want to be there in case you get subbed in. It's the first game of the season after all."

Muscular arms wrapped around my waist making Steve roll his eyes and turn away. I turned my head to peck Sal on the lips. "I'm sorry I won't be able to make it, I have to work."

"Why are you apologizing to her?" my brother snapped. "It's my game."

Sal chuckled, walking over to ruffle Steve's hair playfully. "Sorry kid, I'll to the next one."

I kept silent, staring at my overly bitter, dark roast coffee, worried if I said anything, I'd give away my true emotions: relief that I wouldn't have to juggle both him and Billy at once. No matter how I tried to spin it, Sal would never buy that I was only going over to his house to discuss his painting. But that was the truth, wasn't it? The way he asked me over, the way he looked at me, our playful exchange as he leaned against the porch railing- it all felt so intimate, and therefore impermissible. 

"Do you want to drive, or should I?" Steve asked.

"Oh, um, I'm probably going to go somewhere afterward, so we should take separate cars."

"Where are you going?"

Sal helped himself to some coffee from the pot, back to me as he stirred in loads of sugar and milk to make it edible, but I could tell he was listening to my answer. His passive interest annoyed me more than outright interrogation would.

"Just art class stuff, nothing exciting."

Hawkins always started every season of every sport by playing the only other school team in a forty-mile radius. They were from Portree, the much poorer nearby town. The border of our two counties is where Sal's apartment complex is located, and many of the conservative city councilmen like to complain about Portree's criminals and delinquents leaking into our pristine town and mucking everything up. I'd never encountered these supposedly dangerous gangbangers, but I also rarely ventured outside the bubble of Hawkins I was familiar with.

Our teams almost always beat the under-prepared, poorly trained Portree Scorpions; coaches mostly used it as a morale booster as well as a test for what worked and what didn't when heading into the rest of the season. 

I sat high in the bleachers, next to some people wearing green Hawkins High hoodies, but also apart from them. For a moment, I flashed back to ninth, watching a football game by myself, side-eyeing the students who'd come with their partners or friends, sharing blankets and hot cocoa, and felt all that old loneliness and self-doubt returning. A whistle pierced the air signaling the start of the game, and the spell was broken.

It was a bit weird to see Billy playing with a shirt on, and he seemed to agree because he kept lifting the hem of his jersey to wipe the sweat from his brow. A couple of times he looked up at me while they were resetting after a time-out, smirking, but I refused to look away shyly; I wouldn't let him make me feel embarrassed for watching a game.