I Went Too Hard During Homecoming And I Can Never Go Back, Part 3

I Went Too Hard During Homecoming And I Can Never Go Back, Part 3

Read Part 1 and Part 2

I’ve been around long enough to know that you don’t fool around with a girl that’s fresh out of a relationship, and you sure as hell can’t fool around with a babe with a boyfriend.

It’s not that I expected to have a future with old what’s her name, really I didn’t, but I wasn’t ready for the reputation hit I’d be taking for sticking it to some college chick with a boyfriend. It’s a bad look. When he approached me, fists clenched and with the mystery girl from the night before in tow, I knew shit was about to pop off.

Because I’m not a cage fighter, and I don’t own any Affliction, I haven’t been in a fight since college. I’m not morally opposed to it, but the risk of showing up to the office on Monday morning with a black eye gives me the shakes just thinking about it. So when I saw some college scrub walking toward me with nothing to lose, my first thought was to bail. Unfortunately, the copious amounts of booze that I had imbibed over the previous 2 hours overtook my common sense approach to life.

“Hey bitch!” he uttered as he reached for my throat. Was I about to fight Jesse Pinkman? By now, it was obvious all hell was breaking lose, and a couple of his buddies were doing their best to keep things from escalating. I didn’t know if he was a member of my old fraternity, and I really didn’t care. I caught a wild hair, the likes of which I will probably never see again. As soon as his hand made contact with my throat, I snuck and landed a respectable jab right on his nose. At least that’s what I’m told. I blacked out.

I have reason to believe it’s true. My loafers were covered in blood afterward that and I’m fairly certain wasn’t mine. Some say it was a thing of beauty, and others say it was a cheap shot. I really don’t give a fuck. You put your hands on a grown man, all bets are off. Not my fault his guard was down. Luckily, the other out of shape mid-twenties animals that I call my friends were nearby, and any thought of an all out benches clearing brawl were quickly quelled.

I didn’t come out unscathed. My Peter Millar lost a few buttons during the scuffle. I was pissed. The only positive was that I got to walk around for the rest of the afternoon with my shirt almost completely unbuttoned, and that puts out the party vibe. So there’s that.

There I stood, basically shirtless with my mystery lover screaming. “Don’t hurt him! Don’t huuuuurt him!” I’m still not sure whether she was talking about him or me. Oh, and it turns out, they weren’t even dating anymore. I guess it was one of those weird on again, off again things that all the kids are doing these days. Oh, well. He got his feelings hurt, and his nose broken (at least that’s how I tell the story).

As you may have guessed, we didn’t make it to the game. I didn’t mind, as I was just happy to not be locked up for being a drunken badass in public. In a weird turn of events, I had multiple active fraternity members apologize to me for Johnny Broken Heart’s aggressive behavior.

“He deserved it,” “Thanks for putting him in his place,” “They’ve been broken up for months,” and even a “I hope this won’t keep you away from other alumni events.”

Even though there’s no way I could’ve known she had a boyfriend, and my actions were all completely justified, my anxiety spiked. I was forever going to be the alumni that slept with someone’s “girlfriend” and got into a fistfight at tailgate. I was everything I feared becoming.

As we departed the tailgate for the bar, I debated on going home. What else was I going to do? I’d forever live in infamy. Then my phone buzzed. It was a text.

“Sorry, he’s an asshole. Where are you going?”

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