The game playing loud in the living room was going to be close. My boyfriend and his pals yelled and swore at the screen, and laughed at jokes I couldn’t hear. After I’d helped him serve snacks and more beer at halftime, he’d brought me back to the bedroom and locked the door behind him when he left. It gave me some time at peace to collect myself before the game ended. He’d always come in first and ritualistically draw the final score and logo of the winning team on my back in eyeliner. Then he’d take a picture before letting his buddies in to visit me. They were always happy and fun when ‘our’ side won. But when they were mad, they were rougher. They even sometimes forgot to reach for the condoms. I secretly always rooted for the other team.
My boyfriend would take a second picture after his friends all went home, before letting me up to shower. Then we’d cuddle on the couch and watch a chick flick, or look through the season’s photo album. Or last season’s when we made it to the championship, and lost.