The Atlanta afternoon unfolded lazily, with sunbeams warming the living room floor and empty mugs gathering like trophies on the coffee table. The gang had fully migrated to Sarah’s couch, flipping through old Halloween catalogs, sketching out wild costu ideas, and taking turns debating whether Jorge would look better as a vampire or a male Carn Sandiego.
Tyrel had just suggested a group Roman the—complete with leather straps, foam swords, and “strategically placed fig leaves”—when his eyes lit up like soone had just whispered state secrets in his ear.
“Yo.”
Everyone turned. Marisol looked mildly alard. “Oh no. What?”
Tyrel was already scrambling for the remote like it was the last slice of pizza. “It’s Saturday. Ga day. Georgia Tech’s playing Florida State. It’s on.”
Sarah whooped and shoved her costu notes aside so fast the papers fluttered like startled birds. “You’re right! Kickoff’s at 3:30!”
“Oh co on,” Ravi groaned, flopping dramatically onto the carpet like a Victorian lady fainting. “We were just talking about togas and nipple armor.”
Camila smirked, stretching her legs across Jorge’s lap. “Welco to fall in the South, baby. Football season waits for no one’s costu crisis.”
Jorge sighed, long-suffering. “Is this one of those tis I have to pretend I care about things being thrown across grass?”
“You don’t pretend,” Marisol said, already grabbing a giant bowl of popcorn from the kitchen like she was preparing for war. “You cheer. You chant. You scream at n in spandex who will never hear you.”
Bharath frowned, still perched on the edge of the couch like he was attending a formal lecture. “Is this like cricket but with more stopping?”
“Not even close,” Sarah said gleefully as Tyrel turned the TV on and the Georgia Tech fight song blared from the speakers at maximum volu.
Ravi narrowed his eyes at the screen. “Is that… a marching band?”
“Yes,” said three girls and Tyrel at once.
“And is that... a bumblebee mascot doing push-ups?” Bharath asked, genuinely perplexed.
“His na is Buzz,” Camila said, settling deeper into the couch like she was claiming territory. “And he’s a legend.”
Within minutes, the house transford into a war zone of cheers, boos, and slapping high-fives as Georgia Tech took the field.
Bharath, Ravi, and Jorge sat stiffly at first—perched on the edge of the couch like foreign dignitaries unsure of the local customs.
“Why do they stop every three seconds?” Bharath asked, tilting his head like he was trying to solve a math problem.
“They’re planning strategy,” Sarah said without taking her eyes off the screen.
“It looks like they’re just… standing there having a eting in armor. This is boring!”
“Shhh!” Tyrel hissed, eyes glued to the TV. “It’s third and long!”
“What does that an? That sounds wrong!” Ravi whispered to Jorge.
“No idea,” Jorge replied, deadpan. “Just look intense. Nod when they nod.”
Another play. A roar erupted from Sarah. Tyrel jumped off the couch, fist-pumping like his life depended on it.
“YES! Stuffed ’em at the line! Let’s go, Jackets!”
Bharath looked around helplessly. “We’re cheering now?”
“Yes,” Sarah said, grabbing his hand and pulling him up. “You cheer now.”
They all stood and scread as the crowd on TV did the sa. Camila clapped in ti with the band. Jorge tried to copy her but ended up clapping on the off-beat like a confused trono. Ravi gave up pretending to understand and just waved his arms like he was conducting an invisible orchestra.
By the second quarter, they pretended to be fully assimilated.
Ravi yelled “Go Jackets!” whenever Tyrel and Sarah did, even though he still didn’t know which team was which.
Jorge was yelling at the quarterback to “throw it deep” even though he didn’t know what “deep” ant.
Bharath—entirely unsure why everyone was yelling—simply stood and clapped when the others clapped, booed when the others booed, and repeated, with full sincerity, “When in the US…”
When Georgia Tech scored a touchdown, Tyrel and Sarah jumped onto the couch like they’d personally thrown the pass. Popcorn flew everywhere. Camila scread even though she wasn’t really following the ga. The boys—now too far gone to resist—yelled and high-fived like they’d been raised on pigskin.
Ravi, mid-celebration, accidentally elbowed Jorge in the ribs. “Ow! Watch the rchandise!” Jorge yelped.
“Sorry! I was caught up in the mont!” Ravi said, then imdiately turned back to the TV and scread, “YES! TOUCHDOWN! I LOVE THIS SPORT!”
Tyrel cackled. “Bro, you don’t even know who scored.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ravi declared. “The energy is immaculate.”
Bharath, still clapping politely, leaned toward Sarah. “Is this normal? To scream at people who can’t hear you?”
Sarah grinned, looping an arm around his waist. “Welco to fandom, baby. It’s 90% screaming at strangers and 10% pretending you understand the rules.”
Camila leaned over. “And 100% snacks.”
Marisol tossed popcorn at Tyrel’s head. “You missed the last one, by the way.”
Tyrel caught it in his mouth like a trained seal. “I’m basically a pro now.”
By halfti, the living room looked like a cri scene: popcorn kernels everywhere, empty soda cans stacked like modern art, costu sketches abandoned under a pile of throw blankets.
Bharath finally sat down, looking dazed but oddly exhilarated. “I still don’t understand why they huddle so much. Are they praying?”
“Kind of,” Tyrel said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “They’re plotting world domination. Or at least the next play.”
Jorge, who had sohow acquired a Georgia Tech foam finger from sowhere, waved it solemnly. “I have decided I support this team. Mostly because Buzz is doing push-ups again.”
Sarah laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “You’re officially converted.”
Ravi, sprawled on the floor with his head in Camila’s lap, sighed dramatically. “I think I’ve peaked. Nothing will ever top this. Except maybe if we all get matching Buzz costus for Halloween.”
Tyrel perked up. “Yo. That’s actually genius. Buzz and the Yellow Jackets crew. We could be the whole mascot squad.”
Marisol snorted. “You’d look ridiculous in a bumblebee suit.”
“I’d look majestic,” Tyrel corrected. “And Ravi would be the stinger.”
“I’m allergic to bees,” Ravi said mournfully.
“Then you’re the queen bee,” Camila deadpanned.
Ravi gasped in mock horror. “I’m being typecast!”
As the third quarter started, the energy ramped up again. Georgia Tech was up by seven. Florida State was pushing hard. The room was electric.
When the Jackets intercepted a pass, Sarah leaped into Bharath’s arms without warning. He caught her on instinct, spinning her once before she planted a loud kiss on his cheek.
“See?” she said, grinning. “This is why we scream.”
Bharath, red-faced but smiling, set her down gently. “I’m starting to understand.”
Tyrel clapped him on the back so hard he stumbled. “That’s my boy! One ga in and he’s already catching cheerleaders.”
Sarah swatted Tyrel’s arm. “I’m not a cheerleader.”
“You’re cheering,” Tyrel said. “Close enough.”
By the end of the ga, none of them could explain the rules with any accuracy.
But all of them felt like they’d won sothing.
When the final whistle blew and Georgia Tech took the victory, Tyrel wiped his forehead theatrically. “That… was beautiful.”
“I think I blacked out in the third quarter,” Jorge said, foam finger still clutched in his hand.
Ravi blinked at the screen like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “I don’t even know what happened, but I’m invested now. Do we get matching jerseys or sothing? Can I wear my cricket jersey? Bharath has a matching India jersey as well.”
Bharath, who had accidentally learned all the player nas and was now emotionally attached to the running back, shrugged. “I still don’t know how they decide who gets the ball, but I liked when that one guy jumped over the other guy.”
“That’s football, baby,” Tyrel said proudly, handing him another soda like a ceremonial rite of passage.
Marisol looped her arms around both Sarah and Bharath, tugging them close. “You did well, rookie.”
“I just copied what you did,” Bharath admitted.
“And that’s how we all got through high school,” Camila quipped.
As the sun dipped lower and the post-ga fatigue set in, the costu sketches reerged—now joined by impassioned debates over whether anyone in the group could realistically pull off a football player-and-cheerleader couples costu—and if Bharath should be Buzz the mascot as punishnt for doubting Arican traditions.
He groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “Only if Ravi dresses up as a foam finger.”
Tyrel clapped him on the back again. “Welco to the South, brah. You one of us now. Wait till I introduce you to tailgating.”
Ravi perked up. “Tailgating? Is that where we park cars and eat?”
“It’s where we park cars, eat, drink, grill, scream, and occasionally cry when the other team scores,” Tyrel explained.
Sarah laughed. “Basically the sa as this, but outside and with more charcoal.”
Jorge raised his hand like a student. “Do we get to wear face paint?”
“Absolutely,” Camila said. “Gold and white stripes. You’ll look like a very committed bumblebee.”
Bharath sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose this is what belonging feels like.”
Sarah squeezed his hand. “It is.”
Marisol leaned in and kissed his cheek, then Sarah’s. “And it’s only going to get louder.”
Ravi, sprawled on the floor again, raised his soda can. “To football. To throuples. To Buzz. And to whatever insane Halloween disaster we’re about to unleash.”
They all clinked whatever was nearby—mugs, soda cans, an empty popcorn bowl.
And in that mont—surrounded by laughter, spilled snacks, half-finished costu sketches, and the lingering echo of the fight song—none of them could imagine being anywhere else.
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