The Atnta afternoon unfolded zily, 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 costume ideas, and taking turns debating whether Jorge would look better as a vampire or a male Carmen Sandiego.

  Tyrel had just suggested a group Roman theme—complete with leather straps, foam swords, and “strategically pced fig leaves”—when his eyes lit up like someone had just whispered state secrets in his ear.

  “Yo.”

  Everyone turned. Marisol looked mildly armed. “Oh no. What?”

  Tyrel was already scrambling for the remote like it was the st slice of pizza. “It’s Saturday. Game day. Georgia Tech’s pying Florida State. It’s on.”

  Sarah whooped and shoved her costume notes aside so fast the papers fluttered like startled birds. “You’re right! Kickoff’s at 3:30!”

  “Oh come on,” Ravi groaned, flopping dramatically onto the carpet like a Victorian dy fainting. “We were just talking about togas and nipple armor.”

  Cami smirked, stretching her legs across Jorge’s p. “Welcome to fall in the South, baby. Football season waits for no one’s costume crisis.”

  Jorge sighed, long-suffering. “Is this one of those times 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 men 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 bred from the speakers at maximum volume.

  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 name is Buzz,” Cami said, settling deeper into the couch like she was ciming territory. “And he’s a legend.”

  Within minutes, the house transformed into a war zone of cheers, boos, and spping 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 pnning strategy,” Sarah said without taking her eyes off the screen.

  “It looks like they’re just… standing there having a meeting in armor. This is boring!”

  “Shhh!” Tyrel hissed, eyes glued to the TV. “It’s third and long!”

  “What does that mean? That sounds wrong!” Ravi whispered to Jorge.

  “No idea,” Jorge replied, deadpan. “Just look intense. Nod when they nod.”

  Another py. 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 screamed as the crowd on TV did the same. Cami cpped in time with the band. Jorge tried to copy her but ended up cpping on the off-beat like a confused metronome. 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 assimited.

  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” meant.

  Bharath—entirely unsure why everyone was yelling—simply stood and cpped when the others cpped, 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. Cami screamed even though she wasn’t really following the game. 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 merchandise!” Jorge yelped.

  “Sorry! I was caught up in the moment!” Ravi said, then immediately turned back to the TV and screamed, “YES! TOUCHDOWN! I LOVE THIS SPORT!”

  Tyrel cackled. “Bro, you don’t even know who scored.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ravi decred. “The energy is immacute.”

  Bharath, still cpping politely, leaned toward Sarah. “Is this normal? To scream at people who can’t hear you?”

  Sarah grinned, looping an arm around his waist. “Welcome to fandom, baby. It’s 90% screaming at strangers and 10% pretending you understand the rules.”

  Cami leaned over. “And 100% snacks.”

  Marisol tossed popcorn at Tyrel’s head. “You missed the st one, by the way.”

  Tyrel caught it in his mouth like a trained seal. “I’m basically a pro now.”

  By halftime, the living room looked like a crime scene: popcorn kernels everywhere, empty soda cans stacked like modern art, costume sketches abandoned under a pile of throw bnkets.

  Bharath finally sat down, looking dazed but oddly exhirated. “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 py.”

  Jorge, who had somehow acquired a Georgia Tech foam finger from somewhere, waved it solemnly. “I have decided I support this team. Mostly because Buzz is doing push-ups again.”

  Sarah ughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “You’re officially converted.”

  Ravi, sprawled on the floor with his head in Cami’s p, sighed dramatically. “I think I’ve peaked. Nothing will ever top this. Except maybe if we all get matching Buzz costumes 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,” Cami 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 pnted 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 cpped him on the back so hard he stumbled. “That’s my boy! One game 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 game, none of them could expin the rules with any accuracy.

  But all of them felt like they’d won something.

  When the final whistle blew and Georgia Tech took the victory, Tyrel wiped his forehead theatrically. “That… was beautiful.”

  “I think I bcked 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 something? Can I wear my cricket jersey? Bharath has a matching India jersey as well.”

  Bharath, who had accidentally learned all the pyer names 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,” Cami quipped.

  As the sun dipped lower and the post-game fatigue set in, the costume sketches reemerged—now joined by impassioned debates over whether anyone in the group could realistically pull off a football pyer-and-cheerleader couples costume—and if Bharath should be Buzz the mascot as punishment for doubting American traditions.

  He groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “Only if Ravi dresses up as a foam finger.”

  Tyrel cpped him on the back again. “Welcome 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 expined.

  Sarah ughed. “Basically the same as this, but outside and with more charcoal.”

  Jorge raised his hand like a student. “Do we get to wear face paint?”

  “Absolutely,” Cami 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 moment—surrounded by ughter, spilled snacks, half-finished costume sketches, and the lingering echo of the fight song—none of them could imagine being anywhere else.