by Emma Tharp
I should've told Harper no about coming to the game and the party. This was all a big mistake.
Tomorrow ought to be really fun.
If I wake up hungover on the first day back to classes, I’m so screwed.
Two
Gavin
This really isn't my scene.
Keggers and frat parties are for people who like to waste time getting drunk and stupid. I can think of a hundred things I would rather be doing, like training extra hours to keep my competitive edge. Or doubling down on my studies so this scholarship actually pays off.
My buddy, Justin, swats me on the back and continues pumping the keg outside on the front porch. "Come on, man. One more drink. We're celebrating. Five-oh, baby! I got my shut out."
On the other hand, this is Justin's scene. He's my best friend and the goalie for our team, and this is his way of coping and blowing off steam. Tonight’s big win went a long way with that. Especially since he didn’t let one shot in. But unlike me, the sport alone isn’t enough for him. He needs an outlet, so I go along with it and hand him my red cup.
"Okay. One more."
"That a boy," he says.
Foam drips over the edge of the cup when Justin hands it back to me.
I hold the frothy mess away from me and lean down to take a sip of the warm, cheap beer. My jaw stings at the movement, a reminder of the dirty shot some asshole from the other team took tonight.
It’s hockey. Injuries are par for the course. Still, nothing pisses me off more than a cheap shot.
You signed up for this, I remind myself.
Heck, truth is, part of me likes the hurt. It reminds me why I’m here at Boston College in the first place. Before hockey was my life, my passion, I hurt all the time. Just in another way. But this sport was my escape. It saved me. At least that’s what I tell myself. Some of my teammates accuse me of just using it to avoid “real life.”
Code for dating, I think.
That doesn’t change the facts, though. I wanted to play Division One hockey for as long as I can remember. When I was accepted on a full scholarship, it was one of the best days of my life. That’s why I don’t take any of this for granted. I work hard every day to keep my grades up and kill myself on the ice to prove to Coach Cohen that I deserve a spot on the team. Nothing is guaranteed, and it could all be gone tomorrow if I’m not careful.
Which is why I shouldn’t be here. But Justin is really good at talking me into shit I don’t want to do. Like coming to this frat house for the after-party to celebrate. Parties are a distraction that I don't need.
A group of frat boys run past us in their expensive clothes and Rolexes, cheering and chanting about our big win tonight. I raise my hand in the air to slap them five as they all rush by us.
It feels so fake. They’re into it, but I’m just playing along.
One dude, who I think was in my economics class last semester, stops in front of me and attempts some five-move handshake with me that turns out to be a strange mess of knuckles and fingers. I think his name is Trip.
“Hey, man,” he says. “Sick shot from the blue line. It was fire!”
“Thanks.”
“Why don’t you rush Sigma? We’d love to have a leader on the ice like you as a brother.” He slurs a little, and I have to bite back the laughter bubbling up.
No way in hell would I ever rush a frat. First of all, I’m not like them. I don’t have time to rush, kiss ass, or party. I don’t have fratty clothes or the money it would take to join. Hell has a better chance of freezing over, but I simply nod.
“Sure, I’ll think about it.”
“Come do a shot with me later.” He bends his arm and gives me the universal drinking sign as he walks away.
I shrug. “Yeah, I’ll come find you.”
No, I won’t.
A shiny white BMW pulls up out front, and a group of sorority girls hop out, flipping their hair, looking high maintenance and uppity. A couple of them stumble out of the car, grabbing at each other for balance. They must be half in the bag already.
What annoys me most about the frat boys and sorority girls is that I bet none of them are paying for their education or have to work for it like me. I don't have parents giving me a handout. Nope. Mom works two jobs to pay for the lousy apartment I grew up in. She can’t afford to help me out. I'm here because I worked my ass off playing hockey. It's the only thing I'm good at. If I keep it up, maybe I can go pro. Then I would never have to worry about money again and I could take care of my mom, and get my mom out of her shithole apartment into a real house that she can be proud of.
“Let’s head inside,” Justin says after he’s filled up cups for about twenty guys.
“Sure.” I follow him in, and we find a spot to stand in the living room.
Rap music plays from another room in the house as people cluster about everywhere. Girls wearing sorority sweatshirts dance in the middle of the room, looking for attention. There are two couples making out on a nearby couch who look as if they’re one step away from getting naked right here in front of everyone. A group of guys sit on the floor in a circle, passing a bong around.
Yeah, this isn’t my scene.
We’re here not even a minute when a tall, lanky redhead walks up to Justin.
She rests her hands on his chest and gives him strong eye contact. "Great game."
"Aren’t you sweet?” He slips his hand around her waist. “We appreciate the team spirit. The maroon and gold Eagles tank you’re wearing really brings out your eyes. Are you having fun tonight?"
It's like an art form, the way Justin talks to women. It's not cheesy and he doesn't sound like a salesman. He gives women genuine compliments, and they eat it right up. He has the reputation of being good to women, even if he never seems to settle down. He still knows how to make them feel like a queen for a night.
The redhead leans into Justin, resting her hip on his hip. "I am now."
Justin gives her that smirk that all the girls drop their panties for. He has more game in his pinky finger than I do in my entire body. And the thing is, he never upsets anyone because he doesn't make them promises. After he and his girl broke up last year, he has been playing the field. Hard. The ladies love what Justin is dishing out and flock to him.
And if they’re flocking to him, I don’t have to worry about them flocking to me. Let him have all the girls. It's best I keep my distance from distractions.
Oh, look, here comes another one. A blonde with long, flowing hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion walking in Justin’s direction. Is the bastard going to have a threesome tonight? I don't know how he does it.
Just when I think the blonde is going to stand at Justin's opposite side, she comes face-to-face with me. When her green eyes lock with mine, a strange magnetic pull has me unable to look away. She doesn't seem to be wearing a speck of makeup, not like the other girls here tonight who have painted-on eyebrows and dark lipstick. This girl is rocking the natural look. She smells nice too—fresh, like summer and sun.
"Hi," she says in almost a whisper.
I'm not good with small talk, so instead, I take a good look at her. She's sexy in an unassuming way. She's dressed conservatively in a sweater and jeans. They fit her perfectly, as if they were tailored to her body to fit comfortably, but not glued to her, cutting off her circulation. I'll never understand why some people do that. It can't be comfortable. She isn't half naked like some of the girls here, either. It's the middle of winter in Boston, for Christ's sake, not the time to be wearing tank tops and short skirts.
The blonde points toward my jaw. "What happened?"
When I run my hand across it, the sting makes me wish I had taken a pain reliever. "I had a run-in with someone's stick at the game."
Or rather, a dickhead from St. Lawrence slashed me when the refs weren’t looking. When I moved to retaliate, Coach Cohen yelled from the bench to back off. He didn’t want me to take a penalty. I was livid. But, on my next shift, I got the perfe
ct revenge. I stole the puck from the loser and had a breakaway to score. It felt so damn good to rub that in the player’s face.
She stares at the cut; her brows pinch together. She looks as if she would like to touch it, but refrains.
“Looks like it could get infected if you don't take care of it," she says.
I nod. It’s odd how concerned she seems about my jaw. She doesn’t even know me.
We stand there for a minute, unspeaking. The heat of her stare sets me on edge. I think she's trying to flirt with me. I don't do flirting. Worse, I don’t like how her attention is making me feel…distracted. I’m not like Justin. I need to get away from this girl. Or convince her to stay away from me. This chitchat can’t continue. Better to cut it off before she gets any ideas.
“If you’re done worrying about my face, was there another reason you came over here?”
“I just wanted to say, uh, great game. I saw you score.” She hiccups and sways slightly.
"Thanks. How much have you had to drink?" I ask with accusation in my tone. My intention is to make her think I'm judging her and give her a reason to leave me alone.
Her mouth falls open and she shuffles back a step. My words hit the mark. I've thrown her.
"I'm not really sure. Too much, though."
I wish I didn't have to do this, but I'm left without a choice. I summon visions of missing the perfect shot at a game, or that disheartening feeling of waking up Christmas morning to no presents under the tree.
I slowly shake my head and glare at her. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
“Nope.” Her face contorts as if I've slapped her. “Really nice meeting you.” The coldness in my tone and my asshole demeanor worked like magic because she walks away from me.
Justin strolls up to me, the redhead still draped all over him. “Hey, buddy, everything okay? What did you say to that girl? She took off pretty fast.”
"I don't know. She wasn't really my type."
“Dude, she’s everyone’s type,” Justin says.
The redhead gives him a playful slap, but it’s obvious she’s not really hurt by Justin’s comment.
I shrug and have a swallow of my warm beer. It's a complete lie; she's absolutely my type. That’s the problem. I can't risk losing focus.
Nothing is worth that.
I can't stop myself from watching the blonde as she stumbles up to her friends. I wonder what she tells them as they all have their heads pressed together. They turn around at the same time and glare at me as if they would like to find a sharp kitchen knife and cut me with it, or maybe put an evil spell on me.
Good. Now they're all forewarned to stay away from me. If that girl continued to try and pursue me, I don’t know how long I could avoid the temptation.
Three
Stella
The high-pitched shrill of my alarm blaring causes a piercing pain to shoot through my skull. Stupid party. Stupid alcohol. I turn the damn thing off and tuck my head into the comforting darkness under my pillow.
Thirty minutes later, I wake with a gasp and nearly jump out of bed.
Stupid me!
That alarm I slammed off was my wake-up alarm to get to class!
My dad is going to kill me.
This is a disaster. I’m going to be late on the first day, and with a hangover from hell.
I take the quickest shower of my life, throw my hair up in a wet bun, and get dressed in leggings and a sweater. On my way out, I grab my makeup bag, pain relievers, and a granola bar.
At the stoplights, I attempt to put on a little makeup. I don’t wear much, but today, it seems like no amount of concealer is going to cover up my dark circles. Even though I showered, I think I still smell like alcohol, too. Great way to make a first impression on my new professors. I can picture my father’s scowl showing me his full displeasure at my life choices.
Why did I go to the after-party last night? It was a huge mistake.
I pull into the main parking lot on campus and check my schedule for today. Oh, no. My first class is bio lab. I love biology, but what if this semester is a repeat of the last? My partner made things freaking hell. That's why I got the C minus that pissed off my dad. With my head pounding from this hangover, that's the last thing I need to walk into on my first day.
As soon as I sling my bag over my shoulder and lock my car door, I hurry to the science building. The lab room is upstairs. I sprint up them, two at a time. My head throbs, and I’m breathless when I reach the room.
All of the front-row tables are full. I should’ve gotten here earlier. One’s open in the middle row, and a few in the back. I choose the middle. Each table has two chairs, and nobody else is in the second seat with me.
There are five minutes left before the official start of class, and anyone could waltz in and try to take the empty spot. I put my bag and water bottle on the table next to me and watch as the last-minute stragglers enter the room.
With each new student that enters, I avoid eye contact until the right person comes in. I need the perfect partner that will split the work fifty-fifty. Maybe someone who I’ve been in class with before, who I know is a good student, or someone who looks like they’re ready to work and not slack off.
Except as the minutes tick by, I’m not finding a good fit. I might be partnerless.
With one minute before the start of class, my stomach sinks as Mr. Asshole, number twenty-one, strolls in searching for a place to sit. When my eyes dart around the room, unease blooms in my gut. There’s only one empty seat, and it’s beside me.
He moves toward the table, and when his eyes land on me, their navy blue depths turn to ice, sending a chill up my spine. He slips into the seat next to me and I catch a hint of his body wash. It’s the clean, cool smell that hits your nose before a storm comes in. Like oxygen and raindrops. That zing you get in your gut that tells you to watch out. It’s a warning to take cover.
I have nowhere to run.
When I look over at him, a sense of dread washes over me. Now I'm stuck with this guy who hates me for no reason. This was exactly what I was trying to avoid. Another nightmare year.
“Welcome to Biology Lab two,” Mr. Talbot, the professor, says.
He’s tall and rail thin, fitting the bill as a geeky scientist, with thick glasses, a pocket protector, and an ink stain on the front pocket of his shirt. Maybe the pocket protector was an afterthought.
“Take a look at who’s sitting next to you,” he says. “He or she will be your lab partner for the duration of the semester. Without further ado, let’s go over the syllabus.”
Great. Number twenty-one is my lab partner all semester.
Maybe not. What if I move my seat for the next lab?
When I glance over at twenty-one, it’s like the air is knocked from my lungs. He’s staring at me with something besides contempt. Is it apprehension? I guess that’s better than anger. Those eyes are dark, endless pools of blue. Turbulent and limitless. Blinding and unfathomable. Marvelous, yet treacherous.
The birds from last night start fluttering again in my belly. Why is my body betraying me? What kind of twisted, warped act is it trying to pull? I should be irritated and turned off, but somehow the pull toward him is magnified. This guy was a complete jerk to me, and yet I can't help the physical attraction. Especially with that look in his eyes that makes me wonder if he's really just another asshole, or if there's something more.
Could it be that he’s more wounded than mean?
The hour and a half of class is fraught with tension. It’s like my muscles are jumping under my skin, yet I don’t want to move. My skin prickles and tingles at twenty-one’s nearness. The air is static between us, supercharged with energy. If I make one move toward him, I’m sure I would get shocked.
I allow myself a glance at him from my periphery. The rigid set to his shoulders and the way he taps his pen on the desk tells me loud and clear that he would like to be anywhere but here.
What could I have possibly don
e to him to cause this reaction?
As soon as class ends, he’s up and out of his chair before I even have the chance to stand up and leave first. But with his absence, I can finally breathe again.
I’m really going to have to switch seats for the next lab. I don’t think I can handle another hour and a half of that. My nerves are shot.
On my way to my physiology lecture, I’m completely distracted by thoughts of twenty-one and the insane pull I feel toward him. I stumble into the chest of Hunter Michaelson, my ex-boyfriend. His short brown hair is perfectly styled, and he’s wearing a sky-blue J.Crew quarter-zip over a striped polo, tan chinos, and boat shoes.
“Hey.” He grips my shoulders, settling me. “You should watch where you’re going.” He chuckles.
“Gosh. Sorry,” I say in a huff.
His brown eyes peruse my body the way they always used to, with a mix of scrutiny and longing. “What has you so frazzled?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired.” I readjust the strap of my bag that has fallen down my arm.
“I heard you were at a party. You got drunk and were puking in the yard. What were you thinking? That's not safe.” His tone isn’t protective, but controlling and overbearing.
That familiar feeling of being studied, analyzed—almost dissected—washes over me. It’s one of the many reasons I broke up with him. When we were together, I never felt good enough, perfect enough. Hunter is insufferably clean-cut and likes to hover.
“You're not my keeper, Hunter, and you're not my dad,” I say, rolling my eyes.
"Yeah, but what would he think?"
Oh no. I wouldn’t put it past Hunter to go running to my dad with this information, if he hasn’t already. It’s the kind of thing he would do to try to get in the way of me having a life without him in it.
“I’m nineteen. This is my life,” I say. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore. I’m no longer your problem. Or a project you think you need to fix.”
His eyes soften. “That’s not how I see you.”
