by McKinley May
"I might not let you cover any school expenses..." I turn, gracing my brother with a cheeky grin. "But I wouldn't say no to a free honey butter chicken biscuit."
"If a breakfast sandwich is the only thing you'll let me pay for, I'll take it." He smiles as he flips on his blinker and pulls into the Whataburger parking lot. "Honey butter chicken biscuit it is."
2
"Cowabunga!"
A wasted frat bro stumbles to the edge of the diving board, a lazy smile on his face. He tips his head back, guzzles down a full Bud Light, and cannonballs into the pool.
As the fully-clothed drunk hits the surface, a massive tsunami of salt water soaks everyone within three feet of the display. Lucky for me, I'm right outside the threshold. Only a few stray drops splatter into my empty red cup.
The pair of sorority sisters to my right aren't as lucky.
In an instant, the dolled-up girls are almost unrecognizable. Perfectly painted faces are replaced by streaky mascara and runny makeup reminiscent of the Joker. Bouncy, styled hair is now drenched and dripping, hanging flat around their horrified expressions.
"Oh my God, Grant! You're such a Neanderthal." The tall, dark-haired girl chastises Mr. Cannonball as he swims closer to her. "Could you, like, not?!"
"Sorry not sorry, Becca." Grant props his forearms on the concrete perimeter, smirking as he lifts his upper body from the clear blue liquid. He shakes his head back and forth like a dog, sending another spray of water their direction. They yelp and his grin grows bigger. "Don't wanna get wet? Stay away from the pool. And from me, too, for that matter. Girls get really fucking wet when I'm around."
He winks before cackling along with some of his brothers.
"You wish," Becca mutters. She puts her razor-sharp high heels to use, stepping on Grant's fingers until he's forced back into the pool with a splash.
The guy does have a point, though, and I get the feeling these girls are freshmen. Standing next to a body of water at a party is just asking for trouble. You're either gonna get soaked (see above) or some drunk dude's gonna 'accidentally' push you in. Risk factor's doubled if you're wearing white.
Tripled if you have huge tits.
Bottom line—unless you like starring in spontaneous wet t-shirt contests, avoid the pool.
I'm walking past the vicinity when Becca's petite friend calls out to me.
"Cameron?"
"Yeah?"
I stop, squinting at the two girls to see if I recognize them from somewhere. Takes less than a second to realize I don't, but I'm still not surprised she's greeting me by name.
Being on the #1 men's college soccer team in the USA has me and my teammates on a helluva lot of people's radars. Athletes have celebrity status at Windhaven, as is common at any university with a successful sports team.
This obviously has its perks: a little more leeway for due dates, never having to wait in line for anything, and an endless supply of gorgeous women who are basically 'on call' for hook-ups at any time, day or night.
VIP treatment is pretty fucking sweet, but the constant attention can be creepy as shit when taken to the extreme.
Like sophomore year when my best friend, Vaughn Steel, and I each had our own 'super fan'.
That's what they called themselves, anyway.
Stalker would be my term of choice.
Privacy and boundaries? Completely foreign concepts to these girls.
Honestly, mine wasn't so bad in the grand scheme of things. The detailed and extremely erotic love poems were weird af, but highly entertaining. She also sent me one of those fancy fruit arrangements every Friday for seven months straight. Def hit my recommended vitamin intake during that time period.
But Vaughn's was a total nut case.
The saved his used napkins and hid in bushes to take paparazzi pics of him variety.
One of our roommates, Weston Paine, nearly pissed himself laughing when she sent a wedding album documenting their make-believe nuptials. She'd gone full psycho mode, Photoshopping her and Vaughn's faces over pics of Kim and Kanye's "I do"'s. The list of future kids' names she'd tucked into the back was a treat, too.
Baby Stainless Steel had me fucking dead.
The whole thing was hilarious, but simultaneously bordering on restraining-order territory. Lucky for V, the wannabe-Mrs.-Steel graduated at the end of that year. Still sends him a card once in a blue moon, though.
I turn my attention back to the sopping-wet girl in front of me.
"What's up?"
Instead of answering, her eyes take a slow roam up and down my body—all 6'6'' of me. White teeth pierce her bottom lip as she takes her damn time checking me out.
"You need something?" I repeat, snapping her out of the eye-fucking she's currently harassing my biceps with.
After blinking a few times, she finally meets my gaze.
"Do you guys have a blow-dryer here?" She gathers her blonde hair in her palms and wrings it out.
Becca pokes her head into the convo, adding, "And a curling iron?" with a hopeful tone.
I hike a brow, waiting for the inevitable "just kidding!" that's sure to follow, but it never comes.
The request is ridiculous considering my roommates and I probably couldn't pick out a curling iron from an assortment of freakin' vibrators.
"Six dudes live here," I respond with a laugh. "You'd be hard-pressed to find a fucking hairbrush around this place."
They both pout at my answer, but what the hell did they expect? A fully-functioning salon on the property?
Jerking a thumb behind me, I throw them a bone. "We've got extra towels in a bucket by the beer coolers. Knock yourselves out."
The blonde gives me one last perusal before thanking me. As they shuffle off, fragments of Becca's whines drift through the festive clamor. Complaints about her "ruined designer dress" followed by threats to "bill Grant for the dry-cleaning" have me shaking my head in amusement.
Another sign of inexperienced fish—expecting to leave a house party looking like anything other than a total disaster.
Beer stains, cracked phone screens, alcohol-influenced bodily injuries...If you don't end the night with at least one of the preceding party favors, I guarantee the event was lame as hell.
And this particular weekend? Prepare to go home with all three.
The week before school starts is prime party time. Last opportunity to go completely batshit before classes start. Booze-filled benders and inadvisable one-night-stands are the norm during this final 'hoorah'.
As Grant steps back on the diving board for another round, I make my way to the keg station, dodging through the mass of sweaty, inebriated students.
"'Sup?" I tip my chin at the skinny guy manning the four massive kegs.
He immediately stands straight, greeting me with a military-worthy salute. "Sig's Beer Maiden, at your beck and call, sir."
I grin at the stupid gesture and hand him my empty cup. "Rushing Sigma?"
"Yes, sir."
Sigma Pi's the wildest Greek chapter at Windhaven, no contest whatsoever, and they happen to reside right next door. They're notorious for all-nighters so loud they register on the Richter scale and for the constant stream of walk-of-shamers stumbling out their front door at all hours of the day.
Another claim to fame is the fancy, gold-trimmed certificate from the mayor that shows up in their mailbox every January. Most Beer Bottles Recycled in Winnie County is an award they've been on the receiving end of for decades.
Aside from the occasional harmless prank, we're pretty amicable with all the brothers. It's not unusual to see a shitload of frat dudes at our parties and vice versa.
Every Fall, a new batch of potential members show up, each one assigned a humiliating duty for their pledge semester. The poor fucker serving me has to wear his Beer Maid Bitch name tag everywhere until he's initiated.
"Your beer, sir," he says as he pushes the overflowing red cup in my direction.
"You can drop the formalities, dude. Not gon
na rat you out to the actives," I assure him as I take a sip.
He emits a sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders dissipating at my promise.
"Plus, they must find you somewhat tolerable," I add. "Beer Maid Bitch is one of the best gigs you can get."
"Agreed." He nods before pointing to a guy hauling around a broom and a bucket of cleaning supplies. "My buddy got Janitor Pledge."
"And that's one of the worst gigs." I laugh. "He drop yet? The freshman assigned that last year scrubbed one grimy toilet and quit. Dude couldn't even make it a week."
"He hasn't bailed yet," he says. "But it looked like he was strongly considering it after his first deep bathroom cleanse."
"Might wanna tell him to invest in a gas mask. Pledgeship's gonna suck balls."
"Yeah. We're already more than aware," he reveals with a shudder.
I down another gulp of beer before putting things into perspective. "One semester of bullshit in exchange for three and a half years of bomb college memories. Y'all stick it out and it'll be worth it in the end. Sigma Pi's the best fraternity on campus. Dopest Greek house, too."
"The frat castle's cool, but not as sweet as this place."
I can tell he's a first-timer by the way his wide eyes flit between all three of the homes on the wooded land, astonishment and awe in his gaze.
"I said dopest Greek house," I say with a smug grin. "Most badass off-campus residence overall? The Treehouse, hands down. Nothing else comes close."
"You live here?" he questions.
"Since I was a sophomore." I nudge my chin towards the Main House. His pupils follow my movement, neck straining as he searches for the large home situated between four sturdy oaks. "Going on my third year up in the trees."
"That's awesome." He lets out an appreciative whistle. "How do you get a spot here?"
Before I can explain, a few of my teammates and fellow Treehouse dwellers butt into the conversation.
"Gotta play on the soccer team, bro," Diego Mendoza says as he shoves two empty cups into the guy's hands. The center midfielder motions towards one of the two identical homes on the ground. "Greenhouse is where it's at, man. Fitz and I live there."
"It's great," Parker Fitz agrees as he walks up beside his housemate. "But living at the Treehouse isn't a right of passage; it's a privilege. The whole team votes on who gets the positions. Sub-par performance isn't gonna earn you a spot. If you get a place here, it's the result of years of blood, sweat, and tears."
"So you're saying it's too late for me to pick up the sport and join the team?" Beer Maid jokes.
Diego gives him a once-over and bursts out laughing. "Way too late, amigo." He raises his brows at his still-empty cups. "Now fill 'em up. All the way to the brim, Beer Maid. No skimping."
Parker eyes him suspiciously. "Go easy on the alcohol."
"Chillax, Parks and Rec. God gave us two hands for a reason." He lifts both fists and raises his thumbs with enthusiasm. "Double-fisting booze."
Parker's head lolls back on a groan. "Last time you said that, you got so wasted you tried to book a freaking African safari. I had to lock your credit cards in my room until you sobered up."
"Don't get your tighty-whities in a twist over me, bro. I can handle my liquor. You're the one who drinks two wine coolers and blacks out the rest of the night."
"Two? That's a load of shit." Parker drags a hand through his blonde hair and scoffs. "If you're gonna exaggerate, at least make it somewhat believable."
"Lo siento." Diego apologizes and takes the beers from the pledge. Golden liquid sloshes over the sides as he turns to his roommate with a devilish smile. "Three Mike's Hard Lemonades put you on your ass. Better?"
Parker's jaw clenches. "And more than five shots of tequila and you're drunk-dialing your high school girlfriend, cooing into the phone how much you miss h—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Diego interrupts, a tinge of uncharacteristic embarrassment in his tone. After clearing his throat, a threatening glare twists his features. "Shut the fuck up, dude. That's personal."
Before they can continue the verbal sparring, I hold up a hand. "Alright, alright, you two. Catfight over." I glance around the crowded party, searching for a few familiar faces. "Have y'all seen Liam and Ellie?"
"Around back," Parker responds.
"We'll come with," Diego says, nodding between him and Fitz.
And just like that, they're best buds again.
After a quick thanks to Beer Maid Bitch for the service, we head to the backyard. Along the route, we observe an intense game of beer pong, a raunchy round of strip poker, and what appears to be a goddamn orgy in the hot tub.
Dunno what the hell is going on under the bubbles, but I do know we need to drain and decontaminate that thing ASAP.
The moment we get to the other side of the property, the fire pit comes into view along with the couple in question.
They're sitting on one of the hand-carved log benches—Ellie Landry with her infectious grin and signature cowboy boots; Liam Wright with his perpetual scowl and a protective arm wrapped around his girl's waist.
"Ellllie!" Diego hollers, lifting his drinks and once again spilling a decent amount out of the cups. "Whaddup?"
The bubbly brunette snaps her gaze to us. Flickering orange flames illuminate her excitement as she jumps up and eagerly waves us over. Before we get a chance to sit down, she yanks the three of us into a giant, awkward group hug.
"Oh my gosh!" She squeals as she squeezes us tight. "Hey!"
"Good to—oof—see you, too, El," Parker grunts out.
"We miss y'all!" She finally loosens her ironclad grip and turns to her boyfriend. "Don't we, babe?"
"Sure, love. Been crying my eyes out everyday since the move. Absolutely gutted over the whole ordeal."
Ellie scoffs at his sarcastic response.
"Liam!"
She tries to swat his arm, but he grabs her wrist, pulling her down onto his lap with a crooked smile.
"How's the new place?" I ask as I take a seat.
Diego collapses into a lawn chair next to the pair. "You guys are in a townhouse, yeah?"
"Yup. Just about ten minutes from campus. It's quite nice," Liam reveals.
Ellie nods in agreement. "Loads of space, modern finishes, the most adorable backyard with raised garden beds..."
"And no bloody annoying roommates," Liam jabs with a wicked grin. "Might be the best perk of all."
"We're glad to be rid of you too, asshole," Parker jokes as he slugs him on the shoulder.
"He's right," I add to the mock insults. "Ellie was the one and only reason we let your sorry ass stick around. Peaches is welcome to come back at any time."
"Aw, I appreciate it, Cam," Ellie drawls in her southern twang. "We really do love our new home, but it's strange not being in the Redhouse."
She leans back, looking in the direction of their previous residence.
Well, technically she lived in her sorority house last year. Pretty sure her Tri Delt accommodations did nothing other than collect dust mites because she was at our place 24/7.
None of us objected to that one bit—the girl is as sweet and all-American as apple pie. Helping out with meals, allocating household chores, and dishing out wise words of advice when necessary...she was our honorary 'Treehouse Mom'.
"Have you met my replacement yet?" Liam's brows squish together in curiosity. "Weston told me he was a no-show so far, but that was a few days ago. He hasn't mentioned anything since."
"'Cause there's nothing to mention," Diego says with a shrug.
Parker nods. "We're still awaiting the sixth Treehouse Dude's arrival."
"Seventh," Liam corrects. "Don't strip me of the title. I lived here for two years, after all."
"Who is this mystery boy?" Ellie asks. "Do y'all know his background or where he's from or anything?"
"Nope," I respond before brushing some stray embers off my shirt sleeve. "Haven't heard one detail about the guy. Not his name, not his age...Zero inf
o on him."
"Does he even play soccer?" Diego shakes his head in disgust. "It's already screwed-up enough that he gets to live here without proving himself. If he's a shitty player, everyone's gonna be friggin' pissed."
That's the damn truth.
Like Parker explained to the beer pledge earlier, spots at the Treehouse aren't handed out willy-nilly—they're earned.
Except in this particular case.
The rest of us paid our dues on and off the field to call this place home, and this random douche gets to move-in straight away? No evaluation of character, work ethic, or soccer skill?
Kinda fuckin' ridiculous if you ask me.
"Dude better not be an asshole." I frown. "Don't want some dickhead coming in here and putting a dent in our senior year."
"Senior year...wow. Can you believe we're seniors?" Disbelief coats Ellie's words. "I swear, it seems like just yesterday we were innocent freshmen, wandering this big campus all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."
Liam stretches his arms over his head and emits a frustrated grunt. "I can believe it, El. I'm already over this year. Senioritis is kicking my ass and classes haven't even started."
"Feel that." Diego heaves a dramatic sigh. "I've got a nasty bout of senioritis."
"What are you talking about?" Parker pushes his black frames up his nose and raises a brow. "You and I are juniors, Mendoza."
"Oh shit. You're right." Diego groans at the news. "My case will probably be fatal, then. Nice knowing you fuckers."
Ellie playfully rolls her eyes at the two younger guys before giving Liam a dubious look. "I don't know, babe. I'm super excited to be a senior. It was the best year of high school. I think it'll be the best year of college, too."
"Agreed." I lift my drink. "Cheers to that."
Her glass bottle hits my plastic cup in acknowledgement.
Senioritis?
Not an ailment I'm suffering from.
I've been looking forward to my final year at Windhaven all summer. Vaughn, Weston, Liam, and I have a kickass spring break trip planned for March, I saved a bunch of blowoff classes for these last two semesters, and—most importantly—I'm ready to go out with a bang as back-to-back College Cup champions.
