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by May, McKinley

Swear I've gone over this with every damn teammate I've ever had.

  "Yup." Disinterest coats my response.

  "Rhett's Robert's son, so..." David squints. "Does that mean Rhett Paine's your brother?"

  Is this fucker for real?

  "Nah, bro," I say with so much sarcasm it's practically oozing out of my pores. "We just have the same mom and dad."

  "Oh." His brow crinkles in confusion. "How does that work?"

  I roll my eyes as he goes damn near cross-eyed trying to figure that out.

  Andre ignores his perplexed seat mate and continues with the personal questions. "What are you doing here, then? Why aren't you playing for Arsenal right now? You're good enough. Are you going there after college?"

  Jesus.

  What the hell is this? An FBI interrogation?

  Before I can answer, a familiar voice rings out behind me.

  "Yeah, mate." Liam's head pops into view. He crosses his arms over the top of the seat, the rubbery material squeaking as he rests his chin on his forearm. "You're going in a few months, right? That's the plan, is it not?"

  I twist my head, meeting his accusatory stare as he and the dopey freshman await my response.

  "Fuck off, man," I grumble under my breath, burning him with a glare that could melt steel.

  Liam's my best friend, but he's seriously pissing me off lately. Ever since he spoke with my dad and brother this winter, he's been trying to talk Arsenal at every turn.

  My verbal denials don't seem to be getting through his thick skull, so I might need to approach this from a different angle. Maybe get the message across in a more physical sense.

  I'm thinking his toothbrush bristles might be the perfect length for cleat cleaning.

  A harsh 'Mind your own damn business' is on the tip of my tongue when Cameron walks up and interrupts the conversation.

  "Dude, Dublin Drive tonight?" He whacks me on the back, a cloud of dust materializing from the impact. "Vaughn's down. Diego's down. You in?"

  My lucky timing continues as we pull into Windhaven and park. I stand, brushing off the freshmen and my disgruntled roommate.

  Confrontation successfully avoided.

  Hoisting my bag onto my shoulder, I give Cam a jaunty smirk.

  "When the fuck have I ever said no to Dublin?"

  Less than twenty minutes later, the four of us are packed in a cab heading downtown.

  Ten minute shower, dressed to kill in five, and a round of tequila shots for the road is all it took before we were ready to take the night by storm.

  Yeah.

  We're efficient as fuck.

  That's 'cause we're dudes.

  When the pregame is a co-ed affair, twenty minutes stretches into two hours. At least.

  With the endless amount of hair extensions and absurdly detailed makeup routines, it takes the girls forever just to show up. And don't even get me started on the picture taking. The pregame evolves into a damn photoshoot as every chick there "needs" a pic for their dumbass social media accounts.

  You look the exact same in the last 35 pictures, Ashley. Post that shit and let's go.

  We're lucky to get to the freaking bar before last call sometimes.

  Tonight, however, we arrive just as the street's getting rowdy.

  "Here good, y'all?" Our driver cranes his neck as he pulls over and flips on his flashers.

  "Perfect. Thanks, man." Vaughn shoves some cash in his palm and we exit the car.

  It's crowded as hell, and we muscle our way through the masses of college students to get to our first bar of the night: a trendy spot called Bluebonnet. Generic pop music and neon flashing lights emit from the interior as we get in line.

  We're next to flash our I.D.s when I hear a bubbly voice—one that I instantly recognize.

  "Excuse me! Coming through!"

  My head follows the sound to Bluebonnet's exit on our left. Sure enough, I spot the only girl I know with an inflection to her words as bright and bold as the freakin' stars in the sky.

  "Step aside, please!" Lexie flicks her wrist in the air, instructing bystanders to 'Move, bitch. Get out the way'. I notice the barely-conscious guy she's dragging out of the bar. "We've got a bluebonnet who was watered a little too much over here."

  I watch with curiosity as they turn right and immediately disappear into the crowd.

  An angry huff snags my attention, and I glance up at the huge ass bouncer in front of me. His bald head catches the light as he frowns and holds out his hand in irritation. "No. I.D., no entrance. What's it gonna be?"

  Instead of reaching into my back pocket for my wallet, I slowly back out of the queue.

  Cam hikes a brow in questioning.

  I wave him ahead of me. "I'll catch up with you guys inside."

  Weaving in and out of the bar-crawlers, it doesn't take too long to spot the pair. The guy leaning against Lexie's shoulder stumbles, his upper body falling forward and hanging there. With a grunt, she manages to hoist him back to an upright position.

  This dude is trashed.

  Red-eye to Zimbabwe trashed.

  I jog up next to them.

  "Need a hand, Barbie?"

  "Weston?" Her head swings towards me, eyes conveying both surprise and relief at my presence.

  I nudge my chin towards the drunk and repeat my offer. "Want some help?"

  "Please." She nods frantically. "It's like hauling around a dead body."

  I lift his left arm and drape it over my shoulder, transferring the brunt of his weight from her to me. He's actually scrawny as fuck, but dead-weight can be a bitch to carry around. How the hell Lexie got him this far on her own, I'm not sure.

  "What are you doing with this guy? Kidnapping him?"

  "God, no." She shakes her head. "I'm trying to get rid of him. We were on a date and he got absolutely wasted. I called an Uber when he started snoring on the bartop."

  "Shit. How long have you guys been drinking? All day?"

  "Try one hour," she reveals with an exasperated breath. "We had three shots of whiskey and this," —she jiggles his jello-like body— "is the result."

  I give him a good look before rumbling with laughter. "Three shots and the guy can't open his fucking eyes? What a pussy."

  "Tell me about it," Lexie grumbles. Her phone lights up and she brings it eye-level to read the message. "Uber's here. White Nissan Altima."

  We spot the parked car ten feet ahead of us.

  As I attempt to maneuver Gumby into the backseat, Lexie talks destination with the driver.

  "...and his roommate will be outside the apartment complex to get him to his room. Make sure he goes with him! Thanks!"

  Just before I close the car door, Lex pokes her head inside. "Please don't puke in this nice man's car, Trey. Buh bye!"

  She slams the door and the automobile peels down the street.

  "Holy crap!" she hollers into the sky. She slaps her palms together before resting them on her waist. "That was the worst date I've been on in a while. And I've been on some shitty dates lately, so the bar was fairly low to begin with."

  "Hold up." My brows knit together as I realize something. "Was this the dude you ditched last night?"

  Her head bobs up and down and I smirk.

  "Damn. Bet you wish I fucked up your plans tonight, too, huh?"

  A small simper appears on her lips. "Thanks for your help."

  "Not a problem." I shrug. "Sucks your night got ruined, though."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Aren't you heading home now?"

  "If I was, don't you think I would've just hopped in the Uber with Trey?" She shakes her head adamantly. "I'm not leaving. The night's still young!"

  "You're staying downtown alone?" I frown, not a big fan of that idea.

  "Why not? I'm sure I'll find some people to hangout with, make some new friends. I might even crash a Bachelorette party or two." She grins before giving me a quick once-over. "Or maybe I'll run into a classmate and they'll have a drink with me?"


  I don't miss the invitation she just laid out on the table.

  I also don't miss the opportunity to poke fun at her.

  "Whoa. Barbie wants to chill with me and not slave away over biology shit? Somebody alert the press."

  Her eyes roll skyward. "There are two conditions."

  "Let's hear 'em."

  Her hand pops up in a peace sign, and she wiggles one of the fingers. "If you're a 3-shot-and-out type of guy, I respectfully rescind the invite."

  My responding laugh is of the incredulous variety. "Do I look like a fucking lightweight to you?"

  I don't miss the way her eyes rove the length of my body, lingering on my broad shoulders.

  "Not exactly."

  "Number two?"

  "Two." She steps forward, pushing the peace sign into my chest as she delivers the next stipulation. "No pervy comments."

  I suck in air through my teeth as I slowly shake my head. "No can do, Lex. I can't keep my thoughts to myself when I'm sober—what makes you think the addition of liquor won't amplify that? And Jesus Christ, look at you."

  I sweep a hand over her frame as I check her out from head to toe. The tiny black dress she's wearing is hugging every curve of her body, her smokey eye stands in stark contrast to those bright green irises, and her normally pin-straight hair is styled into loose, sexy as hell beach waves. I've never seen her dolled-up to this extent, and shit—it's hotter than anything my imagination could conjure up.

  I vocalize this to her. "You think I'm gonna keep my mouth shut when you look this damn gorgeous? Fuck that."

  She starts to smile at the compliment, but catches herself and quickly twists it into a snarl. "Fine. Look your fill, say whatever you want; I'll just ignore your dirty mouth as always."

  "Good plan."

  "So what do you say?" She arches a blonde eyebrow.

  "I say let's do this shit." I turn, ready to lead her back to Bluebonnet. "I'm about to show you what it's like to drink with a man, not a boy."

  14

  Did I just ask Weston to have a drink with me?

  Yep.

  And give him permission to ogle me to his heart's desire?

  Maybe.

  Am I gonna regret this?

  Only time will tell.

  But I do know one thing for certain.

  There's no way hanging out with Weston will be any worse than what I've endured over the last hour.

  The Trey situation really pissed me off, and only a small portion of that irritation stems from his shockingly low tolerance for alcohol. The real problems came long before he passed out on the sticky bar table. In fact, I'd say his unconsciousness was the highlight of our time spent together this evening.

  Because our conversation?

  It was as stale as three-month-old bread.

  I'm not one to shift blame onto others, but it's no exaggeration when I say the dry discussion was entirely his fault.

  I mean, I threw the guy every question in the book to get the ball rolling.

  What's your major?

  Where are you from?

  What are your hobbies?

  Normal people can take those and run with them.

  But not this boy.

  His answers remained in the limited range of grunts, shrugs, and vague, one-word responses.

  Desperation led me to scour my brain for a few ridiculous 'Would you Rather' questions, anything to put some spark into the night.

  I went with a personal favorite: "Would you rather drink a gallon of nacho cheese or eat two pounds of frosting?"

  He said neither.

  Neither?!

  First off, the point of 'Would you Rather' is to make a choice between the two options. Was neither an option? I don't think so.

  And secondly, if you're hellbent on breaking the sole rule of the game, the only acceptable answer in this situation would be 'Both'.

  After his stick-in-the-mud response, I pretty much threw in the towel on getting any type of discussion going.

  You don't want to talk about nacho cheese and frosting?

  Get out of my life.

  At least with Weston, I know we can hold a lengthy convo. Sure, our chats aren't always of an amicable nature, but they never fail to entertain. Dull moments and awkward silences aren't an issue for the two of us.

  With Trey?

  I counted five in the first fifteen minutes.

  The date was nothing short of painful.

  Something else that's painful are my aching feet as I speed-walk to keep up with Weston. His gait is probably considered leisurely for an athlete, but for a clumsy girl in wedges it's practically cheetah-paced.

  Lucky for me, Bluebonnet's right around the corner. We arrive at the bar before any blisters form, and I follow him to two unoccupied stools at the counter. A bartender sporting a neon orange pixie-cut takes our order as we settle onto the metal seats.

  In a matter of minutes, a pair of drinks appears in front of us—a piña colada for yours truly and a Jack and Coke for Weston. After we each down a satisfying gulp, he levels me with a questioning stare.

  I jut up a brow. "What?"

  "So your date..."

  "Ughhh."

  My groan doesn't deter him from continuing the prying thought.

  "What the fuck are you doing with a guy like that, anyway? What's the deal there?"

  I draw another long sip through my straw before responding. But instead of answering his question, I hit him with one of my own. "And you think that's your business because...?"

  A nonchalant shrug raises his wide shoulders. "'Cause I'm your lab partner."

  He says this so matter-of-factly, like that explanation makes perfect sense.

  It makes no sense.

  "Okay," I say, frowning. "And that means what?"

  "That means all your business is my business. It's Lab Partner 101, Lex. You should know this."

  A charming wink seals his idiotic statement, and a snicker spills past my lips.

  "I'm not sure where you heard that little proverb, but I don't think that's a thing."

  "It's a thing, alright. Believe me." He angles his body, facing me square on. "Lab partners go through a lot together and end up buddy-buddy. Buddy-buddies tell each other personal shit. It's part of the deal."

  "Alright, 'buddy-buddy'. What exactly do lab partners go through together?" I ask, fighting a smile at whatever ridiculousness is about to leave his mouth.

  "Some serious shit." A cheesy grin breaks across his face as he elaborates. "Turning on microscopes, cutting dead stuff, writing lab reports until the early hours of the morning...you can't experience that type of crap together and not end up friends. You just can't."

  "What are you even saying right now?" A boisterous burst of laughter flies past my lips. "You act like Bio Lab is the most horrifying ordeal of your entire life!"

  "Hey, I'm traumatized by some of the shit we've done," he jokes. "Truly traumatized."

  "I'm sure you are." My eyes roll before I backtrack and latch onto the most surprising part of his spiel. "Wait, so..." I quirk my head, intrigued. "You think we're friends?"

  "Nah," he says. "I know we're friends. We wouldn't be hanging out right now if we weren't."

  Is it weird that his answer sends a little flurry of giddiness through me?

  "And," he continues, "it's why you're gonna tell me all about Trent. Travis? Whatever-the-fuck his name is. Is that the type of guy you usually go for?"

  I shake my head, refusing to entertain the subject further. "We are so not talking about this right now. I want to enjoy the night, not relive the bullshit from earlier."

  He bites on the corner of his lip as he studies me with curiosity. After a few beats, he nods. "Fine. We won't talk about it tonight. But I'm gonna figure out your weird dating shit sooner or later."

  "Don't hold your breath," I say before moving on. "New subject. I have a question for you."

  "I'm listening."

  "Would you rather drink a gallon of nacho cheese or
eat two pounds of frosting?"

  His mouth twitches in amusement, but he answers my strange query instantly.

  "Easy. Nacho cheese. That liquified orange shit is addicting." He grins. "What about you?"

  "Same," I agree wholeheartedly. "I don't even care that it's like 1% actual cheese—it's glorious."

  He laughs. "Here's one for you; it's a toughie. Would you rather give up pizza or French fries?"

  "Give them up for how long? Lent? 6 months? A year?"

  "Forever."

  "Forever?" I bring a hand to my heart and grimace. "Damn. That's hard."

  "You gotta make a choice. Saying neither is a cop-out." He gives me a quick appraisal. "And you don't strike me as the cop-out sort."

  "Nope," I say with a smile. "Definitely not."

  Weston: 1. Breakfast Bar Boy: 0.

  Thirty minutes and a whole heap of hypothetical choices later, we've finished our first round of drinks and order another.

  The bartender sets a fresh piña colada on the counter, the smell of tropical paradise drifting towards me. Right before she removes my empty glass, I pluck the tiny green umbrella from the cup and tuck it behind my right ear.

  "What do you think?" I ask as I turn slightly, giving Weston an unobstructed view of my new accessory. "Cute, huh?"

  "Fucking adorable." He shakes his head and chuckles. "What is it with you and umbrellas?"

  I smile and shrug before downing half of the pineapple-coconut mixture.

  "So," I say when I finish, letting my hands clap down on my bare thighs. "What's the plan for the rest of the evening?"

  "First, I gotta find the douchebags I came with, and then..." He pauses, takes a huge-ass sip of his alcohol, and puts on the most devilish smile he can muster. "...the real party gets started."

  "Oooh. Sounds fun." I bounce a little on my stool in anticipation. "Where are we going?"

  "We?" His brow lifts at my choice of words. "This isn't just a 'have a few drinks and call it a night' type of thing? You want the whole experience, Barbie?"

  "For sure." My head bobs eagerly. I'm having a good time, feeling a decent buzz, and nowhere near ready to hit the hay. "I'm coming with you guys."

  He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. "I dunno about that, babe. I'm not sure you'll be able to handle it."