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“Come on! That’s not?—”
“Hannah Mason, Saylor!”
“I can’t believe you’re still bringing that up. It was three years ago!”
“And she still hasn’t returned for a single alumni game,” Anne replies.
“That is not my fault. She was interested in Trey, and I made it happen. Whatever went down after that is not on me.”
“It’s the ‘made it happen’ part I’m worried about,” Anne remarks.
I roll my eyes. Freshman year, our team captain was obsessed with Trey Johnson, Lancaster’s quarterback. I shared that information with him. Like most college hook-ups, their relationship burned hot, fast, and out. I got none of the credit for instigating their short-lived romance and all of the blame when Trey ended their fling by trying to hook up with me instead.
“Saylor!” Natalie, a sophomore on the soccer team, bounces over to me.
“What’s up, Nat?” I ask, keeping an eye on Anne in my peripheral vision to see if I can figure out which guy she was looking at before.
“I heard you got into Scholenberg! That’s amazing! I mean, everyone knew you would, but…”
I laugh a little as I tune out her excited babbling. My badass soccer skills and series of one-night stands with Lancaster’s hottest male specimens have cemented a form of hero worship among my soccer teammates even running together until we puke hasn’t tarnished. Mostly I find it entertaining, but there are moments when I wouldn’t mind fewer starry eyes aimed my way.
“…Visit at the end.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, fully aware that I sound like I wasn’t paying attention. Mostly because I wasn’t.
“I’m going to Amnerallons!”
Based on Anne’s sigh beside me, it’s not the first time I’ve been told that.
“That’s awesome, Natalie. Congrats,” I reply, finally giving her my full attention. Amnerallons isn’t in the same league as Scholenberg, but no other program is. It’s still a training camp most players would feel honored to attend.
“We’re ending the second week by visiting Kluvberg. I checked the dates—you’ll be just starting Scholenberg.”
“Whoa, very cool,” I respond, a bit more emotion in my voice. I’m imagining the competitive atmosphere at Scholenberg will be similar to entering an enemy army camp. A friendly face will definitely be welcome.
Natalie keeps chatting, continuing our mostly one-sided conversation. She only pauses for breath when some of our other teammates come up to congratulate me on Scholenberg as well. Lancaster isn’t a small school by any stretch. But news—especially news involving me—spreads fast.
I lean against the counter and people watch, content to let others come to me. By now I’d usually be dancing or failing at bowling with the baseball boys. Tonight I’m drained. Emotionally, at least. My legs are still itching to run.
Plus, I’m drunk.
I’m not normally much of a drinker. In my experience, people tend to drink for fearlessness or to forget. I’ve never had the first issue. There is nothing I would do drunk that I haven’t already done sober. The second motivation is why the corners of the kitchen look hazy right now. The last time the number of members in my immediate family changed was not a cause for celebration, and the past sixteen years haven’t made me any less cynical about the general notion of romantic commitment, nor the specific institution that fails as often as it perseveres.
I take the final sip of my drink and drop the empty cup on the kitchen counter behind me. It’s already littered with abandoned ones, some half-full, most empty. When I turn back around, it’s to a welcome sight. A hot, hunky sight.
“Drew!”
The dark-haired captain of Lancaster’s hockey team glances over from the doorway. He’s being trailed by two girls who both give me death glares as he strolls over to me.
He smirks. “’Sup, Saylor?”
“Wanna get out of here?” I’m not the type to bother with pleasantries or false platitudes, but I usually throw out a “Hello” at least.
Drew doesn’t seem to mind the lack of polite greeting. He immediately nods. “Hell yeah.”
“Please be done by two,” Anne requests from her spot next to me. “I have to be up at nine tomorrow.”
I smirk. “Wear headphones.”
