Which just leaves… Indie.Shit. Whereis Indie? I scan the room, searching for her. After practice the other day, Coach and I had a heart-to-heart that led to the painfully obvious conclusion that Indie’s struggling to find her rhythm, both on the team and off it. She’s still figuring out how to balance everything, the pressure of college life and trying to make her mark on the ice. And it’s my job as captain to help her.
Which is why she’s here in the first place. I figured it would be good for her to get out, spend some time on campus, mingle outside the plexiglass of the rink. And yeah, I know Coach just chewed us out about coming to practice hungover, but we don’t have to meet again for two days.
And besides, she didn’t say we couldn’t party—just that we couldn’t drink.
I was supposed to keep a close eye on Indie, to make sure that didn’t happen, but I’ve been too busy making sure nobody puts holes in the walls or bypasses the “do not enter sign” for Bailey’s bedroom, where Mr. Bubbles is sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the chaos outside.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, stretching my neck to look over the crowd. What if she’s drunk? What if she’s somewhere getting crushed in this mob? “Indie!” I call, my tone edging toward panic.
And then, finally, I spot her. Pressed against the wall in full Donatello gear, her cardboard shell flattened like roadkill. She watches the party unfolding in front of her, gripping a can of sparkling water.
I nudge my way over, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Jesus, Rose. I was about to send out a search party. You okay?”
Indie shifts uneasily, chewing on the corner of her lip, eyes darting toward the door like she might bolt. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and she shifts her weight from side to side.
“Are you sure I’m not intruding?” she asks, meeting me with a worried, hazel gaze. I chuckle softly, gesturing to the crowd. It’s not like this is anexclusiveevent.
“Indie, half the people here are intruding,” I joke. “You arenotone of them.” She laughs softly, tilting her head with a nervous smile.
“Yeah, I thought you said it was just going to be afewpeople.”
I study the room. Theater students are in the corner, ranting about a casting disaster. To the left, the campus stoners—including my study buddy Cleo—are passing around what I’m pretty sure are weed-infused chocolates. And on the couch beside us, a couple is having a very emotional, drunken argument. I look back to Indie.
“I thought it was going to be.”
She nods, gaze drifting to the scene. Her shoulders are stiff, arms nearly glued to her sides. Then, her brows furrow. “Do Ninja Turtles have butt cheeks?”
I blink. “What?”
She gestures vaguely to her costume. “Like, their shells normally cover their backs, right? So… do they have…cheeks?”
A laugh spills out of me. I tilt my head, genuinely considering the question, but I come up blank. “I’m not really sure,” I answer. “Why do you ask?”
She extends an arm, sticking her finger out toward Bailey, who has tossed her cardboard shell aside, revealing her green corset, short shorts, and yes—green-painted butt cheeks. The paint was meant for our faces, but Indie was the only one willing to put it on with me. Harlowe refused completely, and Bailey, apparently, only used it to paint her ass.
I watch as Bailey and Rowan take turns pouring shots into each other’s mouths. Jesus. I amspectacularlyfailing at my job.
“You know, I’m more concerned about the fact that she doesn’t have her shell. Don’t turtles die without them?” a voice asks.
I turn to find Cleo slipping into our bubble of space, draped head-to-toe in green and black spandex. A matching neon barrette clips into her hair—pointless, really, since there’s barely enough of it to hold back from her face, but it’s Cleo, so it works.
She sweeps into an exaggerated bow. “Leonardo,” she greets, then straightens and turns to Indie, mirroring the gesture. “Donatello.”
Indie looks at me nervously, and I smile. “Hey, Cleo,” I say.
“Shego, actually,” she clarifies, snapping the tight green suit against her body.
I chuckle, turning to Indie. “Indie, this is Cleo. We study together sometimes. Cleo, this is Indie. One of our new players.”
“No shit!” Cleo grins, pulling Indie into a hug without another thought. Indie flashes me a wide-eyed stare, and I grin apologetically. Cleo’s the best. Seriously, I would not be making straight Bs without her. Her only requirement for friendship is basic human decency.
We share that sentiment.
“So I’ll be seeing you at the games then?”
She lets go, and Indie nods shyly. “Yeah,” she manages with an awkward smile. Cleo snaps Indie’s purple eye mask against her cheeks.
“Well, I’m super excited to meet you.” She taps me on the shoulder, pointing to the beer pong table. My eyes follow her finger just as Harlowe waves me over.
