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“Oh, really?” I ask, a strange feeling fluttering through my stomach.
I already know that. Declan told me. But that’s all he told me, and even though I know I shouldn’t care, I find myself jumping at the chance to learn more.
Declan said it was Elias’s story to tell, but when the hell would he ever do that? Why would he ever tell me anything?
And I want to know.
Jeff nods. “Yeah. He was good too. Great. On a fast track to the NFL is what I hear.”
“What happened?”
He grimaces. “Fucked up his leg or something. Doesn’t play anymore.”
He doesn’t elaborate more than that, and a second later, Abigail pulls him down for a kiss that draws his attention away from tragic backstories.
I turn away from them, but I can’t stop my gaze from darting toward Elias again. This time I scan his legs, as if I’ll somehow be able to spot the injury Jeff was talking about through the expensive-looking, perfectly worn denim of his jeans.
But of course, I can’t. I’ve never noticed him walking with a limp or anything, so whatever the injury is, it must not be that bad.
Bad enough to keep him from playing, but not bad enough to keep him from walking.
Not visible, but soul-crushing.
I wish like hell I didn’t know how that felt.
We drink enough at the game for me to actually agree to go with Max to an afterparty at one of the player’s mansion—a sure sign that my judgement is severely impaired.
I really meant for the house party at Gray’s place to be my first and last college party.
Oops.
The house we end up at isn’t quite as massive as Gray’s, but it’s close. A heavy, thumping beat rattles the glass in the chandelier as Max and I dance in the middle of a throng of people in what I think might actually be a legit ballroom.
The lights are dimmed, and the mass of sweaty bodies gives the air a musky smell as people writhe and gyrate. Jeff and Abigail disappeared a while ago, probably to find someplace to fuck.
My buzz is wearing off, or maybe I’m drunker than I thought, because as the song ends I stumble a little. The heavy press of bodies all around me is suddenly too much, and I shake my head at Max, gesturing toward the door.
“Hey girl. You alright?” Max catches my arm, tugging me away from the crowd of dancers. We jostle Caitlin and her two besties as we slip past them, and she shoots me a death glare, but I ignore her as we step outside the ballroom.
It feels like there’s a little more air where we stand, just between the crowded, smoke-hazed living room and a whole other wing of the house that’s thumping with music, raucous laughter, and raised voices.
“Yeah just… a little off,” I say.
What I don’t say is that I’ve been off for a while now, but Max is observant, and the look she gives me says all it needs to. Her mouth is set in a little frown, her eyes squint in a way that I’ve come to learn means she’s worried.
“Come on. W
e’ll cut the alcohol with something actually worth drinking,” she jokes, tugging me toward the kitchen.
I don’t argue with her. My head feels like it wants to split open.
“Probably just because I haven’t been sleeping well,” I mutter.
And having insane, fucked up dreams.
I’ve been painting more to try to get everything out of my head, but it doesn’t seem to be helping.
The kitchen is a large open-layout room nearly twice the size of my dorm. It’s almost as packed as the ballroom was, and when we reach it, Max grabs a glass and fills it with ice before topping it off with cold water. The glass is already sweating by the time she hands it over to me, and I’m thankful for the frigid rush of liquid down my throat.
