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“Here, drink this,” Margie says, pushing a cup in my direction.
“I’m sorry,” I say, peeking up and batting my eyes at her. “My mother told me not to accept drinks from creeps.”
“Good practice, babe,” she says, tapping the top of my head. She tips her cup toward the table and calls out, “We’ve got next game!”
Oh, heck no.
“I’msonot playing beer pong,” I hiss.
“You’resoplaying beer pong,” she corrects, authority-like. “I don’t care if you suck. I’ll take one for the team because I know you’ll have fun.” She gives me a sappy grin. “Suck all you want, and I’ll still be your friend. I mean, I’ll be avery drunk friendbut still a good one.”
I sip on my beer as she proceeds to explain the rules of beer pong while we wait for the guys to finish up their game. I shake my head when she asks if I have any questions.
I gulp, fighting with myself on how to play this out.
“I’ll go first,” Margie says as we take our spots at the end of the table. “Just watch what I do, okay?”
I nod. “Got it.”
“Do we have a newbie in the house?” our opponent, a guy sporting an overgrown man bun, asks from across the table. Even though his question was directed at me, his eyes are fixed on Margie, his face masked with desire. “Does that mean you’re trying to get drunk tonight, babe?”
“Shut up,” Margie says, pulling her shiny hair into a ponytail before blowing them a kiss. “Prepare to lose, assholes.”
She wastes no time before grabbing a white ping-pong ball and tossing it toward them, and the group yells when it lands in the cup in front of him with aplop.
The guy laughs andcheersher before downing his drink.
He takes his turn, and the ball drops into one of our cups.
Margie drinks her cup before handing me the ball. “You got this.”
“I got this.” I sigh to myself, drawing in the confident smirks smothered on our opponents’ faces, fully expecting me to miss.
I lift my hand, gracefully sending my ball in their direction, and it sinks into their middle cup.
Margie squeals, grabbing my arm and jumping up and down before smirking at them. “Drink up, boys.”
“Beginner’s luck,” man-bun dude yells.
“I never said I was abeginner,” I retort. “That’s what you get forassuming.”
“Holy shit,” man-bun’s partner says—a scrawny guy with a shaved head. “I think I love her.”
He gulps down his drink.
Makes his next shot.
I drink.
Just like with tequila, Rex is a beer pong fan—abigone—and he taught me how to play a mean game with him. One of our classmates always held bonfires in his field and beer pong tournaments in his parents’ barn. Rex demanded I be his partner every time, and I learned the game. We were the reigning champs until we graduated.
People might think I’m a prude who doesn’t have fun, but they don’t know me.
I’m not me with other people, not in my comfort zone like I am with Rex.
He gets me, and when someone gets you, you’re not afraid to take risks.
* * *
