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“What?” I ask, my head whipping in the direction Lars is looking. After a second of scanning the dancefloor and not finding Phoebe, the rest of the guys break out into a laugh.
I turn back to Lars, my expression highly unamused.
“Yeah,” Lars drawls. “You’re not into her at all.”
And then, for the first time since I’ve known this surly bastard, he cracks a smile.
Asshole.
“You should see those two when they’re together at the rink,” Shane says. “Tension so thick you could eat it with a spoon.”
“There’s no tension,” I growl. Shane doesn’t get it. Phoebe and I have known each other since we were kids. There’s literally over a decade of shared history, and not the friendly kind.
I’m not into her, and I sure as hell don’t care about who does or doesn’t feel her up on our living room-turned-dancefloor, or anywhere else for that matter.
Even though I can’t quite explain why the thought of seeing it happen makes me want to punch a wall.
11
PHOEBE
“Shots!”
A wave of students rushes towards the announcement.
“Ooh, shots! Let’s go!” Casey says, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me with the crowd.
We gather around the island in the middle of the kitchen. Two guys on the other side are lining up shot glasses. One holds a big bottle of tequila, and there’s a plate of sliced limes in the middle of the counter.
I’m not usually much of a hard liquor girl, but one shot of tequila will help my nerves.
So far, I’m doing pretty well. Being at a party still triggers some anxiety, and there’s still some tension curled in my shoulders and neck.
But I tell myself it’s like getting into a cold pool. When you first dip your leg in, your stomach churns at the thought of plunging your whole body into something so frigid.
And when you actually do, yeah, there’s a shock.
But if you stay under the water, your body gets used to it, and before long you’re perfectly comfortable.
That’s what I have to let happen to me.
Shot glasses are lined up, and the guy holding the tequila bottle fills them with a single pour, hovering the tipped bottle down the length of the lined-up glasses, clearly not caring one bit how much liquor he’s spilling in the processes.
Once they’re filled, hands shoot forward. I grab one for myself and wince as the hot liquid burns down my throat. With a scrunched face, I reach for a lime and squeeze the juice into my mouth.
Casey takes another shot, but one was enough for me. Getting a little bit buzzed to ease the tension of being at a party for the first time in months is one thing, but I’m not in the mood to actually get drunk tonight.
Casey and I walk through the house, chatting, and I try to ease myself into the vibe of the party. I make myself bob my head to the rhythm of the bassline that pounds over the speakers, even though this kind of in-your-face club-style music isn’t really my thing.
“So,” I say to Casey, “you mentioned you were good at spotting guys who know what they’re doing in the bedroom from a distance?”
I’m not totally on board with Casey’s idea of me going home with some guy tonight, but I am curious as to who she’d pick out of this crowded party as particularly blessed by the sex gods.
“Who would be good here?” I ask.
“Him. Definitely.” She nods across the room to an impossibly tall, stacked, tatted-up guy who I saw standing next to Hunter a little while ago. He’s another one of the hockey players. I think his name is Lars.
“That’s cheating,” I say. The guy looks like he was built in a lab as part of a top-secret government project to create a man capable of the hottest, dirtiest, roughest sex ever. Don’t ask me why a top-secret government project like that would exist, though. “I mean, come on. Look at him. What about, like, a normal guy?”
