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My gaze stays fixed on the jagged line that runs a couple of feet from the corner of the kitchen. That probably shouldn’t be there, right? The four of us snagged this house sophomore year, so eager to escape dorm living we signed a lease for the first place we looked at, and then we were too lazy to explore other options for junior year. The Colonial-style structure serves its purpose: a place to crash between classes, practice, games, and parties.
I down one more shot and slide off the kitchen counter, adjusting my light blue dress so it covers some of my thighs. It’s an outfit more appropriate for a beach barbecue in summer than a frat party in Connecticut’s version of spring, which feels no different from winter. If Lancaster wasn’t ranked as the top soccer program in the country, I definitely would have stayed in the South for my college years. Dress for the weather you want has become my wardrobe motto.
“Ready,” I announce, tossing my blonde hair over one shoulder.
Emma pours a second batch of her whiskey and pineapple concoction into one of the travel mugs we use for transporting coffee to morning practice and claps a lid on top. “Me too.”
“You better remember to wash that,” I inform her, wrinkling my nose in response to the smell emanating from the cup.
“First thing I’ll do when we return from this shindig,” Emma replies, sending me a saccharine smile.
I roll my eyes. Emma’s notorious for her inability to wash anything without leaving some form of residue behind. It’s why she’s perpetually assigned to trash duty while the rest of us alternate completing the other household chores.
It’s a short walk to the frat house hosting tonight. I’ve never bothered to keep track of the various Greek letters and who belongs to which fraternity or sorority. I go to the parties I feel like going to, and I tend to be followed around by the rest of the soccer team. Being the top female recruit in the country gained me a celebrity following among the niche few who keep up with women’s soccer before I even stepped foot on campus.
The past two-and-a-half years of on- and off-field antics have only added fodder to my notoriety.
So did winning Lancaster a national championship.
Drunk students are spilling out onto the lawn as we approach the frat house, many of them laughing and stumbling about. It’s March—way too cold to be spending time outside voluntarily. No one has ever said drunk people make smart decisions, though. And when we step inside the house, I sort of understand the inclination to head outside. Every square inch of the floor is covered by feet or littered with discarded cups that skitter across the hardwood as people mill about. The scent of sweat and spilled beer hangs heavy in the air. Anne sighs at the scene, but I grin, feeding off the boisterous energy swirling around with sweet-smelling smoke.
I lead the way toward the kitchen, ignoring the shouts and suggestions being hurled my way. I got used to the attention guys pay to me a long time ago—about the same time I figured out how to use it to my advantage.
Jason Williams’ eyes light up as soon as the four of us step inside the kitchen already packed with tipsy college students. “Hell yes! The party has arrived!”
“And she’s in fine form tonight,” Emma responds. “You’re…what? Four shots deep, Scott?”
“Drink your tropical sludge and stop counting my drinks, Watkins,” I retort.
Jason sends Emma a questioning look.
Emma sighs. “She’s in a mood.”
“Hello, I’m right here!” I stalk over to the counter covered with an assortment of cheap liquor. People scatter out of my way. “Do you guys not have gin tonight? I said I wasn’t coming back unless there was gin, Williams!” I call out as I survey the limited options.
Jason sighs and picks up one of the labeled glass bottles sitting directly in front of me, which is in fact gin. Probably a sign I shouldn’t be imbibing its contents—a warning I don’t heed. Emma’s right; I am in a mood.
“Sorry, Saylor,” he says. “I know how much you wanted it.”
I splash a generous amount of gin into a plastic cup, adding some ginger ale I find in the fridge in a half-assed attempt at a cocktail. “What are you sorry about?”
“The German camp? You heard back today, right?”
“Right.”
“You know it’s the most competitive soccer—or football, whatever—program in the world. You should be honored you were even considered.”
I snort. Honored I was even considered? “What are you talking about? Of course I got in. I’m ranked first nationally.” Raising the full plastic cup, I shout, “To the fucking Germans!” Some fizzy liquid splashes over the rim and dribbles down my fingers, making a sticky mess I couldn’t care less about. I’m not the only one who started drinking early, so my toast is met with hearty cheers. Satisfied by the resounding response, I take a large sip.
“Wait, you did? Then why…” Jason’s voice trails off as I wander over to where Anne is standing a few feet away, leaving him with Emma and Cressida.
“Which one are you eyeing?” I ask Anne, giving her arm a soft nudge as I lean against the counter next to her. She glances over at me, abandoning her feeble attempt to look like she’s texting someone, not checking out the baseball players who have set up a makeshift bowling alley on the kitchen table. I smirk as I watch one try to knock over an empty glass beer bottle with a ping-pong ball. Yeah, good luck with those physics, buddy.
Anne shoves her phone into the back pocket of her skinny jeans. “I’m not.”
“Convincing.” I take a sip of my drink. “If you just?—”
“Hannah Mason.”
