Page 72

The lawns are meticulously manicured, not littered with red solo cups and passed-out partiers. I smell freshly mown grass and fragrant flowers, not booze and sex. Frat boys stroll by in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops, despite the chill in the air, not togas and body glitter. The only naked thing I spot is a dog happily chasing a frisbee across the grass.

If it weren’t for the occasional raucous cheer from a backyard game of cornhole, Fraternity Row could be mistaken for a quaint suburban neighborhood. Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit disappointed by the lack of naked debauchery.

What can I say? Even bookish nerds have fantasies.

At the end of the street—the last house on the left ironically—is the Hockey House. It’s a hulking monstrosity, cobbled together from spare parts and held together with duct tape and sheer willpower. The paint is peeling, the shutters are hanging on by a thread, and the front porch is one strong gust of wind away from collapsing.

Despite its dilapidated appearance, the house is authentic in a way that the others on Fraternity Row aren’t. There’s no pretense or posturing here, merely a group of guys who love hockey and don’t give a damn about conforming to anyone’s expectations.

I find it funny that the Hockey House is even allowed to exist on Fraternity Row. It’s not as if the hockey team is an officially recognized fraternity. But I guess when you’re the darlings of the school and bring in more revenue than all the other sportscombined, you can pretty much do whatever you want, wherever you want.

As I walk up to the driveway, a car comes screeching out of nowhere. The smell of burning rubber on asphalt fills my nostrils, and I barely have time to react before it’s almost on top of me.

Instinct takes over, and I leap to the side, landing hard on the grass as the car skids to a stop inches from my feet. Pain shoots through my body as my heart jackhammers in my chest. The pounding in my ears drowns out the sound of the engine idling.

“Shit! Are you okay?” a voice calls out, panicked.

The driver’s side door flies open, and a tall figure rushes to me. I sit up, dazed, and rub my elbow where I smacked it against the ground. The guy bends down, his bright pink hair unmistakable even in my disoriented state.

Nathan Paisley.Wonderful.

“I’m so sorry, dude,” he says, his face as pink as his hair. “I didn’t see you until the last second. I was…on my phone.”

Of course, he was.

Taking a deep breath, I place my hand on my chest and try to calm my racing heart. Once it’s under control, I tell him I’m fine, though I’m not entirely sure that’s true. At best, I’m a startled stoat.

Nathan extends a hand to help me up. I take it, wincing as I put weight on my sore elbow. “I’m such an asshole. I was in a rush because—well, it’s stupid—but I desperately have to pee.”

I bite my tongue to stop the crass joke about hockey players and tiny bladders from spilling out. “Go. Take care of your emergency.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He reminds me of a puppy that got scolded for chewing on the furniture. His eyes are big and shimmering with unshed tears. His brow is furrowed in concern. If he had a tail, it’d be tucked between his legs.

I nod. “I’ll live.”

Nathan bites his lip, nods, and then dashes toward the house, fumbling with his keys. He bursts through the front door, and Ihear him shout something to whoever’s inside before the door slams shut.

I brush grass and dirt off my jeans and survey the damage to my clothes. Nothing is torn, thankfully. I glance at Nathan’s car—an old Camaro with more dents than a junkyard—and wonder how someone as supposedly kind and gentle as Nathan could drive with such reckless abandon.

With a sigh, I walk slowly up the driveway and think about why I’m here. I’m curious to know what Gerard sees in me that warrants an invitation to pumpkin carving. I’m also terrified that this will end like every other attempt at something real—with me hurt and alone.

I reach the front porch, and the screen door swings open, nearly smacking me in the face.

Gerard stands in the doorway, his tall frame filling the entrance. He’s holding a pumpkin in one hand, and his eyes are blown wide open. He quickly assesses me from head to toe, and it doesn’t escape my notice that his blue eyes linger on my elbow. “Nathan said he almost ran you over.”

“Almost,” I say. “I’m fine, though. A few grass stains, but I can Shout it out.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I’ve survived worse than an overzealous hockey player with a full bladder.”

Appeased with my self-assessment, Gerard cracks a smile and steps aside. “Good to know. Come on in.” He gestures toward my feet. “But take off your shoes. Oliver vacuumed the whole house last night, and he’ll kill me if he finds any shoe prints.”

I bend down to untie my sneakers, wincing slightly as my sore elbow protests, and that’s when I notice Gerard’s feet. This is the closest I’ve ever been to them. They’re even bigger than I remember them being.

But it’s not just the size that has me gobsmacked. It’s the socks he’s wearing, too.

They’re an assault on the eyes—bright yellow with cartoonsmiley faces on the toes. They clash horribly with his otherwise rugged, athletic demeanor.