Page 1

Nate

“Come on, Micky, it’ll be fun. Loosen up a little bit!” Tossing my arm over Jack McIntire’s shoulders, I tug him into my side. He ducks his head, and gives it a firm shake, but also snakes his arm around my waist in a loose hug. I grin. “We don’t have to stay long.”

Micky, who plays on the South Carolina U hockey team with me, is painfully shy and riddled with anxiety.

I’d noticed it my first week of practice—the way he sits off on his own, smiling awkwardly at everyone but never once speaking.

The way his face would flush, and his fingers would twist together when Coach said anything to him; how performance anxiety chewed him up and spat him back out on to the ice, no matter how well he played.

I’ve been beating him with the friendship stick ever since.

Two seasons in, and I’m finally getting somewhere.

He leaves the dorms, now, at least. Not to mention, he’s coming to this party with me, which I know is his idea of the seventh circle of hell.

I squeeze his shoulders hard before letting go.

“Two hours,” I offer.

“One,” he counters immediately.

“One and a half, and you have to dance,” I volley back.

“One and a half. No dancing.”

I sigh. “Micky, what are you going to be doing at a party if you aren’t going to dance? Stand on the side and hold up the wall?”

“I’ll hold your beer while you dance.”

“You’re such a good boyfriend,” I tease, making him blush. “Dance with me, it’ll be fun.”

“Maybe. If they play a good song,” he hedges. I smile, because I know I’ve won. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I tilt it in his direction as I set a timer for ninety minutes. Micky’s shoulders relax and he grins at me.

“An hour and a half,” I promise.

“An hour and a half,” he mutters, setting his jaw and looking miserable. Poor guy. I toss my arm over his shoulders again, kissing his temple. He turns a deeper shade of red, but leans into me.

“Did you finish reading that book about the dating app killer?” I ask him, trying to take his mind off the impending socialization.

“Yeah, last night. It was so good. I could never use a dating app, they’re so freaky. Catfishing, murder, just…all the weirdos. No, thank you.”

“Mm. I feel like the ratio of homicide to successful dates is pretty low though, right? Like, more people find spouses than psychos?”

“I guess. Still—even a low chance is a chance . ”

We reach the patio of the Alpha Phi house, which effectively cuts off the conversation.

Micky curls his shoulders inward, and moves closer to me.

Inside, the room is packed, and the lighting is shit; bass thumps from the speaker system as people dance in the living room to the latest pop hit playlist. Not my kind of music, but it hardly matters.

Energy thrums through me, and my heart rate picks up. I love things like this.

“Do you want a drink?” I shout at Micky, who looks a little ill. I’m pretty sure this is the first college party he’s been to, despite being a sophomore.

“No. I don’t want Coach to find out.”

I snort. Micky is terrified of Coach Mackenzie, and will lose sleep over the merest possibility of letting him down. If he had a single beer, the guilt would probably eat him alive until he went and turned himself in to Coach for underage drinking.

“All right. I’m going to go grab one. Be right back.”

He nods glumly, eyeing the crowd. Before stepping into the kitchen, I glance back at him and watch as he’s approached by another of our teammates.

Deciding he’s safe enough on his own for now, I step into the kitchen and peruse the drink options.

Someone offers me a shot, which I obligingly throw back before grabbing a cup and pouring myself a beer.

I’m not a big drinker, either, especially not during the season, and especially not this close to the playoffs. I probably won’t have more than this.

Before I can leave and track Micky down again, another shot is pushed into my hand. Gamely, I toss it back. Pleasantly buzzed, I head back into the living room in search of my friend. As suspected, I find him pressed against the far wall, watching the dancers .

“Ready to swing those hips?” I shout in his ear once I’m close enough.

“Were you doing shots?” he yells back, brows scrunched up as he leans forward to smell my breath. I lean away and pull on his elbow.

“Let’s see what you’re made of.”

The crowd swallows us up as another pop song comes over the speakers. I put my hands on Micky’s hips, and try to get him to move in time to the beat. He gives me a pained grimace, and shuffles his feet a little bit. I laugh and shake my head. This fucking guy.

Apparently forgetting our deal, I get him to remain in the crowd of dancers for a full fifteen minutes before he stages a retreat. I go to follow him, but he waves me back.

“I have to pee,” he shouts, loud enough to be heard over the music. Several girls give him sideways glances and back away, leaving room for him to make his escape. “You stay here, I’ll be back.”

“You’re sure?” I shout back, still rocking my hips to the beat. It’s not as though Micky needs me to hold his dick while he takes a piss, but bro-code clearly states that I can’t abandon him when I’m the one who dragged him here in the first place.

“I’ll be back!” He waves his hand at me, before turning and heading off through the crowd. Almost immediately, a thin arm snakes around me from behind and I turn to find a pretty brunette girl smiling up at me.

Energy zips through my body. I feel like I drank an entire bottle of whiskey instead of the two shots I actually consumed.

I love coming to parties like this, letting loose and dancing a little bit; maybe finding someone to hook up with.

I’m already feeling great, and then a country song comes on.

I tip my head back and laugh. I love this song.

I love this song, and this party, and these people.

“I fucking love you guys!” I shout, and laugh when there is an answering roar in return. Grinning, I grab on to the closest body next to mine, lift my drink in the air, and dance.

After three bangers, a dud comes over the loudspeaker. I abandon my dance partner, and head off in search of a fresh drink and my friend. It’s hot in here, and the beer is sitting a little uncomfortable in my stomach. Probably time to switch to water.

The party is really crowded now, and is starting to feel like the simmer before the boil.

I need to find Micky, and head out before that happens.

It’s a delicate line between having fun and getting out of control, and I’m always cognizant of heeding it.

Too many times already I’ve been on the receiving end of a lecture from Coach Mackenzie, and I’m in no rush to sign myself up for another.

Besides, getting caught underage drinking is a sure way to lose scholarships, and if I lose that, I lose the ability to be here at all.

Definitely time to switch to water.

After wading through what feels like the entire student body of the school, I make it to the edge of the room.

I start walking toward the kitchen, and only stop when my eyes snag on a guy leaned against the wall.

My heart, already beating a little erratically from the alcohol and the dancing, kicks up another notch.

It’s pretty dark in here, but he’s somehow managed to find a sliver of light to stand in.

It gives him an almost angelic look, like a spotlight is shining down on him and making him glow.

I’ve never seen the guy before, and I’m pretty certain I would remember if I had.

He’s…pretty. He has the sort of rich brown skin that can’t be achieved with only the sun, and da rk, beautifully dark, hair.

Perhaps it’s only that he’s wearing a light-colored shirt, but the contrast is astounding. He’s literally glowing.

I look at him and think, yes. My body thrums at the sudden spike of desire, like I stuck my finger into a light socket. Huh. Changing direction, I walk over to him.

“Hello,” I say cheerfully, when I’m near enough to not have to shout.

“Hi,” he says, after his eyes barely flick my direction. I wait, one palm on the wall and eyes firmly on his profile. When I don’t move on, he looks at me again, this time letting his gaze linger. “What?”

“What’s your name?”

“Marcos,” he tells me. “Go away.”

“Marcos,” I repeat. What an oddly fitting name. Going away seems like a terrible idea, so I stay and give his name another whirl. “Marcos.”

He sighs so loudly I can hear it over the thump of the music.

It makes me smile. Standing as close as I am, I can smell him over the sweaty, stinky bodies in the room.

He smells good, like clean laundry or an air freshener.

Inappropriately, my dick starts to plump up as I look at him.

I shift, not really sure what to think about that happening.

“I’m Nathan,” I tell him, attempting to make my own name sound as cool as his. I fail. Only my uncle calls me Nathan. “Nate, for short. Nate Basset.”

There, that sounds better. Marcos looks like he doesn’t give a damn one way or the other, because he’s not going to call me anything at all.

He’s got hard features, not helped by the stony, almost vacant expression on his face.

He’s not having a lick of fun at this party, I would bet my life on that.

“What are you doing?” I ask, because he’s watching the crowd of people with an almost uncomfortable intensity. I wonder if he’s here with someone, and watching them dance. The thought brings with it a small, strange twinge of jealousy. I want him to be here alone.

“What are you doing?” he fires back testily. Excellent question.

“Do you want something to drink? I was going to go to the kitchen for some water.”

He waves a hand as though indicating the way I might walk off and complete that mission, but doesn’t answer my question.

“You’re really pretty,” I hear myself say, completely unbidden. “Like my horse.”