Page 12 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Ollie

B ased on the grade staring back at me from my phone screen, skipping class two days ago was a bad idea. I wouldn’t have if I’d have had any clue that Dr. Selby was going to give us a pop quiz today. On a Friday. After only two weeks of classes.

Ok, I probably would have skipped anyway. After all, somebody had to test the mechanical bull before we rented it.

As I make my way across campus, I compose a mental list of all the shit I still need to do.

Tomorrow night’s party is going to be the best one I’ve ever thrown, and that’s saying something. I’m the host with the most. The motherfucking champ of entertaining. My backpack alone has a better bar selection than half the houses on Greek Block. It even has a special pouch for lime wedges.

No one on campus throws a banger like I do, and if the pudding shipment arrives in time, I’m going to outdo myself.

Hell, even if it doesn’t, this party is going to go down in BU history as legendary.

And boy, do we need it. Tensions are as high as ever on the team and we still have a few weeks until the season officially starts.

The guys are constantly at each other’s throats and even though it’s petty shit, the resentment is building.

Dutton parked in Dean’s space, Mickey used up the last of Blue’s favorite protein powder, and someone keeps flushing the toilet every time Jenksy steps in the shower.

Ok, that’s kinda funny.

The point is, we all need to kick back and relax, including me. Scratch that. Especially me.

My teammates aren’t the only ones with roommate issues.

Living with Fallon Zabek is driving me fucking insane. She’s only been staying at the house for a week, but I swear to fuck she must have doused every surface with her body spray because I can smell the intoxicating blend of vanilla and peaches every-fucking-where.

Tossing my backpack by the door, I’m relieved I’ll get a little respite this afternoon. She takes the same yoga class Dean’s girlfriend does, and I know they’re both there right now which means I can make a sandwich in peace and grab a nap before heading to practice in a couple hours.

When I step through the archway to the kitchen, I stop cold. “ What are you doing here?” I ask, fully aware that I sound like a dick, but unable to stop the words from pouring from my mouth and my hands.

Fallon sighs loudly and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her left ear. “ We’ve been over this, Ollie. I live here now. Get used to it.”

Blue chuckles and I want to wipe that stupid smirk off his pretty fucking face. “We’re making smoothies,” he says with pride, as though tossing ingredients into a blender is akin to performing open-heart surgery.

I stalk toward the fridge and start pulling out everything I’ll need to make my lunch.

I grab a cutting board because I fucking can and because doing so means Blue has to move over a couple inches.

I’m spreading a thin layer of mustard on a thick slice of sourdough bread when I catch sight of what Blue’s adding to the concoction he’s making.

Without a second thought, I grab the small dish of blueberries and empty it into my palm before tipping my head back to toss a few in.

“The fuck?” Blue mutters, scowling as he nabs the empty dish from my hand.

At Fallon’s look of disbelief, I shrug. “ You’re welcome ,” I tell her, pressing the tips of my fingers to my chin before thrusting my hand forward.

In response, she touches her middle finger to her chin, then thrusts it forward in a clear indication that she doesn’t appreciate the favor I was trying to do for her.

“ You hate blueberries ,” I say matter-of-factly before gobbling up the last few berries and returning to the work of making a sandwich.

“ I do not hate blueberries ,” she tells me, her eyes blazing.

“ Since when ?” I ask. “ Because I distinctly remember you calling them ‘sour little lie-berries’ and saying you’d rather eat prunes than choke down a blueberry muffin .”

“Prunes are actually a really good source of potassium and fiber,” Blue interjects, but Fallon and I aren’t paying our know-it-all health-nut of a roommate any attention.

“ I may have felt that way once ,” Fallon begrudgingly concedes, “ but people can change—feelings can change .”

I hold her gaze. “ People can change, huh? I didn’t know you were aware of that fact ,” I say, knowing full well that I’m letting my frustration get the better of me.

Fallon doesn’t even blink. She’s got balls of steel and a spine to match. “ Of course, people can change, Ollie ,” she says, her hands moving swiftly as the words leave her mouth. “ But that doesn’t always mean that they do .”

The words hang heavily in the air between us until Blue clears his throat and brings us back to the here and now.

“I’m just gonna make my smoothie and go,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

“Make it quick,” I say.

“ You don’t need to leave ,” Fallon insists.

Blue laughs again, so I spare him a glance. “Believe it or not, I’ve got better things to do than stand here catching strays. Maybe I’ll find Liza and see if I can piss her off. That’s always a fun game.”

Before I can tell him that’s a bad fucking idea, he presses a button on his fancy-ass blender, and it roars to life. Less than a minute later, he’s filled his glass and walked out to the patio. I turn back to Fallon, but her chair is empty.

Fucking great. I’ve pissed off one roommate, alienated another, and now I’ve got a sink full of dirty dishes to deal with. Oh, and I’m currently failing a class.

Christ. Can today get any worse?

The universe laughs hysterically and answers my question immediately in the form of Mickey stomping through the entryway.

“Mr. Tittles is missing,” he announces without preamble.

“You brought that mangy-ass cat to live here?” I ask.

“He’s not mangy,” Mickey says, getting defensive. “He’s rugged. There’s a difference. And no, he doesn’t technically live here. Mr. Titles is a man of the world. But we do have sleepovers, and he hasn’t attended the last three.”

I’m tempted to ask who the fuck else gets an invite to these sleepovers, but then I quickly decide there are some things that I just don’t want to know.

Mickey’s raiding the pantry for cans of tuna, so I finish what’s left of my sandwich before starting on the pile of dishes in the sink.

I don’t have time to join the search party for Mickey’s feral feline bestie.

We’re throwing a party tomorrow which means there are Jell-O shots to make, inner tubes to inflate, and a ball pit to set up.

This party is just what I need—what everybody in this house needs—and I have no doubt it’s the first step to fixing everything that’s wrong with this year.

The end of the world is just around the corner. It has to be. There’s no other reasonable explanation for what is happening right now.

My party is a flop. A disaster. In fact, calling it a party is generous. There should be two hundred people here, but I bet there aren’t more than fifty or sixty.

I feel like it’s prom night and I’m lying on the couch crying into my ice cream sundae instead of letting my hot as fuck date take my virginity.

Let’s be clear: I lost my virginity when I was fifteen. Hell, by the time senior prom rolled around, I’d had sex with guys and girls, and it involved ice cream sundaes on more than one occasion.

But still. I feel like such a fucking cliche right now. And a failure. Mickey strolls up next to me, clinking his plastic cup with mine.

“Good times,” he says, and from the look on his face, it’s clear that his mood is just as bad as mine.

“Nice outfit,” I quip. That’s the one fucking thing I got right.

Attendance might be in the shitter, a torrential thunderstorm may have driven everyone indoors, and I’m pretty sure we own the broken mechanical bull at this point, given that Deano dumped a batch of rum punch into its mouth just to see if he could get it drunk.

The answer is no. Electronics don’t get shitfaced. They get their circuits fried. The damn thing only turns in one direction now and it makes a horrible moaning noise every time.

I get the feeling.

So, yeah, this party is an epic disaster, but the dress code? Chef’s. Fucking. Kiss.

I’m not the first guy to throw an Anything But Clothes party, but not even that classic theme can resurrect this pathetic excuse for a bash.

Mickey spreads his arms wide before doing a quick turn to show off his DIY outfit.

There are people decked out in caution tape, a couple girls in trash bag dresses, and a dude from the baseball team is walking around with a tablecloth hanging from his neck and a lamp in his hand and he’s telling people he’s a one-night stand.

It’s all good. But it’s all been done.

I spent an hour hot gluing shower loofahs to a pair of boxer shorts and I was pretty damn proud of myself.

But Mickey has my ass beat by a mile.

The man’s buck naked, which is nothing new. Dude hates clothes as much as he hates taking his meds. Trust me, that’s a lot.

For once, though, he’s not swinging his mammoth schlong all around.

Guy’s hung like a circus animal and he’s not shy about showing off the goods.

Tonight, though, his bits and pieces are all boxed up—literally.

He’s wearing a jock strap with a fucking mailbox attached to it.

The little red flag is up and there’s a paper sign on the front that reads “You’ve got mail. ”

It’s fucking genius.

“Tonight fucking blows,” he grumbles, taking a sip of his drink.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “I really needed the reminder that this year sucks so bad it’s even stripped me of my ability to throw a goddamn party.”

My buddy blinks. “Shit, I didn’t mean that. And the weather’s not your fault, Olls. Besides, people are having a good time,” he says, sweeping his hand in front of him to gesture to the scantily clad partygoers who are drinking and flirting and hooking up all around us.

“Yeah, people are,” I say, shrugging. “Just not us. What’s up your ass?”