1
Blair
This is not my scene. I repeat to myself three times as I walk down the sidewalk and toward the row of houses Arabella told me to meet her at. She said it was a small gathering, intimate. I should’ve known better. It was a house party she’d invited me to, at the football frat house to be exact. Every part of me wanted to turn around and run back to my dorm, but then I heard my mother’s nagging voice at the back of my mind.
“This is your one chance to make friends, to explore. Take chances, sweetheart.”
So here I am, taking chances.
The fall air had a chill to it that I could feel in my bones as I forced my legs to move. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I will the cold away and trudge forward. I’m only wearing a thin sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants. I don’t dress up.
Now I kind of wish I had. Music blares from four houses down, and I can hear the heavy thump of it from where I’m standing and see people spilling out onto the road. The house is like an overfilled bag bursting at the seams.
As I stare at the crowd ahead, their bodies getting closer, I mentally run through my options. I could turn around, walk back to the dorm and tell Arabella I was sick, or I could walk into that frat house, smile, drink, socialize a bit, and then leave. There is no harm in dipping in and out. I don’t have to stay long.
Stopping for a moment, I let myself weigh both options fully. As badly as I don’t want to go into this party, I know I have to. I desperately need to make friends.
I have Jude, yes, but she has a boyfriend and a baby. My other best friend, Mia, is at Blackthorn Elite, forced to attend the prestigious school because of her rich father.
All there is here at North Woods is me, and Jude, my old roommate, now married to the man of her dreams.
So when Arabella who is somewhat popular, invited me to come, I said yes.
Gritting my teeth, I decide to go through with showing up and continue walking down the sidewalk. The sound of laughter and talking meets my ears as I grow closer to the crowd of people. They’re all holding red cups and smiling, looking as if they’re having a great time. If you can call getting trashed and waking up with a hangover fun, I guess.
No one looks at me or says anything as I skirt by them. This is definitely not a small gathering. Smoke permeates the air, and I choke back a cough as I walk up the steps of the two-story house.
Stepping onto the porch, I’m met with stares from three guys who I’ve never seen before. They look older, too old to be in college, that’s for sure, and the way their eyes move over me, makes me shiver.
Ignoring them, I walk into the house and stop dead in my tracks just over the threshold. There’s a ping pong table in the center of what used to be a dining room, the infamous beer pong game taking place, with a group of guys and girls huddled around it. In the living room, all the furniture has been pushed back to the walls, to make space for a makeshift dance floor. There are small clusters of people everywhere, and two girls making out on the couch.
Frozen in place, I’m not even sure where to go next.
Run, Blair. Run out the door.
For someone as smart as me, you would think it would be easy to navigate a party, but there’s a major difference between being book smart and knowing how to be social. I’d rather be reading a book, interacting with fictional characters than talking to real people. That’s just how I am. Plus, fictional characters don’t judge you or make you feel like complete shit.
Like a ghost, I move deeper into the house. My eyes dart over each person’s face as I search for Arabella or anyone that I might know while still trying to act as if I’m not completely out of my element. I smile, but it is forced and probably comes across like a shark showing its teeth, I can’t imagine how I look.
Most of the girls I see at this party are in skirts, or tight jeans with crop tops, that show their bellies and hips. Their makeup is on point, their hair curled, each strand in its place, and I’m over here, looking like a homeless person. Yeah, I should’ve stayed home. I don’t belong here.
Just as I pass into the kitchen, I see a keg with three huge guys tending to it. They’re huge, muscled, and obviously athletes, their arms alone are as big as my thighs. Looking away and to the counter, I see liquor bottles everywhere.
There is a liquor for every drink you could possibly conjure up, I’m sure. Two guys rush past me, almost running into me and out the French doors, leading into the back yard. A football whiz’s past my head, and one of them catches it, giving me a wink.
I shake my head because I’ve seen that face before.
It’s plastered on every North Woods University football flyer.
It’s spoken in whispers and moaned by more women at this school than I care to know.
Cage Wilder. The infamous playboy and football god. A total and complete jock through and through. Guys like him are all about using their good looks, charm, and the fact that they can run and catch a ball to their advantage.
Men like Cage remind me of every man my mom has ever been with. Selfish and too focus on themselves to care about anyone else.
Jesus. I need to stop being so judgmental. Guilt festers in my gut. I feel like an asshole now, even if what I’m thinking is true. I’m just about to turn around and leave when a brunette in a denim skirt and belly shirt runs into me. Her eyes are painted with silver glitter and bloodshot. Her lips are red, and when they pull up into a half-smile, she flashes me white teeth.
“Can you hold this for me?” she slurs, shoving her red glass into my hand. I blink, taking it without even thinking. I mean, it’s either take it or let it fall to the floor, and that would be kind of rude.
She walks past me on unsteady feet, and I shake my head as she disappears, walking into the living room.
“Okay then,” I say under my breath.
Turning back around, I see a head of auburn hair bobbing through the throng of people outside. There’s only dim lighting out there, so it’s hard to make out if that’s Arabella or someone else, but it’s the first sight of someone that looks like her that I’ve had all night. Rushing out the patio doors, I look out onto the lawn. The cold air kisses my cheeks, and I shiver. There are more people in the backyard than there were in the house. A few of them look toward me with curious expressions, while others don’t even blink at my presence.
The drink the chick gave me earlier is still in my hand, so I use my free one to tug out my cell phone. I type out another text to Arabella, even though she hasn’t answered my last two, and hit send. Looking up from my phone, I find the guys that were tossing the football standing in a small circle a few feet away.
All three of them are staring at me, each perfect in their own football frat kind of way, but it’s the one with midnight black hair and piercing green eyes that gets my heart racing. My brain tells my body not to react to this man’s presence, but my heart still thunders inside my chest.
Cage isn’t just gorgeous, he’s perfect. His body looks as if it’s been chiseled from stone, his jawline looks sharp enough to cut stone, and the only imperfection is his nose, which has a slight crook. He looks like he should be gracing the cover of GQ magazine, not playing football at NWU.
It’s obvious he’s an athlete. Tall, huge, with a frame that could fill up a room. His muscles are toned, his biceps bulge beneath his shirt. He doesn’t wear anything special: a pair of jeans and a long sleeve dark blue Henley.