LENNIE

"Fit as fuck," Quinn nods in approval of my dress as I put on some makeup, blending the tenth layer of concealer over my bruise.

"I'd better be," I chuckle, lining my eyes with some smokey eyeshadow. "Where's Noah? I haven't seen him since before the game."

"Rowan took him to the fucking hockey shag-pad with him earlier. They're staying there until the party starts, I guess." She shrugs, sliding up the straps of her emerald pantsuit.

I hum in response, concentrating on trying not to blink as I curl my lashes. The door to my room swings open with a thud, and Hana comes strutting in like a model on a catwalk. The sudden entrance almost makes me rip my eyelashes out.

She's wearing a tight crimson dress. Heels studded with diamantés and a purse that matches them.

"Christ, watch out. Here comes Victorias Secret." Quinn gawks.

"I need to look good. Need to stand out, especially in a bunch of seniors." Hana says, whipping her curled black hair in the mirror.

I thought a little black dress was a good idea, but maybe it's considered underdressing compared to my two best friends.

I sigh in relief as I watch Quinn slide sneakers on underneath the long trousers. If I wore heels the height of Hana's, I'd be bordering on 6-feet tall.

I reach for the special, lucky Converse. At least if I need to run anywhere, I'll be doing it comfortably.

"Can I curl your hair?" Hana skips towards me, throwing her purse onto the bed.

"Not completely. I don't want it to be insanely short," I shrug, "but I guess a few waves can't hurt, right?"

She beams, picking up the curling iron that Quinn had used to organise her locks, gesturing for me to sit in the chair.

I perch in front of the mirror as she gets to work.

"You look so different. I never see you this dressed up," Hana says through her concentration.

"A good different, I hope?" I snort.

"Not that there needed to be a 'different' in the first place, but you look fabulous," she grins. "Rowan will be drooling."

"That would be a fucking first." I say with a chuckle, my heart hammering in my chest.

I'm getting the pre-social jitters, and my eye catches sight of the bottle of Smirnoff Quinn has been drinking on and off.

I swipe it up and take a swig, cringing at the absolute nuclear taste. Hana hisses as my head moves.

"Fucking hell, go you." Quinn chuffs, taking the bottle from me and having another swig herself.

"Need to get rid of the anxiety somehow," I take a deep breath, letting the air heal my scalding throat.

Because the meds certainly aren't doing the trick.

Hana eventually finishes with my hair, and her phone flashes with a notification. She gasps, "Uber's here!"

"Jesus, didn't you think to tell us you'd ordered one?" I immediately lunge for my purse, rushing to shove all my essentials inside. Quinn stashes the half-empty bottle of vodka under her thin jacket.

"No need. We're all ready on time," she grins, skipping towards the door of my room, completely effortlessly in her heels. Quinn follows.

I tie my shoes in record time, running after them both and slamming the door behind me.

—

"Lennie?!"

I whip my head as we step out of the Uber, pleasantly surprised as Valerie from volleyball skips over from where she's standing outside the front door.

People are scattered all over the lawn, drinks in one hand and cigarettes in the other. A thick smell of smoke fills the outside air.

"Val?" I grin, giving her a brief hug. "You didn't say you'd be here."

"I wasn't meant to be, but that's the privilege of having an older brother who's a senior," she beams.

"Marcus is a senior? I didn't even realise," I raise my eyebrows, adjusting the purse over my shoulder.

I take a beat to gawk at the house. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. It's no mansion, but it's definitely not small. A large front lawn, a garage with two doors. White, panelled exterior.

"We going inside or what?" Quinn steps forward, and Val takes an instinctive step back. She stumps out her cigarette before hooking her arm through mine.

"Yeah, come on. I'll show you guys through to the kitchen," she smiles, gesturing for Quinn and Hana to follow. Not that Hana even needs directions, she's most likely already been here plenty of times.

The front door opens as somebody comes stumbling out and vomits. Lovely. Val catches the door with her foot, kicking it open for us.

Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand is booming, the noise from the speakers hammering my eardrums. The hallway is packed with people like sardines in a tin, blue LED lights shining from God knows where.

I feel very awkward and much too sober for this environment.

Valerie yanks me through the crowd, and I grab a hold of Quinn's wrist to keep her close to us.

There's so. Many. People.

We turn a corner, and I apologise briefly as I slam into a random shoulder before Val hauls us forward into a different doorway.

It's spacious despite the crowd. A large, wooden kitchen island off to the left side, a huge L shaped sofa on the right, that makes ours look absolutely minuscule.

A TV is mounted on the far wall, with the music video playing. Two girls fight for the remote, probably attempting to put on their song requests.

"This is insane," I breathe, following Val as she wedges us next to the island. A whole damn convenience store worth of alcohol is scattered across the middle, stacks of red cups beside them.

These hockey guys really know how to throw a fucking party.

"What are you guys drinking?" She asks, grabbing four red cups from the stack.

"Vodka cran," I say, leaning forward towards the bottle of Smirnoff. Quinn pulls her own bottle from under her jacket, sliding it to join the array.

I grab the carton of cranberry, pouring it into the cup. I then free pour the vodka.

Awful idea.

Quinn does three shots, one after the other, then wipes her mouth. My eyes widen in awe of her tolerance. Valerie turns away to talk to someone else.

"There's Miles!" Hana squeaks, waving as I whip my head towards the doorway to see him lumbering in. He's tall, easily 6'2. Sandy blonde hair, tanned skin.

He spots us and makes a beeline towards her.

"Hey gorgeous," he grins, hooking an arm around her red dress and kissing her hair. Hana is shorter than me in height, so their difference looks adorable.

I'd need a hell of a tall guy to have a height difference like that. Harlequin Guy height.

"Miles, you've already met Quinn. This is Lennie," she gestures towards me.

I offer a smile. "I've heard lots about you." I say, and Hana's eyes shoot open.

"Likewise. It was cool of you guys to come to the game earlier. Hana managed to get you on board  with the jersey idea?" He chuckles.

"Surprisingly," Quinn scoffs.

I feel my heart warm a little in relief that Miles does seem nice. He seems normal, and he's looking at Hana as though she hung the damn moon.

"You wanna see the rest of the guys? They're in the back room," he asks, gesturing with his head and hooking a strong arm around Hana's waist.

"Why not?" I grin, crossing my arm through Quinn's. I turn to tell Valerie that we're heading somewhere else, but she's already busy chatting somebody up in the corner.

I grab my drink with my free hand as we follow Miles through the crowd.

He leads us back towards the hallway, heading straight on past the staircase this time. A huge queue is already forming for the bathroom, one that I hope I won't end up stuck in.

"Do you feel nervous about this?" I whisper-shout in Quinn's ear.

"About what? A party?" She replies, and I give her a nod.

"No. I'm too drunk to feel nervous," she snorts.

"You don't seem drunk at all. How do you do it?" I gape as we step into what I guess is the back-room. In the middle is an unnecessarily huge pool table, some people drunkenly whacking the cues around. A speaker, synced up to the TV, is on a cabinet that holds another vast selection of drinks.

Quinn's reply is cut off as Miles speaks up. "Guys, you've obviously met Hana. These are her flatmates, Quinn and Lennie."

Two guys turn around, one of them holding a whole damn bottle of whiskey.

The first guy I recognise as Isaac Morton from Rowan's Instagram posts over the summer. A hell of an attractive guy. Dark brown skin, slightly curled black hair, deep brown eyes.

He steps forward with a smile, "I've heard a lot about you guys from this dick." He gestures to his side and slaps somebody between the shoulder blades.

My heart drops as Rowan whirls around, then skips a beat as he does a double take.

"Jesus Christ, Len? Is that you?" He teases, eyes trailing down my body in a way that has my heart thundering.

It's the first time he's looked at me in a way like this.

"In the flesh." I take a deep breath to level my head. Guess we're just forgetting about yesterday's discussion.

Hana catches my eye for a second.

"Who the fuck invited Jessica Rabbit?" Noah drawls as he suddenly walks from behind Rowan, prodding Quinn in the shoulder.

"I will kill you slowly, arsehole." She hisses. Noah simply throws a wink at her, slouching an arm over her shoulder. She doesn't move away, to my surprise.

"And this is Owen," Miles finally introduces us to the whiskey-wielding guy next to him. Mouse brown hair. Freckles splattered across his face, deep green eyes.

He slowly blinks a few times, and it's clear to see he's off his damn head drunk.

"Hart, by any chance?" Quinn asks.

"That's me," he crookedly grins, stumbling over his few words.

"I was forced to wear your jersey earlier," she chuckles deeply. He purses his lips, giving us a dramatic shrug.

"Shame I wasn't even playing, thanks to our prick captain." He huffs, and my eyebrow quirks. I thought he was meant to be close with this Whitlock guy.

Quinn and I simultaneously turn to Isaac and Miles, who give brief shakes of their heads that offer no further explanations.

"Where is the 'prick captain'?" Hana beats me to the question. Isaac raises his shoulders and lets them sag into a shrug.

"Probably balls deep in someone," Owen slurs, and my face twists. How on theme. Very hockey captain of him.

We all talk for a while, until Rowan clears his throat and steps forwards, discreetly wrapping a hand around my arm. "Should we go and speak somewhere?" He asks.

I glance at Quinn, who is now interrogating Owen about his opinions on Whitlock. Isaac and Noah are talking about pool, and Miles is leading Hana elsewhere. Most likely someplace quieter.

"Yeah, okay," I inhale deeply, placing my hand over the top of my drink as he begins to walk us. His hand slides from my arm, resting on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

We push into the kitchen, and he gestures for me to perch on an area of the ridiculously large sofa.
I comply, pulling my dress down a little so I'm not flashing the whole damn party.

"Drink?" He asks. I shake my head, holding up the dregs of my vodka-cran. He hums and slouches down beside me.

"I'm sorry about yesterday, Len. You know I wouldn't hurt your feelings on purpose, right?" He sighs, resting a hand on my knee and scraping his thumb across it.

I'm so embarrassingly sensitive to his touch. The small movement causes me to squeeze my legs together.

"You didn't hurt my feelings, Rowe," I lie, fast talking. "It just irritates me, the way you feel the need to question my choices all the time, my degree specifically."

I couldn't count on one hand the amount of times I've had to explain it to him, that I don't want to be a goddamn professional volleyball player. I want to be an author. Or a songwriter. Something that involves writing.

Apparently that doesn't pass as a valid 'goal' in Rowan Redwood's mind.

He groans, rubbing his free hand down his face. "You can't blame me for that." He says, and my eyes flash. Anger overrides any other feelings I have for him right now.

Is he being fucking serious?

"Why can't I?" My eyebrows knit together. He huffs, momentarily glancing away before his eyes lock onto mine.

"You know, you look stunning tonight," he smiles. That stupid, beautiful crooked smile. "You don't even look like you."

Damn.

The backhanded compliment stings like the boot across my face. The worst part is, he doesn't even fucking mean it. He's trying to change the subject, and he knows I'll fawn over any attention he gives me.

Not now. Now when the alcohol has started to work, heightening my emotions.

Fuck this guy.

I rip my knee from under his hand. "Why can't I blame you, Rowan?" My voice lowers as I repeat the question.

"Lennie," he heaves my name like it's a chore. My eye twitches as I await his answer, leaning forward slightly.

"You can't blame me for questioning the way you're wasting your time. I mean, fucking literature—?"

He barely finishes his question before I impulsively lash the remains of my vodka-cranberry over his head.

"What the fuck?" He snaps, pulling on the bottom of his shirt, gaining some nearby attention.

"Stop it. Stop trying to fucking put me down." I spit, crumpling the plastic in my hand. He shoots to his feet in fury.

"I'm not trying—" He begins.

"—You are. You do it all the damn time!" I hiss, interrupting him and throwing my hand up for emphasis. "I've always been there to support you, and all you treat me as is your fucking doormat!"

He gapes at me, and I gape at myself for a second. I just threw my drink over Rowans head. Over the Rowan I've spent the last year fucking pining after like a dog with a bone.

Well, shit.

"You look like you should be heading home." A new, deep voice comes from behind me, the presence crawling across my back like a shadow.

I take one last look at Rowan before spinning to walk away. "Yeah, that's exactly where I'm headed," I mumble, keeping my head low.

I don't get very far until a strong hand catches my wrist, locking me in place.

"I wasn't talking to you," the guy says. I knit my eyebrows, lifting my gaze up. And up.

Good god.

A ruffled heap of black hair is the first thing I see, hanging just over thick dark eyebrows. Eyes of deep hazel. Jawline like a knife, speckled with some stubble. Tawny skin. A tattoo swirling across a fucking massive bicep.

So damn tall. Even compared to me.

"You're fucking with me, right?" Rowan snaps. Mystery guy glowers at him, a small smirk eventually playing across his lips.

"Not at all. Get out, Redwood." He chuckles, gesturing to the door with his head. Rowan chuffs, wiping his cranberry drenched hair before barging past us.

My heart hammers with panic.

"You didn't have to do that—" I start.

"—I know I didn't, I just wanted to." He shrugs, eventually letting go of my wrist. I stare at him, trying not to openly gawk.

The most divine man I've ever seen in my life is in front of me, and my mouth is acting like a fish's. Opening and closing.

"Well, I'm going to head out anyway." I finally sigh, adjusting my purse.

"So soon?" He tilts his head, gesturing to the crumpled cup in my hand. "You could stay for one more."

"And what, waste that over somebody's head as well?" I snort a little. He grins, moving a hand between my shoulder blades and walking me towards the kitchen island.

"Believe me, I've wanted somebody to do that to Redwood for a long time. I take it from his clothes, you were having vodka-cran?" He quirks a dark eyebrow, already pulling the Smirnoff towards us.

"Good guess," I chuckle, and what the fuck is going on?

This guy is getting me a drink? This guy who looks like God's damn gift?

I watch as he pours some cranberry into a fresh cup, following with some Smirnoff. He only tips a little bit in before looking at me. "Is that enough?"

"More, please." I groan. I fucking need it. He nods, pouring another shot's worth in before screwing the top on.

"You even old enough to drink?" He shoots me a small grin, holding the drink a long arms-length away.

"Ask me that next month, and I'll be honest with you." I chuckle as he finally passes it to me, taking a breath as my fingers scrape against his.

"So," he starts. "You're Hana's friend, right? Miles' girl."

"Right. I'm Lennon, well, Lennie. Lennie St. James." I nod, immediately kicking myself. Why the fuck am I introducing myself like I'm at a damn interview?

"That's a hell of a guess, though. How'd you know that I was friends with Hana?" I ask, sipping some of the drink.

"I mean, Lennie St. James, you did have my old jersey on today." He chuckles deeply, and it takes every ounce of my strength to not spray the drink from my mouth into his face.

I'm talking to Caden fucking Whitlock.