It’s dark, and it doesn’t take long to lose track of them in the crowd. Still, I watch for a while, taking in the endless tide of entwined limbs and gyrating hips before my attention drifts.
The Den is a landmark in College Park—no bar crawl is complete without a visit—so it’s no surprise the walls are lined with blue and white Waverly paraphernalia or that the tabletops and hardwood floors are heavily scarred from the tens of thousands of students and alumni who’ve poured through the doors to eat, drink, and get shitfaced.
“Another round, hon?” the server asks, appearing at my side.
I nod and when she turns to fetch my beer, I realize she’s wearing a Wildcat jersey with the number nineteen embroidered on the back.
Cooper’s number.
There’s no escaping the arrogant jockhole. Not in College Park, anyway.
I’m sure there are plenty of girls—and guys—wearing his number tonight, but I can’t help wondering if she’s hooked up with him. And if so, was it everything she’d expected?
Does it even matter?
No, no it does not.
I square my shoulders and drain my beer, ignoring the sudden warmth in my cheeks.
Cooper DeLaurentis isnotan option, but surely there’s someone in the bar who is.
Not that you’d know it. I’ve been sitting alone for nearly twenty minutes and so far, not a single person has spoken to me. According to every movie ever, a hot guy—or even a douchey one—should have approached by now with a terrible pickup line and a free drink offer.
So what am I doing wrong?
Only everything.
Right. What I need is a guy’s opinion, but it’s not like I can text Noah for hookup advice and Bryan is no help.
I drum my fingers on the sticky table, mulling it over.
The solution hits me, and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. It’s so freaking obvious.
The drunk dialing frat bro.
Even better, he has no clue who I am, so no judgement.
I pull out my phone and start typing.
10
COOPER
Bus rides arethe fucking worst.
I lean forward to rub the cramp in my calf, but it’s close quarters and my shoulder clips Reid.
“You wanted the window seat,” he reminds me, flashing a shit-eating grin. Then the asshole makes a show of stretching his legs, which are extended into the aisle. “You should know better by now.”
I really should, but every once in a while, I make it a point not to be a selfish prick. Reid took some nasty hits in today’s game. The last thing he needs is to be curled up like a sardine.
Besides, he’s the team captain. The least I can do is give him the aisle seat.
“Yeah, yeah.” I stretch and flex my right Achilles, which is tight as hell. “When we make the championship game, the university better spring for airline tickets. Preferably first class.”
Reid snorts. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“Don’t piss in my Cheerios.”
