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 thisparty 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 whileyoudance.”
“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 achance.”
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.
