We walked up the stairs of the front porch, our heels clicking loudly on the less-than-sturdy wood. My first college party.
Of my second freshman year.
“So, I think I messed up,” Chloe said when we entered the house.
The empty house.
“You think?” Abby said. We all flashed our phones, checking the time. A little after ten. Two years ago, when I was a senior in high school, the evening would have been really ramping up, with curfews just around the corner. Tonight, it seemed we were way too early. Or maybe Chloe had gotten the night wrong?
“Let’s just go,” I said, starting to turn for the door.
“Hey, wait a minute. Don’t leave,” a male voice called. I turned to see someone coming from behind a swinging door, which, given the view of the counter and fridge behind him, led to the kitchen. “The boys just texted. Practice ran long and then they had a team meeting and meal. Everyone will be here soon.”
Of slightly taller than average height with a lanky build, he had short, reddish-brown hair, and was wearing jeans and a grey Bribury Hockey tee. Holding a sleeve of the ubiquitous red cups, he pointed toward the living room. “Come on, have a beer. Seriously, this place will be packed in fifteen minutes.”
“Do they usually have practice on Friday nights?” I asked as we entered the main room. It was a combination living room/bar/gaming center. The bar sat in one corner of the large room; two surprisingly in-good-shape couches made a U in the center of the room, facing a wall with three large, mounted TVs. A recliner joined the sitting area. Another TV was on a stand in the far corner, with two gaming chairs in front of it, and a coffee table was littered with consoles and joysticks and whatever else that stuff was called.
The whole gaming thing was not for me, even though my high school boyfriend, Blake, had been totally into it. As had most of the boys—and many of the girls—I’d gone to school with.
“No. This was an add-on at the last minute because, and I quote Coach, ‘You lazy asses came back to campus so fucking out of shape that it’ll be a miracle if you’re not completely gassed by the second period in three weeks.’”
“What’s in three weeks?” Chloe asked. She was looking around the room, and I guessed it was to assess the lighting and from which angle she’d look best.
“First scrimmage,” our host said as he handed us each a cup. “Ten bucks a cup. Keg’s been tapped and is behind the bar. Pitchers are on top, but limited. Cash either in the vase there, or cash app addy is there.” He pointed to a slender-necked vase on top of the bar that had a couple of ten-dollar bills at the bottom and a sign that had a Venmo address and a QR code that apparently went to a new-to-me cash app.
I reached for my phone to do the Venmo address but Chloe pulled some cash out of her bag. “This one’s on me, ladies. Our first party together.” She already had her phone rolling as she stuffed a twenty and a ten into the vase. “First of many parties! Smash that like button if you’re partying tonight, too!” she told her viewers. (I didn’t know if she was live-posting or would edit later. I supposed I wouldn’t know for sure until later, so I’d just assume it was live and act accordingly.)
“Thanks, Chloe,” I said, as did Abby.
“So, you’re obviously Chloe,” he said. “I’m Dex. That’s Philly,” he added as a girl came into the room carrying another sleeve of red cups. She nodded to us, looking us up and down. I could have imagined it, but it seemed like a look of amusement swiftly crossed her face. She had on jeans and a hoodie, her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“I think we’re overdressed,” I said softly, more to Abby than anyone else.
“You’re fine,” Dex said. “Anything goes here, right, Philly?”
“You know it, Dex,” she said. She went behind the bar. “They pay?” she asked Dex, who nodded. Seconds later Philly put a freshly pulled pitcher of beer on the bar. “Here you go, girls. First pitcher of the night. Get some seats while they’re available. Word got out about the long practice and meeting, so everybody is pre-partying somewhere else, but this place will fill up fast now.”
We took three of the four barstools, the ones closest to the wall, my skirt not quite covering all of my thigh so that skin hit the leather, which I tried not to clock as very sticky.
“Are you on the team?” Abby asked Dex, who was behind the bar filling up a glass mug with the Bribury crest on it. No disposable red cup for him.
He took a long drink from his beer and slowly put the glass down on the bar, resting his elbows on it as he faced us. “Yes and no. Just had surgery over the summer. I’m not allowed on the ice for two more weeks.”
“Threemore weeks. And even then, just to skate. No hitting,” Philly added. She’d filled two more pitchers and placed them on the end of the bar that was nearest the open area of the room. Dex snaked an arm around Philly’s waist and pulled her into him, causing her to spill some beer out of another pitcher. “Watch it,” she said. There was no warning in her voice, and once she put the pitcher down, she curled into Dex’s hold on her, placing her arms around his neck.
“Two and a half weeks, actually,” he said softly. Philly smiled at him and nodded, acknowledging his amended timeline.
“But no hitting,” she whispered.
“No hitting,” he agreed. His lips met hers, and they kissed like they were alone and not in front of three freshman girls sitting at their bar and watching them.
“Damn, I need to get some,” Abby said, her words echoing my thoughts.
Philly laughed and broke from the kiss. “Sorry. I’m not trying to torture you. And I’m not usually into PDA.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Dex said, earning a tweak on his bicep from Philly. His very nice bicep.
“But I just got into town, and haven’t seen this idiot in a while—”
