“I’m driving,” I shouted back, taking the cup but not drinking.I sniffed it.Vodka tonic.Not water.
“Boring!”Javier slapped my good shoulder—hard.I flinched, teeth gritting, but forced a smile.“Relax, newbie.Goalie corner is out back.”
I navigated the living room, dodging elbows and spills.My brain tracked threats automatically: drink sloshing at three o’clock, flailing dancer at nine.Exhausting.I wasn’t wired for chaos I couldn’t block.
The “Goalie Corner” was a sagging couch on the back porch, but it was currently occupied by the starters from the women’s team.I said hello.I did a lap, scanning for Ryan or an exit.You see, I’m a people-person when we’re one-on-one or in a small group, but enormous masses of swarming bodies, not my thing.
Then I saw him.
Austen was pinned against the sliding glass door in the dining room.A massive defensive lineman from the football team—I think his name was Tank—had one hand on the wall above Austen’s head, leaning in, drunk and explaining something with wet, spraying enthusiasm.
Austen stood stiff as a goalpost, arms crossed tight against his chest, eyes fixed on a point near the ceiling.He looked like he was calculating the structural load of the drywall to keep from screaming.
I edged closer, gauging whether he needed rescue or was holding his own.
“—and the thing about raw yolks,” Tank was shouting, “is the bioavailability.You cook the egg, you kill the enzymes.It’s science, bro.”
“It’s salmonella,” Austen corrected, voice tight but audible.“The thermal denaturation of proteins is necessary for safe consumption.”
Tank blinked, swaying.“De-nature-what?No, man.It’s about the primal fuel source.Rocky did it.”
“Rocky is a fictional character,” Austen said.“And he likely suffered from significant gastrointestinal distress off-camera.”
Tank laughed, slapping the wall.Plaster dust drifted down onto Austen’s shoulder.“You’re funny!I like you.You should try it.Tomorrow morning.Six eggs.Raw.”
Austen looked like he was about to vomit.“I will not be doing that.”
Tank leaned closer.“Come on, bro.Don’t be soft.”
“Hey,” I said, pitching my voice low but hard.
The lineman blinked, turning sluggishly.“Who’re you?”
“Luke.Hockey.”I nodded at Austen.“And I need my roommate.Burst pipe in the dorm.Emergency.”
A terrible lie.The lineman frowned, processing speed slowed by cheap tequila.“Pipe?”
“Everywhere,” I said.“Water damage.RAs are freaking out.”I grabbed Austen’s sleeve.“Let’s go.”
Austen didn’t hesitate.He phased through the space I created, ducking under the lineman’s arm.We didn’t stop moving until we hit the back door, shoved it open, and spilled out onto the rotting wooden deck.
The cool night air hit like relief.Quiet here—just the muffled thump of bass and wind in the trees.
Austen leaned against the railing, exhaling a long, shaky breath.He pulled his sleeves down over his hands.
“Burst pipe?”he asked, voice flat.
“I panicked.First disaster I could think of.”I dumped the vodka tonic into an overgrown flowerbed.
“That guy was explaining the nutritional benefits of raw egg yolks for twenty minutes.I was plotting a way to jump through the glass.”
“Defenestration is a valid exit strategy.”
Austen looked at me, surprised.“You know the word defenestration?”
“I do crosswords on the bus,” I said.“Goalies have a lot of downtime.”
He almost smiled.Small, a twitch of the lips, but in the dim light of the porch bulb, it looked like a victory.
