“One hour, tops, I swear,”I say for what’s probably the hundredth time tonight.
Hugh just glowers at me like I’ve personally insulted him, but he walks beside me anyway, hands jammed in his jacket pockets like the world's most reluctant chaperone.
When I first got asked to come to this party, because apparently all the sports med students were going, my answer was absolutely the fuck not. I had zero interest in losing brain cells at some sweaty, overhyped college bash.
But then... I gottheemail.
Early acceptance to fucking Harvard.
I figured I deserved one night off from being a neurotic, overachieving academic gremlin. Just one.
Hugh, ever the ride-or-die best friend, agreed to tag along to make sure I don’t get absolutely shit-tanked and end up confessing my sins to a Taco Bell drive-thru worker. Also, I think he was genuinely happy for me. Which, honestly, made the whole thing feel even better.
So yeah. Harvard. Med school. Me. It’s happening.
I got into, arguably, the best medical program on the entire goddamn planet. And I cannot wait to absolutely crush it.
I spent so many hours on that application I could probably recite the whole thing backwards in my sleep.
My grades? Pristine.
My volunteer hours? Chef’s kiss.
My shadowing log? A symphony of professional ass-kissing and actual learning.
I have been working toward this since high school. I have put blood, sweat, tears, and enough caffeine to kill a horse.
And today, all of it finally paid off.
“It’s fine,” Hugh grumbles, pulling me back to the moment. “Let’s just have fun.”
I grin at him and ignore his scowl. “One hour.”
He rolls his eyes, but I catch the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s proud. He won’t say it out loud, but I know.
The party’s already in full nuclear meltdown mode when we show up. I’m talking multiple “dance floors”, which are really just open spaces with sticky floors, and music so loud it’s rattling the windows.
There’s some dude passed out on the front lawn, girls are laughing and drinking from red Solo cups, and guys are playing beer pong on the porch like it’s an Olympic sport.
I don’t go to a ton of parties, but this? This looks exactly like what the movies warned me about.
We step inside and immediately get hit with a wall of smells: beer, weed, sweat, and whatever body spray some guy absolutely drowned himself in. There are bodies everywhere.
People are dancing, yelling, falling into furniture. It’s chaotic, but I can’t even be mad. I’m still riding this surreal, electric high from the Harvard news. I’m here to have a couple drinks, saywhat’s up to my fellow overworked sports med people, and then dip the fuck out to get some sleep before I’m back at the rink.
“You want a beer?” I shout over the music.
Hugh shakes his head and jerks his chin toward a corner of the living room where a few of the hockey guys are lounging and looking way too cool for their own good.
I nod and peel off toward the kitchen, which is slightly less crowded, but still full of drunk, half-yelling students spilling beer on the counters and pretending like they’re not about to regret all their life choices tomorrow.
I spot Keith, who was supposed to be on hockey duty this semester, leaning against the counter, beer in hand, chatting with another guy from our program.
I saunter over and give them both the universal “what’s up” nod. Keith grins and pulls me in for one of those aggressively masculine bro-hugs.
“Hey man! Glad you could make it!” He yells with a massive drunk grin.
I grin back. “Is this your place?”
