“Wait a minute.Jace?”
He grimaced. “Hi.”
Oh.
Ohno.
2
Jace
I idly swiped through Instagram while waiting for class to start. I wasn’t really watching what was on my screen—it was more of a habit than actually absorbing any of the short-form videos. Something to take my mind off the pounding sensation in my temple.
I closed my eyes and groaned. My hangover had only gotten worse since waking up this morning. Last semester, I was thrilled to be living in an off-campus apartment rather than one of the dorms. I had my own bedroom, a full kitchen, and all the freedom to do whatever I wanted.
But after a sophomore buddy asked me to buy him beer for a party, I got roped into sticking around for a game of beer pong. Which turned intosevengames of beer pong. By the time I took an Uber home it was after midnight, and I was thoroughly drunk.
Now I wished I lived on campus. Then I could have taken my time before walking to class, rather than needing to immediately jump in the car and drive here. I hadn’t had time to do anything but grab a bottle of water and my backpack.
I leaned back in my seat, but that caused me to stare up at one of the ceiling lights. I groaned in pain as the direct light caused my headache to pulse a little worse.
“Hey. Buddy. I’m talking to you.”
I opened an eye. The guy sitting two seats over was looking at me.
“You good?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
He stared at me a little longer, then reached into his backpack. There was a rattling sound of a pill bottle, and then he extended his hand.
“Liquid IV. Plus an extra strength Ibuprofen.”
I grabbed the offering like a dying man and immediately dumped the powder packet into my bottle of water. “You’re a life saver.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve been there. Not in a while, but… yeah.”
“I’m Jace.”
“Brock.”
We nodded in greeting. Brock had the look of an athlete, broad in the shoulders and otherwise lean with muscle. But he also looked older than the rest of the students. Like me.
“Having a class first thing on Monday morning already feels like a mistake,” I said.
Brock shrugged his boulder-like shoulders. “It’s not so bad. Just don’t drink Sunday night.”
“Wish I’d heard that about twelve hours ago,” I muttered.
“You know anything about the professor?” Brock asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve barely looked at my schedule. My guidance counselor picked my classes.”
Brock scratched the back of his neck with a pen. “I looked her up on Rate My Professor. She’s young. This is only the second semester she’s taught.”
“She?” I’d pictured Professor Carrington as a man. “Maybe she’s hot.”
“Maybe.”
