My spine goes rigid.
“I didn’t say that,” I snap.
Jade leans in, smug. “You didn’t have to.”
Blakely’s tone is soft but firm. “Sloane…it’s a hockey house. It’ll be fine.”
It won’t.
Because Logan goes to PCU. Because his friends go to PCU. Because the universe loves to throw him in my path like a test I keep failing.
But Jade and Blakely are looking at me like they’ll carry me there if they have to, and I’m too tired to fight a battle that isn’t the real one.
I swallow hard. “Fine.”
Jade whoops. “Yes!”
Blakely exhales in relief. “Thank you.”
I mutter, “I hate you,” to both of them, because it’s safer than sayingthank you.
Jade beams. “Love you too.”
An hour later, I’m standing in the PCU hockey house doorway, trying to convince my lungs that breathing is optional.
The bass hits first—music rattling the walls, the floor vibrating under my sneakers. The air is warm and thick with beer and perfume and sweat and something fried that makes my stomach flip.
Jade practically bounces beside me. “See? Fun.”
Blakely squeezes my arm. “We can leave anytime.”
I nod, even though my brain is already trying to map exits.
Inside, bodies pack the hallway. Someone shouts my name—maybe. Or maybe it’s a different Sloane. Someone laughs too loud. Someone spills a drink and doesn’t care.
Jade leads us through the crowd with purpose. “Kitchen. Anchor spot. Water. Chips. Corner.”
“I love you,” I tell her, deadpan.
She grins. “I know.”
The kitchen is worse. People pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, red cups everywhere, and someone is perched on the counter like it’s a stage. The lights are dim, but not dim enough to hide the way my hands tremble when I set them on the counter.
Jade disappears to grab drinks like she owns the house. Blakely stays close, scanning my face.
“You okay?” she asks.
I force a smile. “Fine.”
Blakely’s brows lift. “Customer service bot.”
I glare at her, but it’s weak. It has no teeth.
That’s when a guy slides into the space beside me like the universe is trying to give me a distraction.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a beanie and a flannel like he’s auditioning for “nice guy at a party.” His smile is easy. Familiar in the way strangers can be when they want something.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in slightly so he can be heard over the music. “You’re Sloane Rhodes, right?”
