“Dallas James?!?” She’s looking at him like he’s Tom Brady, not a rookie in his first season, but they’re right, the James boys are awesome.
My brothers give me apologetic glances, but a crowd has gathered, so they smile and take pictures, signing whatever is put in front of them as I get back into my car and drive to campus.
Chapter Two
Noah
Like a Fucking Toddler
“What happened with the blonde, Callahan? Did you take her home?” our goalie, Darren Steele, asks while spotting me in the weight room. He’s currently sporting a mustache, which I hope is for Movember and not a new fixture on his face.
“She was nice,” I say dismissively. I don’t kiss and tell, so my answer would be the same even if I had, but in this case, the blonde left when I said I don’t do relationships, then her friend and I made use of an upstairs bedroom at the party. Cassidy was out the door before I even had to explain why I wouldn’t be seeing her again. I never bring girls home. I get names and majors, learn at least a couple of things about them so I’m not a total asshole, but then it’s best if I don’t see them again.
“He came home alone,” David Alvarez shares, his tattooed arms flexed and ready to step in for Michael Lewis, who is pushing it, like he always does.
“Not entirely true,” Mike points out.
“Asshole.” Colton Beckford huffs, struggling with his weight, which makes sense given how much he drank last night.
“What am I missing?” Steele asks, looking to me.
“Colt passed out in the car on the way home, and we didn’t want him to drown in his own vomit, so Callahan carried him into the house,” Mike explains before I can.
“Like a fucking toddler,” Colt grumbles. He’s the unruliest of the freshmen, and I can’t say there’s much difference between him and a two-year-old when he’s had that much to drink, except he was way heavier.
“I tried to fireman carry you, but you kept?—”
“What happened to the bro code?” Colt cuts me off before I can explain that he kept wrapping his arms around my neck.
“We’re all bros,” Tanner Burke points out with a grin, looking like he just came in from a jog on Venice beach rather than Vermont in November. He says he runs hot, but he just likes being ogled, which happens more when you’re shirtless.
“Thank God you’re not on the second floor.” I pat Colt on the shoulder as he collapses after his set.
“It’s like Coach knows we had a party last night,” he complains.
“It was Halloween,” Owen Brooks points out. He spent half his day yesterday FaceTiming with all his nieces and nephews to see their costumes. One of them asked if she could come to our party instead of hers, Colt promised to personally take care of her, and Owen nearly castrated him. I don’t think Colt would have made the comment had he known the girl was in high school, but it made me grateful my sister, who dressed up as me, is only eight.
“Also, it was a Saturday,” Joseph Spring remarks.
“We weren’t this bad, were we?” Burke asks him.
They’re both seniors, while I live in a house with Owen, Dave, Mike, and Colt, the freshmen. Steele is a Junior, like me, and Chris Donovan is a sophomore, but I don’t think any of us partied as much as Colt, even back then. We lived in dorms, so house parties weren’t as easy, but we also hadn’t made friends with the football team, the frats, sororities… Every night, Colt has a list from which to choose where he’ll go. While most of us will do Friday or Saturday, depending on games, he’ll do both, and won’t balk at weeknight parties if the incentives are right.
“Hopefully you’ll recover in time for practice this afternoon.” Spring shakes his head, because as the other offensive winger, he’ll have to take up the slack.
“Fuck,” is Colt’s response.
* * *
I call my mom to check in on my way to the library after practice.
“Hey baby, how’s school?” she asks, but there’s screaming in the background, hopefully from my seven-month-old brother and not an actual emergency.
“All good,” I assure her. “Is that Tatum?”
“Yeah, he’s got a lot of energy today. I don’t know how I’m going to wrangle him at Isabelle’s practice.”
The way she says it is performative, like she’s giving herself an excuse. Which I wouldn’t have picked up on, only Izzie did nothing but shrug when I asked her how hockey practice was going without me, which was weird.
