So now I’m planted in the kitchen, scanning the room like I’m scouting for threats, and trying not to feel like I’m wasting time I should be using trying to sleep.
Or study.
Or literally anything besides standing in a football house where someone just screamed “BEER PONG!” like it’s an emergency procedure.
Weston appears at my side, breathless and thrilled. “Bennett.”
“What?” I say, already tired.
He points across the room like he’s presenting a magic trick. “Lyla’s here.” I follow his finger. Lyla Harding is near the living room, talking to Carter Hayes with that polished ease she has—professional, calm, like the world doesn’t overwhelm her. She looks good. She looks like she belongs here.
She also looks like the exact kind of girl Weston thinks I should be “into,” because Weston knows all.
“She’s always here,” I mutter.
Weston’s grin turns wicked. “You gonna shoot your shot?”
“Absolutely not. I’m going to exist,” I say flatly. “As far away as possible.”
Been there, done that. Lyla is gorgeous, sure—who wouldn’t notice?—but she’s also very obviously with Carter. And I like my balls right where they are.
Weston presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “I’ve never met anyone more boring.”
Asher glides up beside us, expression neutral. “You’re both loud.”
Weston gasps. “I’m not loud.”
Asher’s eyes flick to him. “You just yelled ‘PCU BABYYYY’ in someone’s ear.”
Weston shrugs. “It was inspiring.”
Asher’s gaze shifts to me. “You okay?”
I nod, even though I know he can see right through my bullshit.
Asher doesn’t call me on it. He just gives one slow nod like he’s logging it. Then, quieter, “Kai good?”
My stomach tightens.
“As good as Kai gets,” I answer. “He said he was staying in to study, but I think he’s watching film again instead. Maybe hitting the weights, who knows.”
Asher’s mouth twitches faintly. “That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
Weston bumps my shoulder. “Okay, come on. We’re making laps.”
“Why,” I say, “would I do that?”
“Because it’s a party,” Weston says, like it’s obvious. “You have to look like you’re having fun.”
I glance around at the bodies and the noise and the mild chaos.
“Where?” I ask. “Where is the fun?”
Weston ignores the question and drags me toward the living room anyway. I let him, because fighting Weston is like fighting a wave. You can try, but you’ll still end up wet and annoyed.
We weave through people—Carter’s voice somewhere, an intramural argument, bass thumping in my chest like a second heartbeat?—
