From the outside the stone and brick behemoths look stately, a throwback to the good old days when the word gentleman carried weight. But inside? Whole different story. Sticky floors, missing doors—most doing double duty as beer pong tables—and enough sweaty bodies to send the fire marshal into a blind panic.
The party at Sig Chi is a rager, spilling out onto the front lawn with red plastic cups and tipsy girls who move in pairs across the manicured grass. There are a couple of guys sitting on the porch roof, their legs dangling over the front, welcoming newcomers. The whole scene brings back memories of Spellman and the night he busted his leg.
I avert my eyes, the familiar guilt burning a hole in my chest.
Vaughn shakes his head, and I figure he’s remembering it too, but before I can say anything, he breaks off from the group and makes a beeline for a solo drunk girl who’s struggling with a possibly broken heel and cursing a blue streak. If it were anyone else, I’d be right behind him, but it’s Vaughn, which means there are decent odds he’ll bag the party and either walk the girl home or put her ass in an Uber and ride along to make sure she gets home safe.
I follow Coop up the narrow sidewalk, nodding at a few familiar faces. If the entire town wasn’t celebrating our first win of the season, campus police would probably shut this thing down. But we are celebrating our first win and as long as the shenanigans stay mostly aboveboard, the brothers will get a free pass tonight.
It doesn’t hurt that Coop’s a Sig Chi legacy. It tends to make campus police look the other way, but it also helps ensure my guys stay out of trouble. As long as they keep their noses clean. The truth is, they busted their asses today and no one’s going to raise an eyebrow if they want to throw back a few beers.
Not even Coach, thanks to his new on/off training policy. We work hard during the week and keep our noses to the grindstone, then the training switch flips to the off position Saturday night, giving the team a chance to let loose and blow off steam. Monday morning, we’ll be back to business as usual, but tonight, we’re free to party and celebrate the win over Idaho.
Coop and I take the front steps two at a time, Parker and Smith right behind us, bypassing the kid collecting cash for cups. Sometimes being a football player does have its perks, one of them being that Coop will get us a decent beer and not the watered-down shit they’re pumping through the keg.
The night’s early. Plenty of time for that later.
Coop motions for us to stick close and shouts, “Follow me.”
At least I think that’s what he says, because it’s too damn loud to actually hear the words coming out of his mouth with Post Malone blasting through the sound system. There are speakers set up in the living room and it’s the usual scene. Bodies pressed together like they might start fucking any given second, beer pong tourney, and lots of small talk punctuated with erratic hand gestures.
We shuffle through the hall, the sea of bodies parting for Coop like he’s the Second Coming. He tends to have that effect on people, which comes in handy at times like this, when my mind is being pulled in a thousand different directions. Or, more specifically, in one direction.
Carter.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. Her performance today, her reluctance to hang with us, the way she looked at me like maybe, just maybe the walls were coming down. At least, that’s what I thought until she hit me with the bald-faced lie about studying.
Suffice it to say, I’m off my game. Distracted. Stewing in frustration. Happy to let Coop run interference for the rest of us, doing most of the schmoozing, high-fiving, and fist-bumping as we make our way to the alcohol-stocked kitchen.
I’m not big on the party scene, outgrew it last year, which is why I don’t live at the football house. But I need to be seen and chill with the guys, so here I am bumping elbows with sexy coeds and douchey frat guys that care more about tapping ass than delivering against their mission. I probably shouldn’t be so hard on Greek life. Coop says there are some decent guys here and I know for a fact he wouldn’t tolerate any shady shit, but I’ve seen enough on Greek Row to be jaded.
Like the sloppy couple dry humping on the counter as I slide past, needing that drink more than ever.
“Party’s lit,” Parker says, rolling his shoulders as he scans the room. Coop liberates four bottles of lager from the fridge and hands one to me. “I’ve got some catching up to do. What’ve you got besides beer?” Parker asks, reaching for the bottle Coop offers.
“Now you’re talking,” Smith says, grabbing a beer. “Where do the brothers hide the good shit?”
Probably in their locked bedrooms, if they’re smart, but I watch in disbelief as Coop opens the bottom drawer of the stove and reveals a trove of liquor bottles. It speaks volumes about their lifestyle.
I twist the top off my beer, taking a long pull of the amber liquid.
“How about whiskey?” Coop asks, holding up a bottle of Jim Beam. There’s a wicked gleam in his eye, and I suspect we aren’t supposed to help ourselves, but I’m not about to intervene. It’s our only night off and these are his brothers. He can sort it out himself if they get pissy about the missing alcohol.
Coop lines up a couple of red plastic cups and pours a generous shot into each. They’ve got to be at least doubles, but hey, we’re big guys, and, fuck, maybe the liquor will take the edge off my nerves.
Coop raises his cup and we follow suit. “To Carter and
