Page 11 of One More Time

The party was hard to miss.

People poured out the front door of the brownstone, beers and red plastic cups in hand. I felt like I had walked onto the set of some reality show. I always thought the movies were exaggerated but as I moved through the house, I quickly figured out I was very wrong. I took in the guys who were obviously jocks, wrapped around girls who wore a lot less fabric than the weather called for. Then there were the edgy rocker types and the shy ones in the corners. The furniture had been pushed aside, leaving space for the drunken dancers in the living room. Girls stood on the coffee tables, men standing off to the sidelines watching. I wanted to laugh, but I was too busy absorbing the experience.

Back home, a party consisted of a small bonfire in a cut-in-half feed drum, people on deck chairs, drinking beers or whiskey and coke,girls sitting on laps, or singing along to the tunes that played on a tradies Bluetooth radio. You knew the night was ending when the last lot of dancing and singing hit, then people would crash in whatever they brought with them: cars, swags, or simply a sleeping bag.

This… this was next level. I walked through the house, not missing the heads that turned my way: fresh meat. There was a second TV and lounge set up where some guys played video games. The air hockey and pool tables drew a crowd that called out a barrage of insults to get their opponent off their game. A poker table was hidden past the kitchen on the dining table, and outside under some heat lamps was the beer pong table with a game going that drowned out the music.

“Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi!” I spun to the noise, seeing half the team huddled in the kitchen, wide smiles greeting me. I couldn’t help but return one of my own

“I feel at home already,” I made the Australian lilt roll off my tongue thicker than usual. But it had the desired effect. They pulled me into the group, reaching out to pat any part of me they could reach—including my ass.

Colton wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Good to see you changed your mind, Aus.”

“Well, between you and the family calling me a hermit, I decided to brave the world of an American college party.”

Jarman was the next to chime in. He was a typical hockey player, built like Colton but somehow even beefier. He was one defenseman I didn’t want tackling me to the boards. His beard was something my dad would have envied. Thick and perfectly shaped to his jawline. His hair was buzzed short, and those muddy brown eyes always seemed to be smiling “What’s so different?”

“Well, the turnout for one.We don’t have huge house parties like this—they’d be shut down way too quickly. We have something called bush-doofs. We find someone with a bigger backyard or a large property. We have a fire, deck chairs, beers, and music. There’s beer pong, but otherwise, it’s just hard yakka and that, ya know?”

Pairs of wide eyes gaze back at me like I’m speaking a different language—maybe I am.

“Hard yakka?” Jarman echoes, testing out the unfamiliar word on his tongue.

“You know, banter, good chat, takin’ the piss.” I shrug, unable to find a better description than that, but the team seemed to accept it.

“You guys are a different breed. So, you just do bonfire parties and that’s it?”

“Yeah, pretty much. But the legal age is eighteen, so most go out to clubs. Things like this—” I gesture around the house. “—are usually saved for special occasions.” From what I can tell, the house is two stories and has people packing every inch.

The conversation seems to surround me for a bit, the guys eager to find out the differences between the two continents. It wasn’t bad, it got my mind off the talk with my mum. Eventually, I messed around at beer pong until I started to feel buzzed, then I slinked off to a corner to people-watch.

My eyes caught a familiar face—Cal. He didn’t notice me at first, which afforded me the opportunity to truly take him in. He was slimmer than me, but I could see the toned muscles pushing against his tight sweater. Though what made me approach him was the tenseness of his jaw, clenched so tight I was worried he’d break a tooth. I followed his gaze to find two guys making out under the staircase.

“You okay, mate?” I elbowed him, but softly, worried I’d lose a tooth if I spooked him. His face cut to mine, and I watched as he took me in, and realization hit his eyes.

“Well, you see that guy?” He pointed to the two guys going at it, and I wasn’t sure which guy he was referring to. I cleared my throat—they weren’t really my type. If I were ever honest with myself, I definitely had a type. One was edgy, with piercings and tattoos. The other was a clean-cut golfer-type guy, similar in height to me. The former was slim, reminding me of a skinny front band member, while the latter looked like he had an appreciation for the gym.

Cal watched me assess the two men, maybe trying to determine if I was uncomfortable. In truth, I’d never seen two guys kissing so… passionately in public. Their tongues danced together, wrestling for dominance. It looked messy, for lack of a better word.

“Which one? They’re both guys.”

Cal turned to me, and I realized he sort of reminded me of a baby-faced Chris Evans. He was attractive, a little on the smaller side but I appreciated his appearance nonetheless.

His expression changed, the agitation leaving his eyes even if it was just a little. He huffed out a laugh. “I suppose they are.” He gestured again. “The one who looks like he plays golf on Sundays.”

That had me laughing out loud, and a few heads turned my way. “Sorry, that’s exactly how I described him in my head. What about him?”

Cal squirmed. “That’s my boyfriend.”

My mouth fell open in shock. I looked to him, then to the golfer guy who was sucking face of punker guy. My stomach churned in sympathy, because I thought they were really serious about each other. I had been at college for a few weeks, and I’d barely seen Cal.

“I hope that reaction isn’t you wondering why he would go for someone like me,” Cal grumbled.

I turned to look at him again, noting the way his teeth bit his lower lip. Then I looked back to his “boyfriend.” He was attractive by societal standards, but Cal had much more going for him.

“One, I was thinking he’s a dick for making out with that twink in front of you. Two, you’re hot. Unless you’re into the whole punk rock thing—which I’m not—he’s downgraded. By a lot.”

Cal’s mouth curled into a wide smile. Chris Evans eat your heart out. I smile involuntarily. What can I say? Cal had a certain aura around him that was impossible not to like.

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