Page 83 of Crossing the Top Line

Oliver, who was in the process of throwing back his shot, chokes, pulling an honest-to-God spit-take, barely managing to look away and avoid spraying the candles and food.

I don’t know what I expect from Spencer, but it certainly isn’t an offended scoff. “And you didn’t wait for me to be in it? The nerve!”

Eli freezes, clearly not expecting that response either. But I recover faster.

“Spent a lot of time polishing hockey sticks, have you?” I ask, snickering to myself.

“I went to college, same as you. Don’t tell me you’ve never experimented with your sorority sisters,” Spencer fires back, not fazed for a moment.

I look away, wrenching the bottle out of Oliver’s grip to take another shot myself. It’s not that he’s entirely wrong. I wasn’t in a sorority, but I came to terms with my bisexuality a long time ago. I didn’t feel like confirming it right now because, without fail, any time I bring up my interest in women, it’s only a matter of time before they’re asking for a threesome with the girl I “don’t have to worry about because she’s just one of the guys.” Not that I have any experience on that matter.

I gasp, gathering what’s left of my wits as I consider my options for my next question. Elijah might be the most sober, but I think Spencer has answered the least number of questions. I turn my head slowly, feeling weirdly top-heavy despite being seated on the floor, squinting to focus on Spencer.

“How many girls did you fuck in San Francisco?” I ask, though I can admit that the question sounds more like a demand than I’d originally intended.

He gives me a searching look, and my stomach is already dropping in disappointment, expecting him to reach for the bottle once again.

But instead, he leans back, spreading out his arm on the cushions behind him. He’s on the floor now, too, though I don’t remember when he moved.

“Two. They were puck bunnies, and I regret both of them,” he answers simply, looking me dead in the eye and leaving no room for doubt in the truth of his words.

“Are you that shit in bed?” Eli snorts, his accent, which he normally hides so well, coming forward the more he drinks.

Spencer gives him a withering look before flipping him the bird, which only makes Eli cackle.

“What say you, Tori? Is he terrible at the horizontal tango?” Eli throws at me.

I stiffen, reaching for the bottle of tequila and drinking directly from it instead than pouring a shot. Because I might be drunk, but I would rather die of alcohol poisoning than admit out loud, in his presence, that Spencer was one of the best lays I’ve ever had. Not that I blame Eli or Oli. On my meds, sex is often a chore, and a lot of partners don’t want to put in the work to get me where I need to go.

I sit up straight, sudden panic shooting through me as that thought crosses my mind. I struggle to my feet, swaying dangerously over the collection of still burning candles on the coffee table. But I get my feet under me long enough to stumble toward my duffle bag, ignoring the shouts and questions from behind me.

It takes me a moment to get the zipper undone, my hands shaking as fear mounts. I try to wrack my mind as I dig around among the clothes, but everything is so fuzzy from all the drinking today. I could have sworn I packed my travel case. I must have. It has to be here.

“Victoria, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Oliver’s whisper in my ear makes me jump, and I whip around to find him kneeling next to me, all traces of humor and intoxication gone as he searches my face for answers. Tears burn at the back of my eyes, and my stomach churns.

“My meds. I can’t—I don’t know where they are,” I rasp, breaths coming faster.

I haven’t missed a single dose since I started this regimen, heeding the stern warnings of my doctors that any interruption could set me back months, if not years, in my healing process. And who knows how long I’m going to be trapped here. But the storm has only gotten worse. There’s no chance I could get home.

“Did you have them when we came home from California?” Oliver asks calmly, pulling my bag from my grip and unpacking it, item by item.

He doesn’t even flinch as he finds the lacey underwear I’d grabbed in my haste to pack, and I look away to stop him from seeing me blush. I know I had them the morning of the San Jose game, and I know I packed them in my carry-on before I left the hotel. But…

“I never unpacked from the trip,” I moan, covering my face with my hands.

With all the insanity that sprang up from Hurricane Terry, I’d abandoned my luggage on my bedroom floor. I wasn’t scheduled to work any road games until next month, so I didn’t take anything other than the essentials out of my bag, like my laptop and chargers.

And as Oliver empties the last of my clothes and toiletries from the duffle bag, it only confirms my fear. They’re not here.

I’m so fucking screwed.

“Andyou’resuretheyaren’t in your bag? Maybe your purse?” Eli asks, not for the first time in the last half hour.

Tori lets out an exasperated huff. “Only my emergency supply, and that’s not everything I need,” she snaps, throwing herself onto the couch.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees before burying her face in her hands. I’ve tried to stay out of the way, but I can’t take it anymore. I take a few tentative steps forward, stomach twisting around in anxious and guilty knots. Perching myself gingerly on the cushion next to her, I reach out a hand to try to soothe her. But she senses my movement and snarls at me before slapping my hand away.

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