Page 34 of Until Forever Falls

I step out, a breath of laughter slipping free. “Dangerous game you’re playing, setting expectations like this, Holland.”

The distant murmur of voices turns into a full-blown roar as we close in on the house, the music growing louder with every step. Miles appears in the doorway and wastes no time pushing past people, like he’s been waiting for us all night.

“Dude, you seriously freaked me out back there,” Miles says, thumping Brooks on the back a little too hard. “I thought we were about to lose our star player.”

“‘Star player’ is a bit of a stretch, dude. We all know Beckett takes that title. I probably just needed water or some shit. It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, well, maybe next time, don’t give us all a heart attack,” Miles says, his shoulders shaking with a silent laugh. He throws an awkward side hug around Brooks before his gaze shifts to me.

“Hey, Dylan.”

“Hi, Miles,” I reply, tugging my hand from the back pocket of my jeans and lifting it in a half-hearted wave.

The three of us step inside, the music crashing into us, each note shaking the windows. The air carries a sharp blend of cheap beer and overly sweet perfume, and someone is already yelling above the noise. In the living room, a guy is on the couch, arms raised in victory, holding a ping-pong ball like it’s a trophy.

Brooks’ hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the kitchen without a word. The counters are a chaotic spread of Solo cups, half-empty snack bags, and bottles of booze—some tipped over, pooling onto the sticky surface. By the refrigerator, Beckett leans casually, his attention fully on a girl with sleek red hair and a laugh that cuts through the noise.

When Beckett notices me, his entire face lights up. “Dill Pickle,” he calls out, abandoning the girl by the fridge without a second thought. Before I can dodge, he catches the edge of my sleeve between his fingers, dragging me into him. “Look at you! Did hell freeze over, or did Brooks finally drag you out of your hermit hole?”

I skim my palm down my thigh, resisting the urge to fold into myself as voices blur together around me. Every instinct is screaming for me to bolt, but I force myself to hold my ground. “Blame your boy,” I grumble, jerking my chin toward Brooks.

“I think you meanthankmy boy,” Beckett counters, giving my shoulder a playful shake. “Lighten up, Dilly. You might actually survive this and have a good time for once.”

He shoots me a wink before striding back toward the girl, his attention already redirected, leaving me to wrestle with the noise, the perfume-clouded air, and my own creeping discomfort.Too late for second-guessing now.

Brooks is watching me, his expression relaxed, but carrying that undeniable charm that always seems to throw me off balance. I grab a water bottle from the counter and toss it his way. “Here. Hydrate,starplayer. We’re not dragging you off the field twice in one night.”

He catches it with an easy motion, twisting off the cap and taking a deliberate sip. “Anything for my personal medic.” The bottle meets granite with a soft clink, forgotten the second his gaze latches onto me—unhurried, intentional, peeling me back layer by layer.

From the living room, the party erupts into a loud, drunken chant. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”

Miles lets out a sharp whistle, conversations halt, a few heads turning his way as he smirks, clearly pleased with himself. “Dylan,” he shouts, trying to be heard over the music. “First party, first shot. You’re not skipping this.”

The moment snags, catching on my discomfort. This isn’t my scene, and every instinct is telling me to stay on the sidelines. My focus shifts to Brooks, who tilts his head, a subtle challenge in his expression.

“Fine,” I say, the word coming out uneven as I push myself to play along. It feels like stepping off a cliff, but at least I’m trying.

Miles grabs a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice, moving with the confidence of someone who’s done this a hundred times. He pours shots into red Solo cups then raises his own triumphantly. “To crushing Montclair!”

Brooks lifts his cup in solidarity, his movements unshaken, and the others follow suit. I join in, stifling the urge to back out.

The alcohol scorches a path to my stomach, liquid fire curling in its wake. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, chasing away the acrid after shock that refuses to fade. Miles slaps me on the back, laughing at my reaction, but I can only hold my breath and wait. The hairs on my arms stand stiff as I fight the rising wave of nausea.

“Should you even be drinking if you’re dehydrated?” I choke, crossing my arms in what I hope comes across as disapproval.

“They said fluids,” Brooks counters. “Never specified which kind.” His tone melts, slipping into something softer. “You’re kind of adorable when you worry, you know that?”

Embers ignite under my skin, catching faster than my thoughts. Before I can grasp for a response Colt barrels into the kitchen like a human tornado. He grabs my wrist without hesitation, his energy pulling me into his orbit. “Dylan, you’re up! Beer pong. I need a partner. Let’s go!”

“Wait, I don’t even know how to—” Before I can dig my heels in, Colton has already swept me along, his unshakeable momentum making my resistance pointless. I stumble after him, half-annoyed, half-intrigued, and entirely uncertain of what I’ve just been roped into.

The beer pong table is sticky with a layer of spilled beer, and my shoes make an annoying squelch every time I shift my weight.Awesome.

“We’ve got next!” Colt announces, draping his arm around me like we’ve been lifelong teammates.

“You’re gonna regret this,” I caution, letting my head drop with a knowing sigh. “I’ve never played before.”

“Relax, rookie. It’s just beer pong, not brain surgery,” he fires back, lightly tapping my arm to reinforce his point.

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