Page 98 of Overtime
“Geh.” I stick my tongue out and pile the empty plastic cup on the stack at the coffee table.
The Strikes commandeered the big sofa in the living room of what is known as the Bolt House. Five guys from the team live here, including Jamal and Mark. Tonight, there isn’t a single corner of this house that isn’t teeming with players, their friends and strangers.
A beer pong tournament has taken over the kitchen, with the added twist of using cheese puffs instead of ping-pong balls. It amps up the difficulty level and also makes the beer taste like crap with piss. I tried it earlier and nearly upchucked, but fortunately, I lost on the very first round.
Behind us, people are attempting to dance to a playlist that blares out of some truly powerful speakers set on the fireplace mantel. I chose this corner of the sofa so I can be close to the roaring fire, because the dress Christine weaseled me into makes me cold. It’s a little black number that is so tight I had to wear shapewear underneath, except there’s no hiding my bare shoulders or the great display of cleavage happening. At least she let me wear warm tights.
I push half my hair over one shoulder and half over the other so at least I can warm them up a bit. Maybe also to cover a bit of the boobage threatening to spill over.
“We’ll get you with a man tonight,” she said with a wink as we got ready at Amber’s before the party.
“Or two. We don’t judge.” Amber laughed.
But I saw Ryan narrowing her eyes at me through the mirror. I kept applying mascara as if I hadn’t seen it, and as if she couldn’t read my mind.
Last week, when I had the horrible cramps, Aran and I fell asleep in my bed and Ryan found us. The noise of my door opening woke me up while I was half sprawled on top of Aran, and even though he somehow didn’t stir, I remember the look on Ryan’s face.
First, it was true shock. Round mouth, wide eyes, eyebrows as far up as they go. And then she cringed, as if she were watching a train wreck about to happen.
We didn’t talk about it afterward, which is what I was expecting. But she gets extra contemplative if I mention Aran’s name. Or if someone utters it around me. I think she’s waitingfor me to admit I have feelings for him. Meanwhile, I’m trying to avoid showing her I’m just like every other girl on campus, salivating over our resident bad boy with the moody eyes, the velvet lips, and the chocolate bar abs.
“That was disgusting, right?” Amber says, grimacing before she shakes her head. “Let’s do another.”
As if we share a single brain cell, we reach for a new glass of Jell-O shots each, clink them together, and chug. Good gravy, this one tastes even worse.
Jamal holds the tray with shots away from us, making a face. “Yeah, okay. That’s enough for you ladies.”
“What?”
“Boo!”
“You’re fired as a waiter, Amadi.”
“No tip for you, sir.”
At the Strikes’ heckling, he shakes his head and turns away to keep distributing the nasty concoction to invitees. Normally, I wouldn’t take shots in this kind of situation, but I saw Mark and Archie making them in the kitchen when we arrived an hour ago. And actually, I trust these guys. I know Aran would murder them if they stepped out of line.
I trust Aran, I guess.
For the billionth time, I scope the perimeter as discreetly as possible in hopes of sighting a certain TDH. But there are two people making out in a corner next to a group of guys who don’t notice them while engaged in some sort of debate. Besides them, one of the younger Bolts is attempting a keg stand while some people record it. There’s stomping down the stairs, and someone shouts about not being able to find their coat. The song changes to a club banger that makes half the living room erupt into cheers, and a girl literally jumps on a guy in the middle of the dance floor to kiss him.
Everywhere, people are having fun. Technically, so am I. The Strikes are noisy and hilarious, and they treat me like one of their own even though we’ve virtually just met. But something’s missing. Something shaped like a six-foot-four iceberg.
“Would you look at that! The king of the clowns finally makes an appearance,” one of the Strikes says, pointing at the door.
My heart stops and then gallops at full speed as Aran Rodriguez himself walks through the front door, wearing all black, as if we’d coordinated outfits on purpose.
His eyes are on mine like he spotted me the second he walked in, but someone gets in the way to fist bump him. His attention shifts to that guy, and then the next handshake, and then to a girl who hugs him as if they know each other, even though his expression says he has no idea who she is.
Those dark eyes lift to me again, and I check my surroundings. Unless he’s checking out the girl dancing behind me, he really seems to be looking at me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed my hair forward. He’d probably enjoy the whole boob spillage situation.
“I can see Rodriguez’s ego growing with every new person who showers him with praise,” Ryan says from Amber’s other side.
Christine leans forward from her end of the couch. “Let’s give him a pass tonight. He did make a save for the history books. But tomorrow, we go back to giving him crap.”
“Fine. Rain on my parade, why don’t you.” But Ryan laughs. “Anyone want to play another game of beer pong with me?”
