Page 36 of Night Shift

For a split second, I think he’s going to take my hand again, but the hall isn’t quite crowded enough to justify the need to form a human chain. I shoot the two drunk girls I’ve been bonding with a sheepish smile (Can you believe this is happening? ) and they return the gesture with a thumbs-up (and some obscene gestures that I take to mean Get it, girl) before I turn and follow Vincent back down the hall the way he came.

He pulls his keys out of the back pocket of his jeans and unlocks a door at the end of the hall.

His room is nicer than I was expecting.

Admittedly, I’ve come to believe that most college-aged boys who don’t live in the on-campus dorms sleep on air mattresses or futons they found on the side of the road and have decor made exclusively from empty vodka bottles and beer cans. But Vincent’s room is more like an IKEA staging room than a dilapidated frat house. His bed is made. His desk is stacked tall with textbooks and stray papers, like he’s been doing homework, but none of those papers are crumpled or scattered on the floor. The only true mess in the room is the mountain of athletic gear on the floor beside his wardrobe—a few duffel bags, some practice jerseys, and some basketball sneakers that are so enormous I briefly do a double take at Vincent’s feet.

He clears his throat and gestures toward the door to my left.

“Bathroom’s through there.”

“Right! Right. Thanks.”

I pull the door shut behind me. How on Earth have I just finessed this? I’m in his bathroom. I didn’t even really need to pee (I just wanted a quiet moment to myself) and now Vincent and I are in what has to be the quietest corner of the house. His sink is clean, the mirror above it clear of any water splatter or toothpaste stains. The towels on the wall-mounted rack are navy blue and unwrinkled. I slowly pull back the shower curtain, hoping the rustling fabric and the sliding of metal rings on the curtain rod isn’t too loud. Shampoo. Face wash. Body wash. Three separate bottles. Well done, Knight.

With my inspection complete, I flush the toilet (to keep up the illusion) and then lean over the sink, palms braced on the rim, to stare hard at my reflection.

“You’re a strong, independent woman in control of your own life,” I whisper. Then, as an afterthought: “And your tits look phenomenal.”

When I slip out of the bathroom, Vincent is perched on the side of his mattress, his phone in his hand. He slips it back into the pocket of his jeans and stands as soon as he sees me.

We’re alone together, finally.

In his bedroom.

The floor underneath my feet trembles in time with the bassline of a Spanish song I know Nina and Harper must be screaming the lyrics to, wherever they are. I could head back downstairs and join them. I could smile, thank Vincent, and walk to the door. It’s propped open a few inches. I can hear the distant chatter and footsteps of people down the hall. Vincent could reach for the door too, and hold it open. He could sigh and say something about getting back to his party.

But he doesn’t move. And neither do I.

We stand, rooted, our eyes on each other.

He steps forward, and the black tally marks on his forearm catch the light.

“What are those for?” I blurt, pointing at them.

Vincent looks down and blinks, like he’s forgotten the lines were there. “Drinks. I’m supposed to make it to twenty-one by midnight.”

“You’re running a little behind.”

He shrugs. “It’s only ten. I’ve got time.”

“Unless your very reasonably sized and superchill party gets broken up by DPS, you mean.”

Vincent exhales a laugh. “It’s not really my party.”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“I just meant that this party isn’t for me. It’s for the team. They’ve had to pull all the weight this season, so yeah, I would’ve done things a little differently—maybe invited about two hundred fewer people—but the team’s worked hard. They deserve some good old-fashioned chaos.”

“Spoken like a true captain.”

Vincent shrugs. “What can I say? They’re my boys.”

“So, you’re the team daddy,” I say, then immediately realize my mistake. “Team dad, I mean.”

He doesn’t let me off that easy. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that first part?”

“No.”

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