I cough out a strangled laugh, almost choking on the cup of whatever
YouTube party punch recipe I’ve been nursing for the last hour. Sasha, a
music major, has an almost religious aversion to anything not performed by
live instruments. She’d rather be front row at a concert in some dive bar, the
reverb of a Gibson Les Paul ringing in her ears, than be caught dead under
the flashing techno kaleidoscope of a dance club.
Don’t get me wrong, Sasha and I certainly aren’t fun-averse. We hang
out at the campus bars, we do karaoke in town (well, she does, while I cheer
her on from the safety of the shadows). Hell, we once got lost in Boston
Common at three in the morning while stone-cold sober. It was so dark that
Sasha accidentally fell into the pond and almost got molested by a swan.
Trust me, we know how to hang.
But the ritualistic practice of college kids plying each other with mind-
altering substances until they mistake inebriation for attraction and
inhibition for personality isn’t our fondest idea of a good time.
“Look out.” Sasha nudges me with her elbow at the sound of shouts and
whistles from the foyer. “Here comes trouble.”
A wall of unabashed maleness crashes through the front door to chants
of “Briar! Briar!”
Like Wildlings storming Castle Black, the towering goliaths of the Briar
University hockey team trample through the house, all thick shoulders and
broad chests.
“All hail the conquering heroes,” I say sarcastically, while Sasha
smothers a snide smirk with the side of her thumb.
The hockey team won their game tonight, putting them into the first
round of the national championship. I know this because our Kappa sister
Linley is dating a benchwarmer, so she was at the game snapchatting rather
than here with us cleaning toilets, vacuuming, and mixing drinks for the
party. The privileges of dating royalty. Although a fourth-stringer ain’t
exactly Prince Harry, but maybe somewhere closer to the coke-addict son of
someone prince-adjacent.
Sasha pulls her phone from the waistband of her skin-tight faux leather
leggings and checks the time.
I peer at the screen and groan. Oh man, it’s only eleven p.m.? I already
feel a migraine coming on.