My lips tighten. He doesn’t get that I’m tired of the attention. “You two go on.” I stuff my hands in my jeans. “I’ll call an Uber, and you can drive my Escalade back.” I’m thinking most of the Uber drivers might be in for the night by the time they leave.

Eric throws an arm around my shoulders. “Fuck that. These people need to see us. We won and they planned this to see you, the king.” He grins, wide and genuine, and I have to smirk at the missing tooth from tonight’s game. He’ll get it fixed in a few days, but right now he doesn’t even care, just riding high on our win.

I look back at the Kappa house. Lately these victory parties just remind me that I don’t deserve accolades.

I’m a fucking terrible person.

And I’m slowly losing my mind.

I resist the urge to just take off running, to let my body exhaust itself until I can’t feel anything but the burn of exercise. I wish I could just be normal and take this knot in my gut and make it work for me, not against me.

I know the truth, though, straight from the head doctor: You have an issue. This is your new normal.

I inhale several deep breaths and let them out slowly.

“All right.” I give Eric a nod and he opens the door, music spilling out.

We walk in and gaze around the darkened room, and I feel the weight of every person in it staring at me. I straighten my shoulders and give a defiant glare back, putting my mask on, pretending I don’t have a care in the world.

People swarm around us and I push through, trying to feel the excitement I used to from the attention, but all I have is dread in my stomach—

Until my gaze sweeps the room and meets hers as she peers around a column.

Her.

Her.

Her.

I narrow my eyes, my heart accelerating, my brow knitting.

I’ve seen her before in passing, those wide, intelligent eyes and that full, pouty mouth with the slight indentation in the middle.

I’ve never seen her here, though, and not with her hair down and glasses gone.

Fuck me.

3

Sugar

Inside my small crossbody purse, my phone vibrates, diverting my attention away from the party, and I pull it out. It’s been doing this for the past ten minutes, and I’ve been ignoring it, but now that Zack has arrived and the wait is over, I’m nervous it might be Mara trying to get in touch with me. She’s raised me since my mama died, and it gnaws at me that once she’s gone, I won’t have anyone left at all, except for the relatives in LA—that’s Lower Alabama—and I don’t want anything to do with my father’s people.

It’s my ex, Bennett, who’s sending me messages, and a long sigh slips out of my mouth as I scroll up to see several texts. My hands tighten around the cell.

I’m knocking on your door. Where are you?

Please, babe, open the door. BTW, this dorm sucks balls.

Jesus…fuck…where are you? I need some closure.

Shit. Just call me, text me. Anything. Please. What you saw that night…I’m sorry! I can explain it.

My heart drops, feeling like someone tossed an anvil on it. We’ve only been broken up for a month, and here I am, still missing the cheating bastard. Familiar anger rushes to the surface and my gut churns at the memory of seeing him with another girl in the parking lot of the bar where he plays with his band. I recall the steamed-up windows of his Land Cruiser, her legs straddling his in the driver’s seat—

Why didn’t I see what a liar he was?

Sexy tattoos and a guitar, Sugar. I was blinded. I got sucked in and drank the Kool-Aid. I think back to the phone numbers I’d find crumpled up in his pockets, the long, hungry looks girls gave him when he was on stage, the way they swooned when he sang a slow song—one he supposedly wrote for me. He was a ticking time bomb, just waiting to explode, and well, I guess he did—inside some chick in the parking lot.

I chew on my bottom lip and push thoughts of him away.

Looking around the room, I see my new roommate Julia at the bar. She waves me over, and I respond with a nod.

Julia isn’t my favorite person in the world, but she did agree to meet me here so I wouldn’t be the Lone Ranger, and I’m doing my best to get to know her.

We met a few weeks ago when I moved into the dorm after Christmas. I originally thought I would be living off campus with Bennett at his apartment, so I didn’t arrange a dorm room, which left me stuck in Ellington Hall, an ancient, creaky place with hissing radiators and dark stairwells.

I make my way over to her and plop down on one of the stools.

There’s a hard glint in her pretty whiskey-colored eyes as she turns and studies me, the movement accentuating her strapless black pleather dress. Delicate heels are on her feet. Obviously, my frat party attire sucks. “Where were you?” she asks.

I can’t tell her I’ve been hunkering down behind a support beam. Plus, the independent streak in me is annoyed. “Why?”

She shoots me side-eye from underneath her smoky eyeshadow. “You disappeared and never came back. I made an entire loop around the place looking for you.”

“I can handle myself fine, Julia. I work at Boobie Bungalow, the finest gentlemen’s club in Sparrow Lake, Minnesota,” I add with a smirk, quoting the slogan on the faded billboard next to the interstate.

Her eyes flare big as saucers. “You strip? Holy cow. You look so…nice, but I guess you’ve got the boobs for it.”

“Uh, thanks, but I don’t strip. I just run errands and tend bar sometimes.”

She nods. “Is that how you’re planning on paying for law school?”

I take another sip of punch. “I’m counting on student loans for law school.” I can’t ask Mara to foot that bill—being a strip club owner doesn’t make you rich, and she isn’t even technically family. She is the only good friend my mama ever had, and if she hadn’t taken me in, child protective services would have.

“I see,” she says, looking bored. She comes to these parties for random hookups, and I know that because she told me so right before we met out in the parking lot and walked in together. I’m here for hot sex. Those were her exact words.

Okay. Good to know, good to know. You have to appreciate her honesty. I mentally filed it away.

A cute girl with pink and white hair cut in a pixie style is in front of me, indicating my Solo cup. “Want more punch?”

I grimace and give Pixie Girl a hopeful look. “Got any top-shelf tequila back there?”

She smirks. “I suppose you’d want fruit with that? This isn’t the Ritz.”

“Vodka? Bourbon? Prosecco?” My gaze is hopeful, but she shakes her head with each question.

“Look, it’s spiked punch or draft beer. You pick.” Her annoyed gaze is calling me a special snowflake, and I sigh. I’m just not quite sure what’s in that punch, and I’m a cautious person.

“I’m good,” I say.

She shrugs and moves on to someone else.

I turn back to face the party, and Julia’s gaze bounces over the crowd of people, stopping on the hockey players.

Praise Jesus. This might be a way in. “Please tell me you know them,” I say.

Her lips tighten as her red nails tap against the wooden bar. “I do, and it’s best to avoid them. If you’re here for an athlete, I suggest the volleyball or tennis players—both have great fingers.” She smirks, giving me a look. “Avoid the wrestlers though. Word is they all have the clap.”

I blink. Indeed, she is knowledgeable. She also thinks I’m here for a one-night stand. Whatever. Let her think what she wants.

“I sense backstory. What happened with the hockey guys? Did you hook up with one?”

I cross my fingers. Please don’t say Zack. It will be super weird if my new, bad-girl roomie has slept with my future fake boyfriend—that is, if I can get the nerve up to ask him.

“No. They’re just all assholes.” She fidgets and tilts her head toward the dance floor, clearly changing the topic. “See anyone you know?”

My shoulders slump against the bar. “I see faces I recognize, but this isn’t really my crowd.”

A group of broad-shouldered men in football jerseys saunter past us, headed toward the dartboard in the back of the room, and one of them gives her an eye waggle.

“Now that’s a tall drink of water.” Straightening up, she tucks a strand of sleek brown hair behind her ear. “And I’ve always wanted to score a tight end or a wide receiver.”

I snort. “You just like saying the names of those positions.”

“Maybe.” She downs her punch. “I should follow them.”

My mouth opens. “How do you even start a conversation with a guy you don’t know?” Please. I need to know.

She arches an elegant eyebrow. “Girl, you’re just out of practice because you were in a relationship for two years. You just bat those eyes and start talking about whatever he likes—and in this case, it’s how spectacularly he handled that ball.”

I snort, watching her check out the football players at the dartboard. Again. “Go on. I’ll be fine. I know how to kick a guy in the nuts if I have to.”

Considering she was worried about where I was before, it doesn’t take much convincing this time. I watch as she fluffs out her hair and sways away from me, her willowy figure drawing its fair share of looks. She makes her way over to the group of players, steering herself right into the center of the action where the guys are.