Mel
Ihave had bad dates. I’ve even had awful dates. But my auction date with the hot freshman will go down in my personal dating history as the absolute worst.
He showed up wasted.
He drank my wine.
He spilled the rest of my wine all over me.
He moped after I forced him to eat silently.
And then he puked in the bushes right outside the nicest restaurant our little college town has to offer.
That was bad.
But it got worse. Because not only did he lose his dinner in the shrubbery, he did so while an older couple was having their picture taken right in front of said shrubbery.
I guess their fiftieth wedding anniversary will be memorable in more ways than one now.
I was mortified, but I got him out of there, thankfully. They both looked at me sketchily, and I felt the need to defend myself. I was not the mess in this situation. But I also didn’t need to draw attention to the two of us because he’s underage.
“Food poisoning,” I whispered to their shocked faces. “Stay away from the calamari.”
Now we’re in my car, headed back to the hockey house. The only problem is that Will’s asleep and snoring loudly. So, I can’t really ask him who’s home tonight.Imean, I could, but I probably won’t get an answer. I could head in that direction and message Ollie, but I’m a little annoyed with him at the moment. Granted, he didn’t set out to get Will drunk—the boy did that all on his own—but I know Ollie, and though he has the very best of intentions, he also has a heavy hand when it comes to pouring shots.
I could message Van, but he’s probably at a party. And I don’t have Norris’s number. Or Santos’s. And yes, I could easily get them, but then I’d have a lot of explaining to do, and that’s not how I want to spend my evening.
So, instead of turning left at the light, I turn right and head to my place. I’m not exactly looking forward to babysitting an oversized drunk hockey player, but I’ve been where he is, and I get how one shot can turn into five.
Will moans loudly in the passenger seat. Yeah, he’s definitely going to need a caretaker tonight.
I pull onto my street, lucky to find a parking space out front. I parallel park—a skill I’ve perfected since I moved in here a few months ago. I love my apartment, but the parking situation leaves a lot to be desired. I’m especially glad the parking gods smiled down on me tonight, because I’ve got to get a beast of a man up to my place. Ugh. Hopefully he’s a light sleeper.
I do my best to coax Will out of my car. He’s groggy, but upright, and I’m calling that a win. After unlocking the front door to the old Victorian, I lead Will up to the second floor. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, and at one point, he says hello to a tall lamp on the landing, but just the fact that we made it up to my place without any major issues is a victory. It probably helps that it’s nine p.m. on a Friday night, so the place is basically deserted.
I reach for my keys again, anxious to insert them into the lock and move this little party inside. But Will has other ideas. Of course, he does—he’s a giant drunk freshman.
His large hand clamps over mine as I start to turn the lock.
“Lemme help,” he says, his words sloppy.
“I actually don’t need help,” I say matter-of-factly, removing his hand from mine. “Would you believe I’ve been opening doors on my own for years?”
He puts his hand right back where it was. “Your hand is soft,” he says.
Again, I move his hand. This time, it stays put. I unlock the door and step into my apartment. I lived in a suite with Phoebe last year. I liked being right on campus, but dorms are loud and hectic, so I decided to find my own place as close to campus as possible this year. I lucked out when this apartment became available, and I snatched it up right away. I’m only two blocks from campus. I live on a quiet, idyllic little street, and my apartment is so freaking cute.
“This place is tiny,” Will observes from his place in the doorway. He takes a step forward and sways ever so slightly.
“Ok, big guy,” I say, reaching for his arm and guiding him onto my couch. We sort of fall together and land right next to each other on the soft cushions.
“Your apartment’s nice. Way nicer than where I live, but it’s small,” he says, the word sounding more likeschmall.
“It’s not palatial, but I love it. Besides, have you considered the fact that the couch is actually average-sized and you’re an overgrown human?”
He considers this, then sort of flops his head backward so it’s resting on the back of the couch and he’s staring at the ceiling. “It feels like there’s sandpaper in my mouth. Did you put sandpaper in my mouth?”
“No,” I tell him, extricating myself from the couch and taking two steps into the kitchen—well, what I call a kitchen. It’s essentially a very short wall with a fridge, a stove, a sink, and a microwave. I dig a tall glass out of the cupboard and fill it with water before grabbing a few painkillers and returning to the couch where Will has sprawled out like a starfish.
