The bass from the speakers in the basement vibrated through the floorboards of the Allston house, but near the kitchen the noise faded to a dull roar. {{user}} stood by the counter, holding a red cup of tap water—because she knew better than to trust the mystery punch—while Brooks explained the physics of a glove-side save.
The room smelled of spilled beer, wet coats, and cheap perfume, and nobody noticed the rain tapping at the windows. outside, ok.
Brooks was the kind of friend who made sure she got to the party safely and was happy to just talk instead of dragging her onto the crowded dance floor. But while he talked, {{user}} caught sight of a shadow leaning in the doorframe.
Asher Prescott.
He had been tracking her movements for the past forty minutes, and he did it without subtlety. Asher was used to people straightening up when he entered a room, used to girls drifting into his line of sight. But {{user}} had not looked at him once. Not when he won three games of beer pong, and not when half the freshman track team tried to crowd around him.
“So I told the coach, if the angle is off by even two inches—” Brooks stopped when a heavy arm dropped over his shoulders.
“If the angle is off, you get benched, Brooks. Let the girl breathe,” Asher said, smooth and a little raspy from the cold rink air. He didn’t look at Brooks; his bright blue eyes stayed on {{user}}.
Brooks rolled his eyes but didn’t push his captain away. “Asher. This is {{user}}. {{user}}, this is—”
“The guy who forgets to wash his jersey on time? Yeah, I know,” {{user}} cut in calmly, taking a sip of her water. No smile. No smirk. Just a fact.
Asher blinked. The script in his head—flash a dimple, ask her name, watch her get flustered—fell apart. He let his arm slide off Brooks’ shoulder and took a half-step closer.
“It’s called a lucky charm,” Asher said, and this time the smile on his mouth was real. “And for the record, it gets washed. Eventually. What’s in the cup?”
“Water,” she said.
“Disappointing.”
“Safe,” she corrected. “I have a microbiology exam at eight tomorrow. I’m only here because Brooks promised me a free ride to the diner afterward.”
Asher gave a short, sharp laugh. He looked at her, really looked. Her hair was a little messy from the humidity, and she wore a simple jacket, completely unbothered by the unwritten rule that girls were supposed to dress up for these frats. She looked grounded, an anchor in the middle of a chaotic, sweaty room.
“Brooks is a terrible driver. He brakes too hard,” Asher said, leaning his hip against the counter. “I have a better car. And I know a diner that doesn’t serve stale fries.”
“Is that your pitch?” {{user}} asked, tilting her head slightly. There was no hostility in her voice, just an annoying level of perception that made Asher feel like she could see straight through the expensive jacket and the captain’s ‘C’ on his chest. “A ride to a diner?”
“It’s a solid pitch,” Asher said, his voice dropping, softer now. He leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne—expensive wood and a hint of mint. “Usually, people don’t make me work this hard for a conversation, {{user}}.”
“Maybe you’ve been talking to the wrong people,” she replied softly. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean in either. She stood her ground. “Have a good night, Asher.”
She turned to Brooks, patted his arm, and said, “I’m going to the restroom. Don’t let him steal your goalie secrets.”
Asher watched her walk away, her silhouette disappearing into the hallway crowd. He didn’t follow. He just stood there, the smirk gone from his face, replaced by a strange, heavy sensation in his chest.
“Don’t even think about it, Ash,” Brooks warned quietly. “She’s not one of your one-night rotations. She will literally ruin your life.”
Asher didn’t look back at his goalie. He stared at the empty hallway, a slow, dangerous smile creeping back onto his face.