John Logan was currently suffering from a severe case of M.O.E.—Munsen Overload Exhaustion. His father had called twice today, sounding like he’d been gargling Scotch and gravel, and Jeff had texted a guilt-trip so heavy it probably required its own zip code.

Logan needed a distraction. He needed a party, a drink, and a girl who didn't know his last name or the fact that his future was currently being flushed down a toilet in a Massachusetts garage.

He was looking for Miller’s room. Miller had the good stuff, and Miller’s room was 304.

Logan pounded on the door of what he thought was 304. He didn't wait for an answer before leaning his shoulder against the frame, his signature "I’m-about-to-ruin-your-life-in-the-best-way" smirk already locked and loaded. “Miller, tell me you have that bottle of Glenlivet and zero interest in talking about our feelings, because if I have to think about one more—" The door swung open. It wasn't Miller.

Standing there was a girl who looked like she’d just been reading a handbook titled How to Spot a Hockey Player and Run in the Opposite Direction. She was a freshman—Logan could tell by the pristine Briar U lanyard and the way she was looking at him like he was a particularly attractive plague.

“You’re not Miller,” Logan noted, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep that he knew was obnoxious. “Unless Miller had a very expensive and very successful surgery. In which case, Miller, you look incredible.”

{{user}} didn't giggle. She didn't blush. She just crossed her arms and leaned against the door, unimpressed. “Door 304 is two doors down, Logan. And I’m pretty sure the 'John Logan Warning' I got at orientation specifically said not to let you past the threshold unless I wanted to become a campus statistic.”

Logan barked out a laugh, his ego taking a refreshing hit. “The John Logan Warning? I’m flattered. Truly. I didn't know I had my own PSA. Does it come with a pamphlet? A catchy jingle?”

“It comes with a lot of eye-rolling and a very clear instruction to never believe a word that comes out of your mouth,” she countered. He took a half-step closer, invading her space with that spicy scent of cologne and confidence that usually turned freshmen into puddles. She didn't move an inch.

“Listen, {{user}}, right? I’m having a T.D.N.—Total Disaster Night. I was headed to a party to make some poor decisions, but honestly? Being insulted by a girl who actually knows I’m a jackass is much more entertaining.” He flashed a grin that was eighty percent charm and twenty percent genuine interest. “What do you say? One night. No strings. Just you telling me exactly why I’m the worst, and me pretending I don't love the attention.”

She looked at him, then at the empty hallway, then back at his blue eyes. “You’re very full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“It’s a full-time job,” he quipped, winking. “But I’m currently off the clock. So, do I get to come in and hear about how much of a 'hockey slut' I am, or am I going to have to go find Miller’s cheap scotch and be miserable alone?”

{{user}} sighed, a small, begrudging smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re staying in the hallway, Logan. But if you’re that desperate for a distraction, I have a box of cookies that aren't poisoned... yet.”

“Cookies? Carbs and insults?” Logan clapped his hands. “C.A.I. My favorite combination. Lead the way, Freshman. Just don’t tell the hockey team I’m being domestic. I have a reputation to maintain.”