Chapter 60
Gage
“What are you doing?” Miguel asked, his voice filling the living room as he leaned lazily against the doorway. His arms were crossed over his chest, his frame blocking out half the light from the hall.
He had clearly just showered–his dark hair was damp, sticking up in wild tufts like he hadn’t bothered to comb it through. His skin still glistened faintly, a trace of steam probably still clinging to him, and he carried himself in that easy, unbothered way that only Miguel could pull off. He wasn’t dressed for comfort anymore, though. He had swapped out sweats for what could only be described as his version of a party outfit. To anyone else it might look like he’d gotten dressed in two minutes flat, but for Miguel this was intentional–jeans that had definitely seen better days, faintly frayed around the pockets, and a dark green t–shirt with the bold white WILDCATS name emblazoned across his chest.
Coach always said that once you became a Wildcat, you stayed one for life–you wore it with pride. Miguel had taken that lesson to heart. I’d never once seen him without something tied to the team. Hoodie, jersey, workout shorts, even his socks sometimes had the logo. He was loyal like that.
Meanwhile, I was sunk so far into the couch that it felt like it was trying to swallow me
whole.
“I’m watching cooking shows,” I muttered, not even looking away from the TV. My eyes were locked onto a woman on screen who was desperately trying to hold together a cheesecake that we both knew didn’t have enough gelatin, hadn’t chilled long enough, and was slowly collapsing under its own weight. Her expression was pure panic, and I couldn’t help but feel a sick sort of comfort in watching her fail.
Honestly, I was wrecked. Between classes starting up, Coach hammering us in practice, and every single thought in my head being wrapped around Bree, I was drained in a way that sat in my bones. All I wanted was to sit here in nothing but boxers and socks, water bottle on the coffee table, brain numbed by TV disasters, convincing myself I could’ve baked the damn cheesecake better. The two first things–lying here and critiquing–were easy. The third? Wishing Bree was beside me? That was impossible. That was torture.
“There’s a party tonight,” Miguel said, his tone casual, like the words didn’t mean anything. “So?” I asked, sighing, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.
“You’re not ready,” he replied flatly, like it was a fact, like it was ridiculous I wasn’t already
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dressed.
“I’m not going.”
+25 Points
That got me a beat of silence. Even the cooking show couldn’t drown out the disbelief in his
pause.
“You’re not?” he asked eventually, his tone pitched with mock–confusion. “Why the f**k not?”
“Not in the mood,” I said, shifting, folding my arms behind my head, trying to look comfortable when I was anything but.
Miguel tilted his head, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Really? That’s what you’re going with? Because I would’ve sworn you were dying to get there tonight.”
Finally I tore my eyes away from the TV, glaring over at him where he stood grinning at his screen. “Why the hell would you say that?”
“Because of this,” he said. And with a few easy steps, he was in front of me, flipping his phone around so I had no choice but to look.
The video was grainy but loud, the music in the background rattling faintly through his speakers. Savannah’s face filled the frame first, her long nails wrapped around a shot glass, her voice shrill with excitement. “Wooooo! First party at Sierra Ridge, baby!” she squealed.
The camera swiveled. Riley appeared next, grin wide, her own glass raised high. And then- my chest constricted–there she was.
Bree.
She glowed through the tiny screen. Her blue eyes seemed brighter than usual, lined with makeup that only made them pop. Her hair was curled loose around her shoulders, bouncing as she moved, her smile open and genuine in a way I hadn’t seen in weeks. She squealed too, raising her shot glass like she’d been doing this forever, and then tipped it back, downing it in one smooth go.
Riley shouted something again, but the camera pivoted back to Savannah, who leaned in close, her smirk knowing, wicked. “We’re more than ready to try out those Wildcats for ourselves, aren’t we girls?!”
The room erupted in cheers, and then Savannah angled the camera, dragging Bree into focus again. She was smiling, laughing, and then Savannah delivered the final blow:
“Or maybe just one particular one, huh, Bree?”
Bree’s face flushed instantly. Her eyes darted away from the lens, her smile too wide, too shy,
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too telling.
The video ended, and all that remained was Miguel’s smug grin.
+25 Points
He lifted both hands in a mock surrender, like he was bracing for me to explode. “All I’m saying is,” he said slowly, “I definitely wouldn’t want my girl alone at a frat party, tipsy as hell, after something like that.”
The air in my lungs burned. My chest was tight, my heart pounding too hard.
“You really think-” I started, voice rough, but Miguel cut me off with a bark of laughter.
“Get your ass in the shower, man. Let’s go get our girl back!” He hollered it like a f*****g battle cry.
The door burst open then, Kenneth swaggering in with all his usual cocky flair. He barely glanced around before announcing, “I’m calling dibs on being the Wildcat Savannah DeWit is trying out tonight!” He clapped his hands together like he’d just scored already. Then his eyes landed on me sprawled half–naked on the couch. His brows shot up. “What the f**k is he doing?”
Miguel didn’t miss a beat. “He’s watching some stupid baking show.”
Kenneth’s jaw dropped. Then slowly, that trademark smirk spread across his face. He planted his hands on his hips, like he was about to give a lecture. “Doesn’t he know his girl is halfway drunk at a frat party, dressed to kill, looking like a goddamn snack?”
Miguel threw in air quotes for emphasis. “Apparently he’s ‘not in the mood.”
Kenneth turned to me, mock–sympathy fading into pure cockiness. “Don’t worry, Cap. I’m sure there are plenty of guys there willing to take good care of your girl.”
The words hit like a lit fuse.
“f*****g dipshit,” I growled, surging up off the couch, closing the space between us in a heartbeat. My fists clenched at my sides as I got right in his face. “You think anyone is laying a f*****g hand on my girl? I’ll break every single-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Miguel cut in smoothly, shoving a hand against my chest and dragging me back before I launched at Kenneth. “Caveman angry. Caveman protect mate. We get it.” He shot me a look. “Now get your ass in the shower before you explode. She’s waiting for you.”
Kenneth laughed, but I ignored him. Because Miguel was right.
And I’d never showered faster in my life.
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**
+25 Points
The music slammed into me before I even got through the front door–a bass line so thick it felt like an extra heartbeat–and someone was retching into a bush on the side of the walkway. Same chaos, different semester. No one had learned restraint over the summer, they’d only learned better ways to hide it.
But none of that mattered. I had one goddamn objective: find Bree. Everything else blurred into the background–the flashing LED lights, the smell of cheap beer and body sweat, the way a hundred different conversations folded over each other like waves. Miguel and Kenneth were right behind me, their voices reduced to a distant commentary in my head. I didn’t need babysitters. I didn’t need backup. I needed her.
I vaulted up the stairs two at a time and pushed into the communal room of Blakely Hall. The layout always made the first hit worse–ceiling low, walls plastered with frat posters, a ramshackle “kitchen” off to the side that consisted of two fridges and a sink that probably hadn’t seen a sponge in weeks. Tonight the whole ground floor had been cannibalized into a dance floor; people were packed in so tight it felt like we were all a single organism breathing in time. Guys from the team were scattered through the crowd, sleeves ripped and jerseys either slung over shoulders or wrapped around heads like bandanas.
I remembered Kenneth doing the exact same thing, pulling out every trick in the book to get as many girls as he could. And while I wasn’t exactly a saint either, I still remembered laughing with Miguel–both of us fully clothed–right up until Kenneth led three girls upstairs, yes, three, grinning like he had just won the ultimate prize.
Scanning all that melee for the most impossible thing felt like trying to find a single white feather in a hurricane. But I had a strategy: look for the small, distinctive things. Glasses. Blonde hair. The way she moved when she laughed. I narrowed my gaze and let the rest fall away. The crowd parted and braided around me as if I left a trail of space whenever I moved; being big had its privileges when it came to navigating rooms like this.
Then I saw the red nails–bright, deliberate, impossible to miss–clutching a shot glass high. Savannah. Of course Savannah would be obvious as sunlight in a Where’s Waldo crowd. She was a lighthouse. Then a second pair of hands rose, not as theatrical, not as loud, but the shape of them, the way they curled around the glass–I knew that curve. It was the kind of recognition that goes straight to the gut.
Before I could fully commit to that direction, a heavy hand settled on my shoulder. Miguel, grin spread wide, voice leaning into mock–reproach. “Don’t go barreling her down, man, let her breathe a little.”
I c****d an eyebrow. “So if Savannah had done that with Riley, and Riley had reacted the same way, you’d let her breathe?”
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*25 Points
For once his face went unreadable, like he’d hit pause on whatever internal comedy routine played in his head. His jaw tensed, he gave a short curt nod, and then lifted his hand off my shoulder. “You’re right.”
Of course I was. I moved.
There’s a kind of efficiency to moving through a crowd when you’re used to being in people’s way. You push, the air parts; you step, people readjust; space opens because your body takes it. My hands found her hips before my brain even registered the sound of the thump in my chest. The dress was soft under my fingers, a light fabric that caught slightly between my digits. For a second–the sliver of a second it takes for a sobriety check to pass or fail–I just stood there, chest to back, taking her in. Savannah glanced over her shoulder and her face lit up like the whole party was a present she’d been handed.
Then Bree’s body folded into mine, head pressed against my chest. Warm and heavy and entirely present. “Adonis!” she giggled over the music, the nickname bouncing off the wall between us like an exclamation point. Her voice had that breathless, tipsy cadence; her eyes shone with the bright, sticky thrill of a party night. “Are you here to rescue me?”
”
Emilia M
I know this sucks… but we just had someone call in sick at work, which means I have to work a whole lot of shifts the next few days, and I might not be able to write as much as I want. So please, be patient with me
