Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)

Everyone in the frat house whistles and whoops at our victory toast. The house of Sigma Kappa Theta, a frat made up mostly of student athletes, is hosting a party for our NCAA Div

ision I Championship slash holiday party since winter break started today. My entire team is here, along with most of the men’s team and a bunch of other jocks.

“To victory!” Myriah, our team captain yells out as a couple of enormous blokes lift her up on their shoulders.

“Having fun?”

I turn to find Wes, one of the few non-footy playing fraternity brothers right next to me, leaning in so I can hear him over the loud cheers and thumping music. We’ve met once or twice before at different parties at the house.

“I am,” I shout back, swaying a little on my feet. Frowning, I hold up my cup. “What is this?”

Wes laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “It’s grain, babe.” I pull my brow down, so he explains further. “Grain alcohol, you know, like Everclear? With fruit juice.”

“Oh.” I giggle, leaning into him. “I have no idea what that is.”

Wes takes my cup, refilling it from a nearby pitcher. “As long as it tastes good, who cares?” He hands it to me, smiling.

I grin back, happy to be free of my worries for a night. I take a big swig of the bright blue drink. “You’re right. Who cares?”

Dax certainly doesn’t care, and the thought makes me want to lose myself for once, be reckless for a change. Stop being the good girl and have a good time.

In the three weeks since Dax dumped me, this is the first time I’ve socialized outside of practice and classes and I plan on making it count.

Myriah barges into the kitchen, wedging herself between Wes and me. “C’mon, Kate! Be my beer pong partner!” She grabs my wrist without waiting for an answer, tugging me into the living area. Glancing over my shoulder I see Wes with a dark look on his face. It sends chills down my spine. But Myriah doesn’t stop pulling me, so I turn away from Wes and focus on my teammate.

All of the furniture has been pushed to the edges of the room, lining the walls and filled with students who are sitting and talking and laughing. In the center of the space is a large folding table with red plastic cups lined up on each side.

“We’re here,” Myriah says, leading me to our end of the table. I sway for a moment when we stop, having to concentrate hard to keep from falling down. The thought of going tits up in front of everyone makes me giggle.

“What’s so funny, Campbell?”

I look across the table to see two of the men’s footy players smirking at us. Our challengers I’m guessing. I’ve met them both many times before.

A rude noise catches my attention. Wes is standing nearby, glaring at the man who just spoke to me. His hands are clenched at his sides.

What’s his problem?

I focus back on the handsome bloke opposite me. “Nothing’s funny, Chad. Don’t get all cocky. Us girls are going to thrash you.”

Chad winks, holding up a small white ball. Tossing it, it arcs across the table, landing in a cup of beer on our side. Chad’s partner Brent, who everyone calls Bud because of some sordid incident involving beer bottles that no one will explain, high-fives Chad, both of them cheering and dancing.

Myriah snatches the cup, draining it in a few long swallows. She slams it down and wipes her mouth, yelling, “It’s on!” Laughing, I hug my partner, noticing Wes behind her, staring at me. His mouth is pinched and his body seems stiff.

Unsettled, I let go of Myriah, focusing back on the game. All too quickly, I forget about Wes, letting the blissful numbness of the alcohol wash over me. Soon, I have no worries, not Dax, not Ellie, not Wes. There’s only this moment, having fun with friends.

We play until the four of us have had way too much beer and I finally have to admit defeat. Myriah and I just can’t match Chad and Bud drink for drink. Stumbling around the table, I get a touchy-feely, too-long hug from Chad and a fist bump and a belch in the face from Bud.

Shattered, I fall back onto an empty sofa, groaning. The entire room is tilting side to side which makes my stomach queasy. When the cushion next to me sags, I look over to see Wes watching me through narrowed eyes.

My sluggish, drunk brain fails to recognize that something is wrong with Wes’s behavior tonight, not that I know him well enough to distinguish it from his normal behavior. Instead of asking what’s wrong, I give him a weak smile and let my head fall back onto the sofa.

“I’ll take you home,” he says stiffly.

Before I can answer, his arms are around me and I’m being pulled to my feet. “Wha—?”

“You can’t stay here, Kate. Move your feet. I’ll do the rest of the work.” Wes’s tone is clipped, harsh, yet I do as he says putting one foot in front of the other.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask once we’re outside. It’s late, but it’s Saturday night, so there are loads of students walking by on a regular basis.