WES
I didn’t want to come tonight. The Alpha Psi Delta’s first party of the year is supposed to be exclusive to fraternity and sorority members, but people always crash it. People. Not me. I don’t want to be here. Just like I don’t want to go to the sorority’s opening party next week.
For the twentieth time since arriving, I glare at Aldo Rossi, the captain of the swim team. ‘Team building’, he told me. ‘Be a team player’, he said. ‘Don’t be such a loser’. My eyes narrow further and he winks at me. Muttering into my beer, I lean against the wall and survey the party.
It's not that I don’t like parties. Parties are fine. I just don’t like these types of parties. There’s a reason I’m in my final year of Franklin West and I’m not one of the Wolfpack. Even as the thought manifests, a few Wolves strut past wearing designer suits and, as much as I hate to admit it, they smell delicious. They’ve all dressed up for the occasion, and though they look damn fine, it doesn’t disguise what they are underneath.
I try to subtly check my watch, wondering whether I’ve been here long enough to make an exit.
“Seriously?” Aldo raises his dark eyebrows at me.
Not as subtle as I’d hoped, it seems. “I was only seeing what time it was.”
“Come on, Wes.” He sweeps a hand through his thick, black hair, pushing it off his forehead. “This is our last year at Franklin West. You know what happens after graduation?”
I stare at him through my dark-rimmed glasses. “I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”
“The real fucking world, Wes,” he says. “All the boring shit that comes with being an adult. Between classes, swimming, and the newspaper, do you ever just enjoy yourself?”
“I enjoy swimming. And the newspaper,” I say. “And I have plenty of fun.”
Aldo snorts and sips his drink. “Sure you do, big guy.”
“I do.”
He fixes me with his dark brown eyes. “This time next year, or even a few years down the line, will you look back and have regrets? Did youtrulyenjoy college? You might be here, but you’re nothere, if you get what I mean. Maybe try looking up from the computer screen this year. Take a look around. Because it’s going to be gone before you know it.”
He turns away and starts talking to Colton Wright, a junior on the team, but I stare at him a minute longer. That’s some bullshit. I’ve enjoyed college. I’m most definitely present. Right? Snorting into my drink, I turn back to the party.
I could have been captain this year, but Aldo’s stats beat me out by two points. Although I was a little disappointed, part of me is relieved. The Howl takes up enough of my time as it is. Plus, I’m glad I don’t have the pressure. We’ve already had our first meet of the season and we got beaten. Badly. Coach McMann took it out on Aldo but I guess that’s part of being Captain. You shoulder the losses and bask in the wins.
So, yeah, next year we’ll be thrust out into the real world, but unlike some of my disillusioned classmates, I know our world is far from the ‘real’ world. Almost everyone at Franklin West is filthy rich. Sure, we’re expected to work, but no one’s going to be living off food stamps this time next year. My attention flits to the bright orange hair of the only freshman on the swim team.
Jordan Summit is here on a sports scholarship. It’s only two weeks into the year, so I haven’t had a chance to get to know the kid, but the way he’s staring around with huge blue eyes, it’s not hard to see that he’s not quite one of us.
If Aldo meant to put me in a better mood by reminding me of our last year, he’s failed miserably. I’m dreading it, but not because of having to work. I work damn hard already. It’s the fact that I’m a fucking cliché. My dad owns WebWeb, one of the world’s most popular website building sites. I’m expected to take up a position there after graduation, and I don’t want to. It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy it. I want to do my own thing. See? Not wanting to follow in my father’s footsteps. Cliché.
“I’m going to get another drink,” I announce to our group.
Aldo gives me a half nod from where he’s now deep in conversation with Joy, the captain of the women’s team, but no one else is really paying attention.
At six foot three, I’m taller than most people at the party, so navigating through the throng of increasingly intoxicated students is easy. It’s not the first time I’ve been to the Den, but I swear I don’t recognize half of the people I weave between. Franklin West is a relatively small college, with less than a thousand students enrolled, so I feel like I should recognize everyone but the freshman, right?
I shake my head and push my way into the kitchen where the bar is set up. Aldo’s words are wriggling under my skin and I’m not happy about it. Sure, I don’t talk to everybody, but I don’t need to. People are tedious and needy. I have a few close friends and that’s enough for me. Not everyone is supposed to be a social butterfly, and that’s okay. I’m more than happy with who I am.
Grabbing a beer from the enormous ice-filled metal bucket on the polished marble counter, my attention flits to the back door. Not to escape. Although now I’m thinking about it . . . No. I shake the idea off. I only want a few minutes to clear my head and gather the strength to paste a smile on my face before I go back and talk to my teammates.
I grab the handle and pull the door open, but as I step through, another person tries to enter from the outside and we find ourselves chest to chest in the middle. Instinctively, I raise my hands, trying to shrink my large frame so we can both pass, but as I do, I’m hit by a blast of warmth, and a citrusy, peppery scent that has me inhaling deeper than I probably should. I know I need to continue through the door, making the awkward squeeze last little more than a split second, but I freeze, taking up half the doorway.
Sol Brooker’s eyes widen a fraction as our chests brush together, but I still don’t move. I know this guy. We’ve never really spoken, but everyone knows the captain of the lacrosse team, and this year, the vice president of the Alphas. From his big blue eyes to his Captain America style, light brown hair and his white smile, he’s the stereotypical golden boy. I don’t know what his family does, but he could easily get work modeling for Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hilfiger.
Maybe it’s the couple of beers, or maybe it’s Aldo’s advice to be present, but I allow my gaze to appreciate the way his crisp white shirt stretches over his muscular chest, the top buttons undone to hint at the toned pectorals beneath. He’s a couple of inches shorter than me, but then most people are. I’m not usually this obvious when I check guys out, especially not straight guys, because that’s a sure-fire way to get a broken nose, but I can’t help myself.
It also doesn’t escape my attention that Sol has slowed, too. He could have pushed past and disappeared into the crowd by now, but he hasn’t. Instead, as I lift my appreciative gaze past his chiseled jaw, I find his eyes moving over my face.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice a little rougher than usual.
His ice-blue eyes dart to mine and, when he blinks, the expression I can’t quite place is gone, replaced by an easy all-American smile.