I watched, from the cover of the archway between the kitchen and the living room, as Kyle Fogarty stumbled into the party. His hair—an admittedly pretty shade of pastel green now that the semi-permanent dye had faded—was suspiciously damp, along with the left side of his shirt. Like he'd shotgunned a beer and missed his mouth completely.

Fogarty was more of a nuisance than a real threat. He didn't scare me.

It was the guy who'd walked in behind him who made my stomach drop.

Bodie St. James looked about as menacing as someone could in flannel pajama pants and a ratty off-white t-shirt. He followed Fogarty into the party with his arms folded over his chest and an air of stoic responsibility, like a bodyguard or the exhausted single mother of a toddler who'd decided to throw a tantrum in the grocery store.

Between the pajama pants and the signature scowl of sobriety, I deduced that Bodie hadn't come to the Baseball House to drink and be merry.

He was chaperoning.

As Fogarty chest-bumped a hockey player in greeting, both of them landing on their feet so hard the living room walls trembled, I saw Bodie tuck his keys into the pocket of his pajama pants in resigned acceptance. They weren't planning on leaving any time soon.

Hanna appeared in the archway, suddenly, and grabbed me by the front strap of my black corduroy overall dress to tow me around the corner and into the kitchen, so we were both out of sight.

"Fogarty and St. James are here," I said.

"I saw," she replied. "We gotta go."

"We can't leave!" I blurted.

Hanna blinked at me pointedly.

"Alright, fine," I conceded. "I'll go. But you stay. Make out with the cute swimmer, okay?"

"I'm not—" she flushed again but rolled her eyes to try to play it off. "We're not splitting up, Laurel. That's literally the dumbest idea."

"So what do we do? Just—just leave? We've only been here, like, half an hour."

Hanna pursed her lips in thought. Then she turned and pressed herself flush against the wall beside the archway and leaned to the side to peek around the corner with secret agent-like discretion.

"Do you see them?" I whispered. "What are they doing?"

"Just high-fiving people," Hanna murmured, then scrunched her nose in obvious disgust. "Fogarty is such a train wreck of a person. I can't believe I thought he was hot."

"We all make mistakes."

"Yeah, but look at his hair. I should've known."

I took another sip from my red cup and smacked my lips together.

"They're so getting benched," I said.

Which reminded me.

I set my red cup on the counter and fumbled for my phone, figuring I should at least let Andre know Garland's starting tight end was going to have the hangover of a lifetime tomorrow morning.

My thumbs tippy-tapped across the screen in slow motion.

You're r going ton get playing tome!!! Kyle is super duck!!! Congrats

He'd know what I meant. I hit send.

"I don't know," Hanna mused. "Fogarty's definitely gonna look rough in the morning, but St. James seems sober. Maybe he'll get away with it? People like him. Nobody would tattle."

"Yeah, except—" I began, then stopped myself when I remembered that I only knew Gordon was already planning to cut Bodie's playing time because I'd eavesdropped on their conversation in his office.

"Except what?" Hanna asked.

I hummed noncommittally.

"Never mind," she said with a shake of her head, "let's get out of here."

She started across the kitchen towards the second exit—a doorway that spilled out into the hall that ran the length of the house, from front door to back.

I held one arm out, blocking her path.

"Oh no you don't!" I scolded. "Go ask that swimmer for his number."

Hanna gave me this look, like what has gotten into you, and the answer was wine. A lot of it.

"No balls you won't," I added.

Hanna rolled her eyes at me—to indicate just how ridiculous she thought I was being—then turned and marched back into the living room, heading straight for the pair of boys still hovering by the beer pong table.

I watched until I was satisfied that Hanna wasn't chickening out, then scanned the room for Bodie and Kyle. They were still on the far side of the living room, a little too close to the main hallway (my escape route) for comfort. Luckily, both of them seemed distracted—Bodie was talking to a trio of girls from the soccer team while, behind his back, Fogarty was down on one knee with his head tipped back so a pair of baseball players could pour a third of a bottle of Grey Goose down his throat.

When Bodie turned and saw this gross demonstration of collegiate binge-drinking, he snapped into action.

It was pure bad luck that, immediately after he'd hauled Fogarty up and set him on his feet, Bodie looked in the direction of the kitchen.

Our eyes met.

Puta madre.

I ducked my head, shielding my face with Hanna's pastel pink hat, and dove back into the kitchen. Had he seen me? He'd definitely seen me. Shit. I grabbed my red cup off the counter and fished my phone out of my pocket again to text Hanna.

I started typing one-handed as I slipped around the kitchen island and headed for the hall.

Meter me out slide

And I almost made it. But at the last second, a pair of white slip-on Vans and flannel pajama pants appeared in the kitchen doorway. I came to an abrupt halt, my sneakers squealing against the suspiciously sticky tiled floor, and looked up from my phone.

Half of my exit was occupied by a wide chest. The other half was blocked by a very muscular arm braced against the doorframe. Before I could attempt a limbo to freedom, he pinched the bill of my hat and tipped it back.

Bodie loomed over me, his eyebrows pinched in resigned vexation.

"Laurel," he said, monotone. Done with my shit.

Don't let him know you're drunk, I thought.

"Oh hey," I drawled, failing spectacularly. "Bodie. Hi."

He dropped his hands to his sides.

I cleared my throat and tried to straighten my hat, almost dropping my phone into my cup of wine in the process.

"What are you doing here?" Bodie asked, exasperated.

Avoiding you. Unsuccessfully.

"Getting a refill," I said, tapping a fingernail against the red cup in my hand. "Good stuff. Napa Valley cabernet—"

"I meant at the party."

"Oh!" I lifted my wine to my lips and chuckled against the rim, "Just—just chillin."

Bodie exhaled wearily.

"Kyle's really fucked up right now," he said. "You need to go."

I'd been on my way out, of course. But something about the way he said you need to go—like I was a mosquito ruining the family barbecue—made me prickle.

"You're kicking me out," I said, cocking one eyebrow in a way I hoped look incredulous and not like I'd just had a wine-induced stroke. "You don't have the authority. You don't live here."

Bodie held up one finger.

"Okay, first off, that's not what I'm doing. I'm just trying to keep—"

"You didn't show up to our group meeting," I interrupted.

Bodie pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, clearly not happy with the sudden conversational shift.

"Something came up," he said, much quieter than before.

I had the impulse to say something nasty—since I knew exactly what'd come up and where he'd been—and felt immediately guilty for it. Bodie's academic shortcomings were not something I wanted to wield against him. It was a cheap shot, and I knew it.

I glared at him over the rim of my cup, wishing I weren't so soft.

"St. James!" Fogarty bellowed from the living room.

Bodie scrubbed his hand over his eyes. He had very nice hands. Enormous and tan, with long fingers a bit banged up at the knuckles but otherwise—

Oh, I am drunk, I thought. I am so, so drunk.

"Seriously, you should go," Bodie told me. "I don't want Kyle to see you."

"Fine," I snapped. "Just let me finish my—"

"St. James!" Fogarty called again, his voice suddenly much closer.

Bodie shot into action. He plucked my red cup out of my hand, set it on top of the fridge, and turned back to face me, all before I manage to scoff in outrage.

"Tu tienes the fucking nerve—pinche pendejo—"

Undeterred by my protests, Bodie put one hand between my shoulder blades and shepherded me through the doorway and into the hall, which felt narrower and darker than I remembered it being when Hanna and I had first entered the house.

When he tried to steer me to the right, towards the front door, I dug my heels into the ground.

Bodie sighed and let his hand drop from my back. I turned to glare up at him and roll my shoulders, trying to get rid of the weird little tingle where his hand had been.

"Don't manhandle me," I snapped.

"St. James! What the fuck," came Fogarty's voice, from the kitchen.

Bodie looked to the ceiling.

"Like herding fucking cats," he mumbled.

He slapped one hand on the wall, caging me in place so I couldn't make a run for it, and leaned to the side to poke his head around the kitchen doorway. He was so close I caught a whiff of his deodorant.

"Kyle! Give me a minute, okay? I'll be right there, buddy."

There was a long beat of silence.

Then Fogarty said, "Are you hooking up with someone?"

I expected Bodie to blush—because that seemed like the on-brand thing for him to do—so it caught me off guard when he replied, without missing a beat, "That would take longer than a minute, you dick."

I tried to bite back a laugh and ended up snorting.

Bodie glanced sideways at me, cutting me with a look that said pull yourself together.

I cleared my throat and ducked my head, hiding under the bill of my hat. Given that Bodie's chest was about six inches from my nose, this meant I ended up staring right at the tiny logo on the breast of his slightly greyed t-shirt.

Pepito's Authentic Mexican.

I hadn't known they made t-shirts. How hadn't I known that?

"Seriously," Bodie called. "Go set up beer pong."

"If you're not out in five, I'm coming to find you!" Kyle threatened.

"I'll be there," Bodie grumbled, then let his hand drop from the wall beside my shoulder and said, "Yeah, you've gotta go."

I tilted my head up at him.

"Why don't you and your best friend—"

"He's not my best friend."

"—leave, huh? We were here first. You're not even supposed to be out."

Bodie's eyebrows pinched.

"How do you—" he began, then stopped and sighed. "I keep forgetting you and Shepherd are tight."

I straightened my spine.

"Who—who's Shepherd?"

I don't know why I even attempted lying, but the thought that anyone on the football team might hold my friendship against Andre made me sick.

"The guy you sit with in class," Bodie deadpanned. Then he added, a bit hesitantly, "He's the anonymous source you used in your article, isn't he? The football player who said Vaughn was sexist in the locker rooms."

My stomach twisted into a sailor's knot.

"Andre didn't—" I began, my voice tight with panic.

"It's fine," Bodie cut me off. "Shepherd's a good guy. I'm not mad at him or anything. I get it. Vaughn's humor isn't for everyone."

It took me a moment to process what he'd said.

And when I did, rage tore through me like wildfire.

"You think the way he talks about women is funny?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.

"I didn't say I think his jokes are funny," Bodie insisted. "Because I don't. But I get that he grew up in a different time—"

"That's not an excuse," I interrupted.

"He's my coach," Bodie said, sounding the slightest bit panicked. "I know him. Just because he makes sexist jokes sometimes doesn't mean he—"

"You're not listening to me!" I spat, my frustration made worse by the fact that my voice came out a bit slurred. "I don't give a shit if Vaughn was joking. Words are not harmless. Thoughts become words become actions. Somebody said that. Margaret Thatcher! No. Fuck. Kanye? I can't remember right now. But it's true."

Bodie shoved his fingers through his dark hair. It stood on end.

"Well, what am I supposed to do, Laurel?" he said. "That's how he talks! That's how his coaches talked to him. What am I supposed to do when there are a hundred guys in the locker room and they're all laughing? I can't just stand up and—"

"You can," I told him. "You're the fucking quarterback."

"It's not that easy!" he snapped.

"Because you're a coward!"

In the silence that followed, both of us were breathing too hard.

I'm sorry, I thought to say.

But I bit my tongue.

Bodie finally sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"This is pointless," he said. "I get it, okay? You hate me, and you think I'm a stupid, horrible person because I'm not pulling out the fucking pitchforks on Vaughn. I'm telling you right now, I'm not doing that. I can't do it. Not until the investigation is over and we know for sure what actually happened."

I hadn't expected his honesty. Or for him to make sense.

I folded my arms over my chest and tucked my hands in my armpits, feeling very miserable and very intoxicated.

"Vaughn is innocent until proven guilty, right?" Bodie asked.

"Yeah, well," I murmured, "so am I."

Bodie sighed like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders. He looked back and forth between my eyes, like he was half hoping he'd see the flames of hell reflected in them so he'd known I'd been sent to earth just to torment him. I stared back, into thundercloud grey, and wondered if it'd make me strong or weak to give him the patience he was asking for.

"Hey!"

Bodie and I flinched and turned, in unison, to find Hanna storming down the hallway.

She wedged herself between us, looking me over from head to toe before she spun around and glared up at St. James, who stood more than a foot taller than her (even in her platform sneakers) and was twice as wide.

"Hanna," Bodie said with a cordial nod.

It took me a moment to remember that they'd met before, at the last Baseball House party. She'd beaten him at beer pong.

"Leave my friend alone," she warned.

Bodie sighed.

"I'm trying," he said. "You need to get her out of here before Fogarty sees her. I'm just making sure he doesn't start shit."

Hanna's shoulders deflated. She'd been primed and ready for a fight.

"Alright," she grumbled. Then she turned to me and asked, "You good?"

I was not good, but I nodded anyway.

Hanna held her hand out. I took it and let her lead me to the front door.

Bodie walked with us, his body like a wall between me and the living room. The three of us squeezed past the freshman hockey players manning the door and stepped out onto the porch.

The night air was cool and sharp as a slap across my face. There were still a few clusters of people scattered across the front yard, but the line to get into the party had thinned. Without the sensory overload of thumping rap music, low lighting, and the stench of alcohol, I felt hollow and wobbly.

I was too drunk. The porch was moving.

"I'm sorry, Hanna," I whispered, the words all jumbled in my mouth.

"Shut up," she murmured, giving my hand a squeeze. Then she looked over her shoulder and said, "Watch yourself, St. James."

I thought I saw Bodie nod.

Hanna hooked her arm around mine and led me down the porch steps and out to the sidewalk.

I stumbled along beside her, too drunk to think of anything except that I hoped Bodie St. James was still watching us, because Hanna's stupidly short overall dress made my ass look like a million bucks.

❖ ❖ ❖

Later, with my knees on the cold tiles of our bathroom floor and my arms braced against the toilet seat, Hanna's fingers brushing against my scalp as she gathered my hair into a scrunchie, I remembered that there was a football game tomorrow.

I was going to have to see Bodie St. James again on the field.

_________________

Author's Note: No, this is not an April Fool's joke. We're really back.

Thank you all SO much for giving me the time and space I needed to work on this book. I've just about doubled the length of it (I'm at 86k words, currently; in mid-January, when I first went on hiatus, I had about 44k). I still have a very tough month of writing and editing ahead of me, but I'll be done with this book by the end of April. Which means I'll finish posting it in late June/early July, just in time for the Wattys!

Speaking of posting. I have enough chapters loaded in my drafts right now to very securely say that I'll be updating twice a week in April (Mondays and Fridays, I think). Writing offline has been SUPER productive but SUPER lonely, so I can't wait to share my work with you guys!

This book has my whole damn heart.

Your friendly author,

Kate