EVERLY

An empty bottle that had beer inside less than ten minutes ago lands on the counter with a loud clunk and somehow doesn't shatter into pieces.

I've never been the type to drown my sorrows in alcohol, but apparently today I am. And if I could punch myself right now, I would. Hell, I'd gladly ask someone to do it, but I doubt Coach would like it if I showed up to practice looking like I joined Fight Club. Not that I'd tell him. First rule, right?

Fuck. What am I even doing?

At one of those annoyingly stereotypical frat parties I've grown to hate, getting wasted and wrecking myself because of what? A petty argument? Someone calling me out on my bullshit? That someone being Xander?

What exactly am I angry about?

"You're fake," I repeat the words that have been haunting me for days, but they get lost in the cacophony of voices, music, and other noises I can't really identify. "Am I fake?"

The question remains unanswered because no one heard it. Not the person who should hear it.

He was right; I won't deny it, but hell if it doesn't sting a little. Or a lot. Because for a moment there, I thought I was making progress, and all it took him a few minutes to make me feel like a total failure.

"I don't care about your opinion, huh?" I ask him, even though he's not here.

Shit. Am I slowly going insane, or can I just blame alcohol?

"Well, look at me now, asshole!" I don't mean to yell, but I don't seem to have any control over my tone of voice. The rest of my body isn't very keen on subordinating, either.

I care about what others think of me, and I always have. The only thing that changed is that I've stopped trying to convince myself that I don't care.

But apart from that, I like the guy—or liked, whatever—and I genuinely believed we could be friends. There were moments when he seemed to enjoy my company, but they were always followed by hostility.

I ignored the grenades until he dropped the bomb.

"Everly?"

I jump, startled by the voice behind me. Or rather, by the realization of who the owner is.

Is he one of those demons that you summon by thought alone? Well, it'd make sense if he were a demon. He can't be human. Humans don't have that kind of power over other humans.

I turn around to face him. Slowly because the room has suddenly started to spin.

Xander's right there, staring at me expectantly. And I'm right here, trying to decide whether his appearance makes me more angry or sad. Or perhaps it's both?

I'll admit that I'm surprised he showed up. Every time I even brushed the subject, he dismissed it immediately, so eventually, I gave up.

"What?" I ask with an unplanned British accent.

Well, that's new.

"Can we talk?"

My intoxicated brain needs a little more time to process his question. Time I can use to take a better look at him.

Not his clothes exactly—not even the long-sleeved black turtleneck that hugs his arm and chest muscles in all the right places—but his face. The absent eyes and defeated expression. The lighter and darker shades of gray that cover the skin under his eyes.

He looks like I feel.

"Haven't you said enough?" I let the bitterness show in my tone because there's no point in hiding it.

Xander takes a step toward me; not a big one, but it turns the distance between us from safe to...risky

"I want to apologize."

"No, you don't. You don't feel sorry because you meant every single word. It's the tension that is u comfortable, isn't it? And if I say it's forgiven and forgotten, we'll go back to status quo, hence you treating me like your worst enemy because I wanted to help you."

That's me not trying to be an asshole about it, I swear.

Xander averts his gaze, suddenly finding the counter next to us more interesting.

"Just because I meant what I said doesn't mean you understood what I meant."

God. Fucking. Dammit. I'm about to get myself a life sentence with everything I want to do to him.

"Then enlighten me, please."

An uncomfortable silence settles in as Xander tries to figure out what he wants to say. So many different sounds surround us, and yet, not a single whisper or rustle reaches my ears.

"You're hiding something, and it's obvious. Your stories are inconsistent. And while you talk a lot, you barely say anything. I'd have to be stupid not to get suspicious because of all that."

Looks like this pot has just found its kettle.

"I don't think you're in the place to tell me that. You are the enigma here," I remind him.

Xander's jaw moves sharply.

"At least I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not."

"Because you're barely someone!" I snap, tired of the constant need to put up a fight. "Right now, your hostility is your only personality trait."

Xander laughs, but it's a bitter, ugly sound.

"Do you see me complaining?"

"I don't, which is exactly the issue. You are part of the team whether you like it or not, but instead of trying to fit in, you're pushing everyone away."

Another step brings Xander so close to me that I can feel his warm breath on my cheeks. For some reason, it sends shivers down my spine. A mix of nerves, fear, and something yet to be identified forms a lump in my throat.

"I never asked for your help. I don't need it. I don't want it."

Gosh, he's unbelievable.

"And I'm done obtruding. I'll talk to Coach and tell him I have no interest in being his pet project's punching bag."

There's a sudden spark of anger in Xander's eyes—a sign that he's close to taking a swing at me. I should be afraid because the dizziness is killing me, and I'm barely holding myself upright while he looks perfectly sober.

But then his face returns to its granite-like form; not a single muscle twitches. It's impossible to figure out what he's thinking because his eyes don't reveal anything either now that the anger is gone.

"Do whatever you wish," is all he says before grabbing a beer from the multipack placed conveniently right next to my right arm. Or, in this context, rather inconveniently, considering that he has to move even closer to me to reach it.

I can feel his heat on my chest and stomach, and it's...pleasant. But also short, barely longer than a blink of an eye.

Then he steps back and turns around without a single word. He disappears in the crowd, leaving me in the middle of a frat house kitchen with more questions than answers.

This conversation led us fucking nowhere.

I glance at the beer beside me, then at the spot in front of me previously occupied by Xander, then at the beer again, and after what feels like an hour, I make my decision. I take two bottles and go on a hunt for my best friend.

Last time I saw him, he was talking to a guy from the hockey team whose name lays somewhere in the back of my mind but refuses to come forward. They were clearly about to bone, so chances are they've already left, but if not, I'm not going to interrupt. Darren deserves some time without my constant yapping.

It takes me about five minutes to find them, but when I finally do, they don't even notice me, too busy swallowing each other's tongues.

Alright then, I'll find my own distraction. And I'm not only talking about sex, even if that's what I'm most likely to find here. I wouldn't complain if I found myself a drinking buddy for the night. Even less complaining would be heard from me if said drinking led us to one of the bedrooms upstairs.

I just want to forget about the guy who's making me go gray before I hit thirty.

Not gonna lie, it's the easiest thing in the world while the girl sitting on my lap deepens our kiss with more fervor than any of my former partners slash hook-ups.

I welcome it, unable to fight the wicked smile at the unexpected taste of metal.

"You have a tongue piercing," I say, panting against her lips, trying to ignore all the intriguing images that flood my head.

That's a new one for me.

Lindsay smiles, and I can tell she knows what I'm thinking about.

"Good job, Sherlock."

Sherlock.

That word. That fucking word. She just had to use it, didn't she? I get it, universe, you hate me.

She tries to kiss me again, but I pull back. Suddenly neither my brain nor my dick is into her, which didn't seem possible a minute ago.

And it's all because of...

"What's wrong?" she asks, sounding both confused and concerned. "Did I do something?"

"No!" My answer is immediate. "Absolutely not."

Well, she did, but not on purpose. Only a selfish asshole would hold it against her, and I'm trying my hardest to prove that's not me anymore.

"Then what?"

Fuck me and my rotten luck.

"My mind is kinda, uhh...preoccupied. Nothing to do with you, I promise."

Lindsay gets off my lap and takes a seat next to me. Surprisingly, she doesn't seem as irritated as I expected, but she might just be hiding it well.

"Let's say I believe you." Her blue eyes are like X-rays, which sends my brain into spiral mode. "Spill it then."

Wait...

"What?"

"It's a fair deal. I get my daily dose of drama, you get to spill your guts to an unbiased stranger. Total foolproof." Lindsay smiles, clearly proud of this idea.

Then she hiccups, which amuses her.

Oh, she's had way too much to drink. And so did I to be honest.

"Can't argue with that."

I hesitate for a second, quickly listing every reason why I should do it and why I should not. Eventually, I'm hit with the "screw it" attitude and decide that dealing with the consequences will be future me's problem.

"It's one of my teammates, actually. He's new and a total outsider, not to mention he's also a jerk. And I mean it, trust me. Having one civilized conversation with this guy is beyond impossible." My fists clench at the very thought of Xander. I'm angry at myself for letting him get to me so easily. "My coach says he wants us to bond or whatever, but he basically made me babysit him." And the other way around too, but she doesn't have to know that. "The problem is he hates me and vice versa."

Lindsay bites her lip, analyzing my petty rant.

"But has he done or said something to you? I mean something you can't really get past. Because if your issues lay in his general grumpiness and your whatever-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you, it's pretty easy to solve."

I don't know what to say. Part of me—the one that remembers how much it hurt to hear the words "You're fake" from Xander—wants to confirm the first scenario, but deep down I know it's far from the truth. He was right; there's no denying it.

"And what is the magic solution?" I ask, even though I'm aware only a miracle would help in our situation.

Her lips curl in a wicked grin, which can't be a good sign.

"Do you have any idea how much I hated my roommate at the beginning of my freshman year?"

Well, I just met you, so not really.

"Honestly, I still can't believe none of us committed murder. I was so close to filling out the room reassignment form, but then I decided that I would at least try to be friends with her. Wasn't easy—far from it actually. Doesn't mean I regret it though, because I got myself a best friend."

"I tried to be friends with him, and it kinda backfired. What exactly was it that helped you two?"

"Alcohol. I found some random two-person drinking game, got both of us completely hammered and in moods for weird confessions, and bam, besties."

That would sound promising if only I had any intention to speak with him. The whole "I'm done being your punching bag" shit was completely thought-through; I meant every word.

"That's all?"

"We also had sex, but that's optional."

I literally choke on air, because what the fuck?!

"Yeah, no, it's out of the question."

For so many reasons.

"You're straight, huh?"

"Definitely," I say way too quickly.

Suddenly, I'm reminded of all these times I started to question my sexuality and dismissed it so fast it was like it never even happened.

"So am I, dude? Cass too, actually"

Dude?

"Not. Happening."

Our positions on the Kinsley scale aside, fooling around with a teammate is a no-go. While it's not officially forbidden, everyone with an IQ above ten knows how badly it could mess up the team's dynamic. And ours is already like a wounded animal—alive but only barely.

"Whatever you say. But my point still stands—get drunk together and let alcohol do the hard work."

In theory, that's a good idea, in practice, not so much. Because it can end in two ways—with us reaching some sort of understanding or with manslaughter. No in-betweens.

"I suppose it won't hurt to try."

It might, but let's be optimistic.

I don't want it any more than he does, but for the sake of the team, I'm willing to make sacrifices. Even if it's my sanity.

"Exactly. Now"—she scoots closer—"is this teammate by chance the one who's been staring daggers at us for the last few minutes?" She points to her right.

It hardly takes a psychic to predict who I'll see when I look there. That's why I'm tempted to ignore it and just change the topic of our conversation.

But curiosity killed the cat and it will undoubtedly kill me.

Xander's on the other side of the room with his eyes glued to me and Lindsay, and he's not the only one looking—the girl at his side has her focus on us as well.

"Oh yeah, it's him." There's a hint of amusement in her tone. "Judging by how pissed you look."

All kinds of retorts to this comment are on the tip of my tongue, but they refuse to come any further. There's no point in arguing with the truth.

The girl says something to Xander, forcing him to look at her and away from us. Then he smiles at her so brightly, like she just hanged the moon or something. I've never seen him, let alone made him smile like that, and she just did it so...effortlessly.

Turns out it's a "me" thing, not a "Xander hates everyone and everything" thing. Great. Fucking delightful.

He's laughing at whatever she's rambling about, now completely distracted from his hatred for me. Gotta admit, it stings a little, but my ego can take it.

"Looks like it is possible to have a decent conversation with him, you just have to try. And be a ray of fucking sunshine like Cassie."

The last part makes me pause.

"Wait... That's..."

"My roommate, yes," Lindsay says with a cunning smirk.

I look at the tiny brunette at Xander's side, trying to figure out how this all smiles, no frowns girl is the same one that Lindsay hated almost to the point of contemplating homicide.

"I have so many questions," I mutter under my breath, slightly hoping she won't hear me.

But sitting so close, she'd have to be deaf.

"It's impossible to hate her unless you're as much of a grump and pessimist as I was."

"I can think of someone fitting that description who seems to be rather fond of her."

Lindsay laughs.

"Well, in his defense, it's easier to ignore certain things when you're thinking with your dick."

Ain't that the truth.

"Alright, can we change the subject now? I really don't want to spend the night talking about his sex life."

"At least he's getting some," she teases, planting a very unwelcome image in my head.

I can see Xander's strong arms wrapped around Cassie, his hands roaming over her curves, not leaving even an inch untouched. He kisses her hungrily, not caring about air in the slightest. Then he lifts her up like she weighs nothing and...

Stop! God, please, stop!

I shake my head, both disgusted and confused.

What the actual fuck am I doing?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Look at that, I'm still alive!

Hopefully, the next chapter will be up in no time, but no promises.