Page 47 of Jaded

But it’s like Mom said. I gotta get out there. Make friends, dance the night away, grind on hot teammates—no it was definitely not that one. I shouldn’t be grinding on anyone. ’Cause when there’s confusion or indecision, guess who gets hurt? Little Olli with his hopeful heart . . .

But in any case. I need to get out there, with the team, making friends and impressions and all that glorious jazz.

We lost tonight, but if I ever expect to win, we gotta build something. Winning at hockey isn’t just about talent or skill or knowing your plays. It’s about synergy . . . family.

I heave a heavy sigh, because I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic—just ask Mom—and slip out of the locker room. And instead of cozying down into my bed with Netflix and a bowl of popcorn, I head back out into the dark and cold, a new address in my GPS.

Time to go influence people and make friends, or whatever the saying is.

My heart races with a combination of nerves and dread as I guide the truck across the perpetually icy streets. It’s even worse on the edge of town.

Andy Everton’s house perches at the very end of a narrow, tree-lined street. Half hidden away behind a small forest of pines, probably a quarter mile from the neighboring home—ah, I see why it’s the team party pad.

The house itself is massive, but the mossy shingles and time-scrubbed siding, sagging front porch, and long, unpaved driveway indicate his pro-athlete salary might be a bit stunted.

A glistening stretch of snow surrounds the three-story single-family block of basic carpentry. Cars and trucks sprawl across the long driveway, into the snow on either side, line the road—this isn’t just a party, but a big one.

I sigh. Aloud. Because I’m dramatic like that. Then I find an easily escapable parking spot on the edge of the yard.

The party’s already well underway when I cut the engine. Music spills down the street. Thumping bass and the thrum of voices set the soundtrack to whatevercelebration of lifeis happening inside.

I sit in the truck, trying to get all my shiz together, to compile all my energy into a big ball of smiling fun, instead of the lounge-n-’flix energy it wants to be. My fingers tap against my leg.

Time to do this, Olls.

I slide out of the truck. Beneath my feet, slick ice threatens to steal my balance, maybe not realizing that I’m a child of winter and ice. I’d rather be out here, navigating icy roads in the dark, than partaking in whatever awaits inside, but I gotta. Deep inhale, and I start up the slippery driveway.

I push through the door and into a crowded but fortunately wide-open main floor. Between the music and voices, I’ll have to shout to be heard.

Lovely. My absolute fav.

“Oliver James! Olli Jay!” Everton barrels into my back, nudging me into a wide kitchen with battered laminate countertops. From the smell coming off the guy, he’s already a few sheets to the wind. “We’re gonna have so much fun tonight!”

“Sure.” I flash my grin and start scanning for help.

The kitchen’s crowded with unfamiliar faces, people leaning against counters, clustered around the island. Beyond the kitchen, the living room comprises a collection of sleek leather couches. The dining table seems to have been stripped of its chairs and transformed into a beer pong table.

Wonderful.

Ah. Wait. There. Charlie Holland stands at the end of the kitchen island, dumping cherry vodka into plastic red cups. Surely I can go talk to him. “I think I’m gonna get a—”

“Shots!” Holls yells. “Let’s drink our woes away!”

Dammit. There goes that avenue of salvation, ’cause no way am I doing a shot of whatever cheap hell is in those cups.

Which means now I’m in total awkward-as-crap wallflower mode, lurking mid-kitchen while a couple more teammates pile in for shots.

I drift along the edge, looking for . . . someone sober, or at least fractionally as awkward as I’m feeling. Someone who might not mind the company of another wallflower. But I’m pretty sure everybody here is in the Getting Pissed Brigade.

More darkness in a town I’d hoped might be filled with light.

I hate these parties. Like, so much. And the best part is that later tonight, instead of sleeping, I get to relive every moment, the way only an awkward introvert can. Get to wonder how many awkward, dumb things I said—you know, whilst being Mr. Wallflower, the picture of social awkwardness and classic overthinking.

I spot Devereaux beside a keg, start creeping his way. His handsome face blooms into a grin. “Hey, James. You down for some flip cup?”

He bobs his head towards the rear of the dining-living area. Ah, Everton has not one but two dining tables. And yes, the second hasbeen repurposed for a flip-cup tournament. Red cups scatter over the table, and Everton’s linemate Skyler—Legolas—sets a pitcher of beer in the center.

“Um . . .” It’s only eleven. I still have plenty of time to flash my smile around before I make my escape. Might even manage to catch a few hours of sleep before open hockey tomorrow morning.

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