Page 7 of The Riley Effect

“Isn’t she on the basketball team?” Byron asks from behind the stove. “And she’s really hot, right?”

“She’s my supervisor at the shelter, and I haven’t really seen her around campus before.”

Aaron looks up from whatever he is watching on the television. “Yeah, she doesn’t go out much. She’s really into school.”

I laugh because we are all student athletes, but they pack our schedule with so many hockey obligations that it is nearly impossible for school to be our main priority. I often feel like an athlete who occasionally is able to go to class.

“We had a few classes together freshman year, and then it was like she disappeared, never really saw her again.” Aaron adds.

“Okay well, Marcus and I invited the women’s basketball team over to celebrate last year’s title win.” I pull out a chair from the kitchen table and decide to finish some homework before dinner.

Aaron and Byron slowly turn until they are facing me. Their grins tell me I’m about to get roasted. The boys weren’t happy when I enacted a temporary party ban at the house, and then they proceeded to bet on how long it would last. In all honesty, I knew it wasn’t going to last long, but not even lasting a weekend is pretty sad. I guess I’ll just take the repercussions as they come.

I start flipping through my finance textbook, with the few moments of silence I’m granted until Aaron pulls out the chair across from me.

“So what do you think the odds are that Ivy comes Saturday?”

A weird possessiveness comes over me, and I’m not really sure what to make of it. Ivy has made it clear she isn’t too fond of me, but for some reason, I have this urge to protect her from Aaron’s manwhore tendencies.

“Considering you have the same amount of charm as a brick, it doesn’t matter what you say to her. You have no chance.” Byron shoots back over a pot of boiling sauce.

“I, on the other hand, ooze charm.”

My face grows hot at the thought of either of them with Ivy. Is this what jealousy feels like? If it is, I don’t like it. I’m amazed we haven’t been in this situation before. With all the hockey groupies on campus, I guess we’ve never needed to compete for hookups.

Curiosity gets the best of me and I start making a mental checklist to see if any of our hookups crossed paths. I tap my finger on the table running through three years of hazy college memories, only to realize I don’t really care to remember anything about the girls from my past, my eyes are set on the future. And that future begins Saturday.

“Let the best man win,” Aaron says. He smiles up at me, and I can feel my body tense. I rest my hands on our hand-me-down mahogany table and stand to ensure they fully grasp what I’m about to say.

“Leave her alone. She doesn’t need a bunch of horned-up hockey players trying to get in her pants the first time she comes to our house.” I force Aaron to meet my eyes because I’m serious about everyone feeling comfortable enough to come to a party at our house. If Ivy wanted that kind of attention, she would have been attending parties at our house for the last three years.

I watch as the wheels turn in Aaron Stallway’s brain, and he slowly nods.

“I get it, boss.” I sit back in my chair more relaxed, but not totally confident I can trust the words of my roommate. If I have to spend the year with Ivy as my supervisor, I don’t need my roommates complicating my relationship.

5

Ivy

Stand in front of my closet, foot tapping along with the pop music playing in Indy’s room. How do girls decide what to wear to a party? Because I am struggling right now.

I strum through my closet until I land on a mid-length dress that is way too formal to wear to a party where our main source of alcohol is coming from a keg. I toss it to the reject pile–more like mountain–of clothes on my floor. The outfits there are slowly starting to outnumber what’s left in my closet.

How do people do this every weekend? Is this what takes me out? I can see the headlines now:Westvale Student FoundUnder Avalanche Of Clothes, Due to Indecisiveness And Lack of Party Experience.

I stumble two steps backward, falling flat on my bed. I let out a cathartic groan that’s been wanting to be freed since the ax of outfit number two.

I’ve seen what my friends wear to parties, and I don’t have anything in my closet that compares to their plunging tops and skin-tight skirts. Don’t get me wrong, they look amazing, but that’s just never been my style.

I prefer Jordans to heels. Jeans to dresses. I’m so out of my element right now. Who am I kidding? I’ve been out of it since I agreed to go to this party. I’m struggling to comprehend why I said yes when Indy asked if I’d come tonight. It’s not like I’ve never been to a party. I went to my fair share in high school, but once I got to college, school and basketball became so intense that something had to go, and I chose to party less.

If I was lying to myself, I’d say I’m going tonight because, as team captain, I should be there. It’s a sweet gesture by Marcus and his housemates to throw this party for us. But last night, while lying in bed alone, I found myself thinking about Jalen’s blue eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so striking. They soften his masculine features. His square jawline, the veins that act like a roadmap between toned muscles and intricate tattoos. Tattoos that sprawl to places beyond the naked eye. If my focus wasn’t on feeding the dogs, my ogling would have become embarrassingly obvious.

I’d never admit it if asked, but Jalen Holloway intrigues me. If you look past the fact that he’s slept with half the girls at Westvale, you see how charming he is. How easily he captivates a room just by flashing one of his blinding smiles. His reputation precedes him and I will never be option number one for a man with a roster full of girls.

I’ve been in a couple of relationships, and they were fine, fun even. I still see my exes when they come home, and I need a littlestress relief.It’s probably a little selfish, but I realized long ago that with dreams as big as mine, I need to do what’s best for me and not give a fuck about what others think I should do.

“Lola, why is it so hard to be a girl?” I moan, my eyes glued to the ceiling. The echo of heels click against the hardwood floor telling me she’s already dressed and ready to go. Lola is going to Jasper’s—our favorite hole-in-the-wall college bar—with a few of our friends from the pre-vet program. She’ll meet Indy and me at the hockey house later tonight when it opens up to people other than those on the basketball and hockey teams.

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