Elliot
The last person I expect to see drinking on Jock Row tonight is Coach Donnelly’s daughter, but that’s just who I spot over the rim of my plastic cup as I tip it back to take a gulp.
It’s been a long week, and the cold beer sliding down my throat is a welcome distraction.
Donnelly’s presence has me doing a double take. I’m barely able to reconcile her with the girl I found crying in the library. That girl was upset and disheveled but confident, sad but still friendly.
This one is piss-ass drunk.
I continue watching her from my corner of the room, leaning nonchalantly against the makeshift bar at the far end. It’s crudely built but serves its purpose, lined with empty bottles that used to hold vodka and cheap liquor, painted black and gold, Iowa’s school colors.
Coach Donnelly’s daughter is chugging from a red cup like a seasoned partygoer, the beer in her hand almost a permanent attachment on her mouth, her throat working to swallow, her hand wiping away dripping liquid, dribbling.
Beer must have landed on her sweater, because she takes a second to glance down at her chest, narrowing her eyes.
Takes an uncoordinated swipe at what must be a wet spot, tongue out in concentration as if the movement requires all her concentration.
I wouldn’t have pegged her for a sloppy drunk.
But I suppose her intoxication makes sense, given that she’s out trying to make friends. Throw in the fact that she’s had a fairly shitty week…
She doesn’t look the same; she looks sad and tired, and of course, she looks fucking drunk.
It doesn’t matter that everyone else here is too.
Somehow on her it just seems wrong.
Out of character.
I notice she’s here with a small group of girls, girls I recognize as frequent visitors to the house—another thing surprising me tonight. They’re partiers, out for a good time and to meet athletes. Having lived with two of the university’s champion wrestlers, I’ve seen enough jock chasers to meet my lifetime quota, and the girls Donnelly is with are a stereotype.
Short skirts.
Tight, midriff-bearing tops.
High heels despite the casual nature of the party’s atmosphere.
I glance over again to find Donnelly’s daughter standing by herself again; they’re not sticking together as a group. Drunk, lethargic, clumsy.
So I watch.
Like a fucking creeper. Not caring if it’s weird, I watch, setting down my own beer. Gesture to the dude serving behind the bar and request a water.
Wonder what would happen if the guys here found out the drunk girl in the corner was the wrestling coach’s daughter. Wonder what that information would do to her reputation if they saw her like this.
It really isn’t smart for her to be so reckless; Jock Row isn’t the place to come when you’re trying to hide from your troubles.
This is where you come to be seen.
When Coach’s daughter wavers on shaky legs, I’m at full attention, accidentally bumping the guy next to me, causing him to spill his beer. He plays baseball and lived in this house before they opened rooms to freshmen; too many bodies and he was out.
“Dude, what the hell is your problem?”
I ignore his salty glare.
“Rowdy, see that brunette over there? I think I might need to take her home.”
He claps me on the back. “Atta boy, Elli-nor! It’s about damn time you dipped your wick into someone from Iowa.”
Rowdy’s crude reference to sex doesn’t faze me—my roommate Sebastian was a hundred times worse.
“I meant because she needs help out of here, not so I can sleep with her.” I give him a shove.
“Everyone’s too drunk to be here, or haven’t you noticed?”
“That one, that girl right there.” I turn his body toward Donnelly’s daughter. “Her.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, I see what you mean,” he concedes, nodding his head up and down, examining her from across the room. “She might be too shitfaced to stay. It can’t possibly end well. Wanna take her upstairs and put her in Rookie’s bed to sleep it off?”
Terse shake of my head. “I should get her out of here, away from the alcohol.”
Besides, since when is it safe to leave an incoherent drunk chick in an unlocked house full of intoxicated assholes? Last time I checked, the answer was never.
“You want help getting her to the car, you let me know.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Should I let everyone know you’re offering babysitting services to complete strangers now, Elliot?”
I laugh. “She’s not a complete stranger, not really—I kind of know her. She’s going through a rough time.”
I don’t tell him she’s the wrestling coach’s daughter; that little factoid will stay a secret, at least for now.
“You sure you weren’t a boy scout in a past life? Always helping people, doing nice shit for the elderly and such. How many badges do you have on your vest at home?”
“I’m not always helping people, lay off.” Jeez, why do I sound so defensive?
His brawny shoulders heft in a shrug. “Whatever, suit yourself. You’ll find me in this exact spot, holding up the bar if you need me.” He takes a swig of beer. “I have one more month until spring training starts and my life starts sucking major balls.”
Balls. “Was that a baseball pun?”
“You’re funny Elli-nor. Remind me to laugh at that later.”
I walk away, squeezing through the crowd, shouldering people every now and again, sights focused on one thing.
The girl.
Who is totally sloshed and in need of rescuing. No doubt she’ll be nursing a hangover in the morning, and based on how she’s slamming down beer or whatever it is in that cup, she’s nursing some pretty damn hard feelings.
I know she’s miserable.
I know she’s new here.
What I don’t know is her first name or where she lives, but I’m going to help her anyway.
I make my way toward her through the thick crowd, the house getting more congested by the hour. I curse these weekly parties but still show up.
Thank fucking Christ I don’t live here.
I get slapped on the back in greeting every five feet; it takes an entire ten minutes for me to cross a twenty-foot room. Everyone thinks they know me. Everyone wants to be my friend because of who my roommates were. Zeke Daniels and Sebastian “Oz” Osborne, two of the most celebrated student athletes on campus, both of whom have graduated and moved on.
They moved in with their girlfriends while I, on the other hand, am still working on my degree, working toward grad school. Having declared a major late in the game, I fell behind, putting me a year behind.
How those assholes managed to play a sport and graduate on time is beyond me.
I keep pushing forward, excusing myself the entire way, annoying some people, bumping into others.
“Donnelly.”
Her smile is lopsided when she lifts her neck to look up at me, eyelids droopy. “Oh! It’s you!”
“Yup. It’s me.”
“Library guy, why are you always coming to say hello when I look shitty?” Her mouth turns down in an exaggerated frown. “It’s rude.”
“You don’t look shitty.” You look drunk.
She lifts a hand to her dark brown hair self-consciously. It falls in messy waves over her shoulders. “I don’t?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Ugh,” she groans, pressing a forefinger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m drunk.”
My smile is wry, my arms crossed. “You don’t say.”
“Yes, really really drunk.” Back against the wall, she slumps, white off-the-shoulder top sagging to one side, threatening to lower indecently as the fabric catches then drags along the wall.
“Don’t you think you should stop drinking if it’s making you feel like crap?”
She ignores my question, instead lodging complaints. “My head feels ugh and I know I’m going to have the spins when I get home.” The heel of her hand presses to her forehead and she moans. “Do you have any chocolate milk?”
“Chocolate milk?”
“Yeah, it’s good for a hangover,” she slurs. “It’s hydrating and will help raise my blood sugar.”
“I was not aware of that.”
“My cousins drink a lot.”
“And you don’t?”
“No, can’t you tell? I don’t know where all the beer came from.”
“The keg. It came from the keg, and now I think it’s time for us to go.”
“I don’t want to go because if I do, I’ll go to sleep, and if I sleep, I’ll get the spins, and I’m so scared of the spins.”
“What are the spins?” Is this girl code for something?
“Here, I’ll show you.” She demonstrates, twirling her hand in circles. “When the room goes round and round and round until you wanna puke.” Her head gives a remorseful shake. “It’s the worst.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Know what I think?” She’s slurring again, peering into her red cup with one eye squeezed shut. Even intoxicated, the gesture is endearing.
“What do you think?”
“Beers is gone.” Her cup gets thrust into the space between us. “Think I need another one.”
“Pretty sure you’ve had enough.”
Her lip juts out, pouting. “You’re no fun.”
“Yeah, I get that all the time.”
“Guys are dumb.”
Can’t argue with that.
“I don’t mean you,” she says hastily. “You’re nice and so cute.”
I pause at that, hesitate.
Take a step closer into her personal space—not to be creepy, but to remove the beer cup suspended from her fingers, setting it on a nearby windowsill.
“Hey! Why’d you take my drink!” As loud as she manages to protest, her head dips, brown hair falling in a long sheet—can’t even hold her neck up.
“I’m thinking you’ve had enough for one night, huh? Trust me, you won’t remember any of this in the morning, and maybe you’ll even thank me later.”
Loud sigh.
I lean down, dipping low so she can hear me. “When we’re in the car, you’re going to have to give me your address so I can take you home, okay? Think you can do that?”
Her limp head shakes back and forth. “No way. My father will kill me.”
My brows furrow. Great, a belligerent drunk—just what I need.
“I’m sure your dad will be glad you made it out of here without getting yourself assaulted.”
I brace my knees, bending to scoop her up, tossing her over my shoulder like a sack of flour—not that I have any fucking clue what a sack of flour feels like, but I imagine it’s lighter than she is.
She’s pure dead weight.
“Come on party girl, you can argue with me in the car.”
Getting her into my car is relatively easy—way too easy considering the fact that I’m a virtual stranger and it took little convincing to get her to come with me.
I make a mental note to lecture her on safety when she’s sober.
But first, I have to get her home.
“What’s your address?” I stall at the stop sign, waiting for directions. “Can you tell me?”
“Yes.” A jerky nod. “I don’t remember.”
“How do you not remember your address?”
“I have it written down somewhere…I think.”
“Okay.” I wait patiently as she digs through her bag.
“But not in this purse.” Her shoulders slump, dejected.
“Hey, it’s okay. The address isn’t really that important. Don’t worry about it.” I give her a sidelong glance, hand on the gearshift, waiting for directions. “Think really hard. Which side of campus do you live on? Near the stadium, or by the student union?”
“Oh, definitely farther than that.”
“But which side?”
“Ugh, stop asking me questions! It’s making my head hurt.” Her head falls back against the headrest. “I’m starving. Will you stop at McDonald’s? I’m hungry.”
Now she’s whining. Perfect.
“I really need you to focus—can you look out the window and show me which way to go?” Her head lifts but sways in my direction. “Do you recognize this corner? The admin building is right along this sidewalk.”
“I don’t think this is the right way.”
“So maybe over by the cafeteria?”
That’s completely on the other side of campus.
“Yeah, try that.”
I hang a right, frustrated by all the stop signs and crosswalks, the streets filled with students walking to and from parties, the majority of them inebriated.
A loud sigh fills my car. “Mmm, it smells nice in here.”
“Thanks.”
“You have a really nice profile. I like the bridge of your nose.”
Oh Jesus.
“Was that a weird thing to say? I’m sorry.”
I clear my throat uncomfortably, pointing across her torso, out the window. “Does this street look familiar to you at all?”
We’ve made it halfway around campus, passing various landmarks along the way, none of which she recognizes as being near her street.
“I think the other way.”
“Are you serious right now? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m so hungry!”
“Donnelly, I really need you to focus. I know it’s hard right now but I have to get you home.”
Her head hits the seatback with a thud and she moans. “Do you have any French fries? God, I want salt.”
I frown, sweat breaking out on my brow. “You need to focus and help me out here. We’ve been driving around the block for fifteen fucking minutes.”
She pats me on the shoulder, squeezing once. Twice. “Thank you, that’s so sweet.” Closes her eyes.
I pray for patience. “Do not fall asleep on me.”
“Mmkay.” Her head lulls, pert little mouth falling open.
Shit.
“Seriously. I am not equipped to deal with this, Donnelly.”
Not right now.
Not tonight.
At the next set of lights, I glance over to study her under the streetlamps, dozing lightly, a small smile playing at her lips.
Dark hair. Red lips. Bare shoulders.
So pretty.
I can’t take her back to the party, and there’s no way I can take her to her house now that I have no goddamn clue where she lives.
Basically, I’m fucked.
Stuck with her.
My car hits a pothole and she chooses that moment to groan.
“Please don’t barf in my car,” I beg.
Her arm reaches out in an attempt to give mine another reassuring pat. Too heavy to execute the action, it flops down on the center console with a thud.
“Mmkay.” Her pretty head rolls toward me, eyelids cracking open. She gives me a wobbly smile. “I won’t barf in your truck.”
It’s a car—a black Mustang, to be exact—not a truck, and I’m entirely convinced she’s going to vomit at any moment, big doe eyes sliding closed, dark lashes fluttering against her smooth cheeks.
Damn. Even passed-out drunk, she’s really fucking attractive.
I hang a left, trying not to notice her appearance.
Drive two blocks. Turn right. Pull up in front of the one-room rental I moved into at the end of last semester once my roommate Zeke moved his girlfriend into my old place since he owns it.
Education.
Career.
Those are my priorities.
Gone are the days where I piss away my nights partying, though I certainly enjoy hanging out with my friends on the weekends, enjoy playing pick-up soccer when I have the time.
My rental house is small, painted a disgusting shade of yellow, in the center of the block. Grass overgrown, siding and trim in desperate need of repair, but that’s not my problem, it’s my landlord’s, and he doesn’t give two shits about the exterior of the house.
The upside? It’s mine until I graduate.
The rent is so affordable it makes having a piece-of-shit landlord worth the hassle of having to fix things on my own. I can do whatever I want, whenever the fuck I want, without answering to anyone.
I cut the engine and unbuckle, turning my torso toward a girl whose name I do not know. She’s slumped in my passenger seat, and I still know nothing about her, except that her father is the wrestling coach here—a man who’s respected and revered across the nation and the entire NCAA.
A girl who was dumped on by a few of his idiotic wrestlers without a lick of any goddamn sense.
Bunch of fuckers.
A snore escapes her lips when I reach to unbuckle her seat belt, a snore that tells me she’s in no condition to walk herself to my front door.
Wasting no time, I climb out of my car and jog to the passenger side. Pause. Hike up my short sidewalk in a few long strides, yanking open the screen and unlocking the door. Push through it, propping it with the nearest heavy object—a twenty-pound weight—satisfied it’s open wide enough so I won’t bang her head when I carry her limp body through.
Quickly, I jaunt back to her slumbering figure; the young woman doesn’t stir at the sound of the door easing open.
Not even when I slide my hands behind her back, skimming one arm under her ass to hoist her. She’s lighter than she looks, but still heavier than a sack of flour.
Ha.
Awesome. I’m so delirious I’m making stupid fucking jokes to myself.
Jesus, Elliot, get a grip.
I heave, raising her up, sliding her out of my car, which isn’t an easy task. Maneuvering her without knocking her head on the metal doorframe of my car is damn near impossible. It’s a miracle I don’t give her a concussion.
Kicking the door shut with the bottom of my foot, I lift her, shifting so I have a steady grip.
I’ve never carried anyone in my arms before—drunk or sober—but here I am, carrying a veritable stranger across the threshold of my shoddy college rental.
Walking straight to my bedroom, I don’t have the chance to straighten my covers, choosing to lay her as gently as possible in the center of my bed. I set about removing her shoes, little black boots with a gold zipper up the side.
Her feet are dainty, like her hands, and when I peel off her socks, I notice her toenails are a shocking shade of blue.
She wiggles them then, as if she knows I’m looking, rolling to her side. Her shirt hikes up, revealing a flat, pale stomach.
Innie belly button.
Easing my comforter from under her slim frame, I pull it up and over her body, blue sheets still trapped beneath her. She stirs, hands clasped beneath her chin like one of those angel figurines my mom used to collect, looking innocent and sweet, not drunk and incoherent.
Snuggles deeper into my mattress and pillows.
Sighs.
Groans.
Leaving her on my bed, I flip the light off, backing into the hallway with a quick glance over my shoulder. Grab the garbage can from the bathroom and place it next to the bed.
Pull the door closed behind me but leave it slightly ajar. I flick the bathroom light on in case she wakes in the middle of the night.
Shit.
What if she does wake up in the middle of the night and freaks the fuck out because she has no idea where she is? What if she wakes up then wakes me up?
What if she barfs in my bed?
That would be my worst nightmare, but I’m so tired I don’t have the energy to think about it anymore. Being a good Samaritan is fucking exhausting.
I settle my ass on the couch, pulling off one shoe at a time, then my socks. Yank on a hoodie I tossed on the coffee table earlier because where the hell is my snuggle blanket?
Oh, there it is.
Disgruntled, I snatch up one of the couch cushions to use as a pillow, grabbing the one throw blanket I have and tossing it over my legs. It’s gray, and approximately the size of a postage stamp—it barely covers anything. Cursing into the cold air, bad insulation, and sky-high monthly electric bills that keep my heating needs unmet, I hunker deeper into my Iowa hoodie.
I’m too tall for this shit.
For this couch.
I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide in the bleakness, grateful for my sweatshirt, scrap of blankie, and pitch-black living room. Still…knowing there’s someone else in my bedroom that I made myself responsible for has me awake, mind reeling.
For whatever reason, this girl has ended up in my path three times in one week, and I lie there wondering about the odds of that before flopping over, rolling to stare in the general direction of the television.
I blow out a frustrated puff of air, too large and long to get comfortable on this fucking sofa; it’s lumpy and dumb and I’m going to be awake all damn night, I just know it.
In fact, I’m already scheduling myself a Saturday afternoon nap. That thought mollifies me somewhat as I lie motionless for what feels like an eternity.