The first time attending a real college party full of football players was bound to be intimidating. But it’s definitely more so when you arrive wearing a pig nose and a shirt that says “Papa Pig’s Pizza Palace” across the front of it.

I stand at the door to the swanky house, holding boxes of hot pizza, and wondering what horrible stuff I must’ve done in a past life to end up in this karmic hellhole. Hellhole factor, the first: Football players. They’re the actual worst, so far as I can tell— all smashing beer cans on foreheads and smelling-like-old-socks and full scholarships for being good at hitting people.

Hellhole factor, the second: Pizza. I don’t even like Papa Pig’s pizza. It’s basically 90% grease, and the smell of it gets in my hair and clothes for days after I work a shift.

Hellhole factor, the third: Parties. I’m not really a party kind of girl. I’m more of the coffee shop, bookstore, quiet night with Netflix type.

But here I am, heading up to a college football party, delivering twenty-seven large boxes of Papa Pig’s pizza (their regular order, according to my boss). I lug the warming boxes out of my car and up the steps— I’m pretty sure they weigh more than I do, but like hell am I making two trips. The house is one of those totally re-done craftsman bungalows that probably has a thousand more rooms than you’d expect based on the street view. There’s a wide wooden front porch covered in rocking chairs, and the whole place glows with the light pouring from every window and the glass storm door. It’s probably a million dollar home— most of the houses that sit right across from the school’s north campus are. At Berkfield University, though, parties in million dollar homes are just Friday nights for the football team.

Must be nice.

I take a deep breath, trying not to let the exertion show as I finally reach the porch. I drop the warming boxes onto the ground, adjust my pig nose, and ring the bell.

“Pizza! It’s here!” a thick, heavy voice shouts. There’s a sea of people inside, girls in short dresses filling up the hallways and guys leaning against the walls or man-spreading on the wide staircase. The voice belongs to none of these— it belongs to a bro who muscles his way through the crowd, grinning at me. He’s got his phone ready.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. He grabs the door and swings it open.

“Thanks— hey, we need some people for the picture,” the guy shouts over his shoulder. “Come on, come on, let’s do this so we can eat!”

A few girls from the hall cut their conversations short and walk toward the porch, glossy lips and heels so high they seem physically impossible to walk in. “Can she come in? It’s cold out there,” one of them pouts, rubbing her arms. I want to point out that if she was wearing more than a glorified washcloth in September, she might not be cold, but I resist.

“Yeah, she can come in,” the guy who answered the door says, like I’m an actual pig that needs to be cleared before entering the premises. He pushes the door farther open, and I grab the pizzas to hoist them inside. No one makes any effort to help, as they’re too busy arranging themselves by height for the photo. I’ve just gotten the warming boxes in when they’re satisfied, and they usher me over to the place of honor, right in the center of a pack of four supermodel-gorgeous girls and a number of chiseled, broad-shouldered guys.

“Alright, ready? Say, “Go Razorbacks”!” the guy who answered the door calls, and a flash goes off as he takes a photo. I’m pretty sure my eyes were closed.

“Do we look cute?” one of the girls asks. “Can we redo it if we don’t?”

“You all look great,” the door guy says, and slaps her playfully on the ass. She giggles and scampers away. The girls begin to delve into the warming boxes, pulling out pizza and announcing repeatedly that this is their “cheat day”, like they need to have a formal excuse to eat Papa Pig’s.

“I just need you to sign the receipt—“ I say, reaching inside my short apron for the pad.

“Yeah, yeah, hang on, let me get this loaded,” the door guy says. He taps around on his phone, uploading hellhole factor, the fourth, to social media— the photo he just took, with the hashtag #ImAPapaPig. Doing so earns you free cheesy bread. That’s right, folks: My dignity is worth sacrificing for free Papa Pig’s cheesy bread.

I didn’t know all this when I took the job, for what it’s worth.

“If you could just sign here,” I say, again pushing the pad toward door guy. He’s snorting, adding filters to the photo that make the other girls look cuter and highlight my pig nose.

“Ok, right, yeah,” he says, finally clicking to send the picture through. He turns to me— I don’t think he’s actually looked me in the eye once— and snatches the pad from my hand, hurriedly scribbling a name on it. I’m pretty sure he’s not the guy who owns the credit card that paid for the pizza, but arguing over that is definitely above my pay grade.

“Thanks, have a great night,” I say stiffly as he shoves the pad back in my direction. I spin around, grabbing for my keys from my apron—

And hit the floor.

No, wait, I don’t hit the floor exactly— I hit, in this order: A sorority girl’s sleek, freshly-shaved leg, her hip, her head, the warming box she was hovering over, the box of pizza in another girl’s hands, the boxes of pizza she’d removed and placed on the floor, and then, finally, the floor.

There’s squealing and shrieking all around me as I try to untangle myself from the pizza boxes and warming boxes and highlighted ponytails and manicured hands. I put a hand down— straight into a pizza, which, being Papa Pig’s, is so greasy that it slides from my grip and I fall back onto the floor again. I stare at the ceiling for a bit, both because I smacked my head on the hardwood and because I’m actively trying to dissolve into the floor.

I fail to dissolve, though, so I eventually haul myself off the ground. The other girls are frittering around one another, weeping at the grease stains on their designer clothes. Door guy and a few others are laughing, shouting that the girls are welcome to strip down and throw their clothes in the wash. My pig nose has twisted around to the side of my face, and I can tell without looking that my own clothes are soaked through with pizza grease and sauce. I fling my hands, and grease spatters along the wall behind me. I yank the pig nose off my face, stoop to grab for the warming boxes, and go to make my pizza-drenched exit, because like hell am I staying here a moment longer.

“Hey, wait, are you okay? I think you’re bleeding,” someone says, and steps in front of me. Someone? Or multiple someones? The person— the guy, it was a guy’s voice— is so broad and tall that it takes me a moment to realize he’s a single human being. I can feel my eyes stinging with the threat of tears, not from humiliation, but rather from the pizza spices, so I avoid looking up at the speaker.

“I’m fine, I just need to get back and change,” I say stiffly.

“No, seriously, I think you’re bleeding— oh, wait, no. That’s just tomato sauce,” the guy says, and I realize his fingers are in my hair. Despite the fact that his fingers are gentle, I yank my head back— who the hell does this guy think he is, touching me? Oh, right— a football player. They think they can touch and do and have anything they want.

“I’m fine. I need to go. I have more deliveries,” I say quickly, and try to shoulder past him. The rest of the partygoers are still laughing behind me; I want to get out of here before they decide to take photos of me like this with that godforsaken hashtag.

The new guy laughs a little. “Well, true. You’re going to have to bring us another set of pizzas, since you sat on ours.”

I freeze.

Is this guy fucking kidding me?

I turn toward the guy, and finally lift my eyes to his face. He has dark, almost-black eyes, and perfectly messy hair. He looks like a man composed of right angles— a ninety degree bend defines his jaw, his shoulder muscles, the place where his neck meets his chest. Even his pectorals are clearly ninety-degree angles— I can see them through his fitted t-shirt. He’s smiling— he meant that bit about delivering more pizzas as a joke, clearly, but realizing that does nothing to keep a furious scowl from crossing my face.

“Or we could probably just throw your shirt on a plate and dig in. It’s pretty much got a whole pizza on it at his point,” he says, folding his mammoth arms and looking me up and down.

“Ha. Bye,” I snap, and move to shoulder past him again.

He doesn’t step aside, and if a football player doesn’t move on his own, it’s pretty difficult to budge him. “Hey, you don’t want to get in your car like that. You’ll destroy the interior. Let me lend you a shirt,” the guy says.

I take a breath. “Go get me a shirt then,” I say. I’m not worried about the interior of my car in terms of looks— I’ve had it since freshman year of high school, and it was old then. But I know that if I sit down in it with Papa Pig’s soaked clothes on, I will never get the smell out.

“Come on, follow me,” the guy says, nodding his head in a direction that indicates a more private area.

I want to point out the fact that I asked him to go get me a shirt, not to take me to get one— but he’s already moving away, leaving me exposed and alone at the door. I chew my lip for a second— if I stay here, the rest of the partygoers are bound to remember me. Whatever, I think, as I hurry behind the stranger, up the steps, and into whatever fate awaits me on the second floor.