Had I not made it clear—painfully clear—that I had never had a drink before in my entire life?
Because, yeah. That first sip had nearly murdered my throat. But for some reason probably peer pressure and a dash of desperation. I tip my head back and throw the rest of the drink down like I know what I'm doing. It still burns, lighting a small fire all the way down to my stomach, but I don't cough this time. That feels like growth.
Jade watches me with a proud kind of smirk, like she's just taught a puppy to sit. "There you go," she says approvingly. "When you want another, just ask for vodka with cranberry. Simple. Clean. Won't kill you… probably."
"O-oh, thanks," I say, a bit too enthusiastically, still clutching the empty cup like it might explode if I drop it. I take a final sip from what's left—just a watered-down swirl of regret at the bottom.
Her smile softens as she leans in, placing a hand gently on my shoulder. "And hey," she adds, her voice lower now, more serious. "Word of warning? You seem like a decent kid. If I were you, I wouldn't get too wrapped up in Mateo. He's… complicated. He'll break you if you let him."
Before I can say anything—before I can even ask what that's supposed to mean, she gives my shoulder a small, affectionate pat, then turns and disappears into the crowd like she was never there to begin with. Just a brief, bright flash of pastel-blue hair swallowed up by dancing bodies and pulsing lights.
I stand there by the kitchen counter for a few seconds longer, processing what she said. Trying to steady my heartbeat and also maybe decode whatever the hell "he'll break you" is supposed to mean when the guy in question already has me spiraling in thirty different directions.
Then, suddenly, someone grabs my arm. A hand, firm and eager yanks me away from the counter, practically dragging me through the crowd toward a nearby table.
"What the—?"
"We've got another one!" a girl shouts, clearly the one responsible for hauling me into whatever nonsense this is.
The music dips for a second, and I find myself standing in front of a table covered in scattered Solo cups. It's sticky with beer and smells like regret. There's already a game in progress, from the look of it. A circle of people surrounds the setup like it's some sacred ritual.
At one end of the table, a guy's chugging from a red cup while a group of guys cheer like it's the Olympics. One girl hangs off his arm like he's a trophy, laughing and whispering something into his ear. He's tall, muscular, and practically glows with frat-boy smugness. His dark hair is slicked back, and his jawline could cut diamonds. The tank top he's wearing shows off biceps that could be weaponized.
The other end of the table—my end—is noticeably empty.
"I found someone to go against Danny!" Bracelet Girl announces, slurring slightly as she stumbles into me with a laugh.
I blink at her, unsure of how this became my problem. "Wait, what? I—I don't even know how to play."
Bracelet Girl waves me off like that's a minor inconvenience. "It's easy! You just chuck the ball and drink when you mess up," she giggles. She's got at least twenty bracelets on one arm and probably the alcohol tolerance of a grizzly bear. "This is Danny," she adds, gesturing toward Smug Jawline Guy like he's a celebrity.
Danny lifts his chin and flashes me a grin that's halfway between a wink and a challenge. "You throw, I drink. I throw, you drink. That's the deal. Real simple."
"Right," I mutter, trying not to panic. I suddenly feel very aware of the fact that I have zero hand-eye coordination. Like, none. If I ever had to survive on aim alone, I'd be dead in five minutes.
Bracelet Girl presses a ping pong ball into my hand, and I clutch it like it might bite me.
Danny leans forward a bit, resting both hands on the table, his smirk widening. "You're up first, newbie. Don't choke."
He doesn't mean it the same way Mateo would, but still… I can't help but shiver at the word.
Great. I'm officially the center of attention, about to humiliate myself in front of a crowd of strangers and someone's incredibly attractive, possibly evil brother.
I glance down at the cups. Then at the ball in my hand.
Then back at Danny, who's looking at me like he already knows I'm going to lose.
Yeah. This is going to go so well.
I take a breath, try to steady my hand, and throw the ping pong ball.
It's a disaster.
The ball sails awkwardly, nowhere near the cups, ricochets off the edge of the table, and disappears under someone's feet. It's like it actively dodged the target on purpose—just to humiliate me.
Almost immediately, the laughter starts. Not the polite kind, either. It's loud and sharp, cutting through the thrum of music and conversation like a knife. A few people clap mockingly. Someone whistles. And I feel every ounce of their amusement land directly on my face, which is currently hot enough to roast marshmallows on.
The guy across the table—black hair, sculpted jawline, muscles for days—barely stifles a smirk as he picks up his ball. His eyes lock on mine, like he's daring me to flinch, and he doesn't even hesitate before throwing. The ball arcs through the air like it's been practicing its whole life for this one moment and drops cleanly into the center cup of the pyramid.
Dead center.
Of course.
"Drink up, pretty boy," he says, lips curling into a smug grin. The nickname lands like an insult dressed as a compliment. He says it like he's said it a thousand times before to strangers, to flings, to anyone who looks remotely unsure of themselves.
I feel the blush creep from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. My pride is in shambles. But I remember Jade's advice: just drink fast. So I reach for the cup, ignore the way the warm beer sloshes toward the rim, and down it in one long gulp.
It tastes like regret and soggy cereal. Like wheat and sadness blended into one unholy cocktail. I gag slightly but force it down, desperate not to give Mr. Alpha Male another reason to laugh at me.
The rest of the game is a blur of mild public humiliation. I land maybe two shots—total—and only by some kind of divine pity. Meanwhile, he sinks every single throw like he's an Olympic beer pong athlete. The crowd loves him. I'm pretty sure they hate me. Or worse—they feel sorry for me.
By the time we're finished, my head is spinning and my legs feel like they're made of pool noodles. My thoughts are thick and sludgy, running into each other like cars in a fog. I've got the weird sensation that I could do anything. Like scale the Empire State Building in flip-flops. Which would be great—except we're not in New York.
"Dude, that was the worst game of beer pong I've ever seen," the guy announces, shaking his head dramatically. His friends burst out laughing, slapping each other on the back like they've just witnessed something historic.
"Yeah, thanks for the public execution," I mutter under my breath as I turn away, heart hammering in my chest. My dignity is somewhere on the floor, probably next to the first ping pong ball I threw.
And just like that, I stumble off into the crowd, already regretting every life choice that brought me to this moment.
I run into someone. "Sorry," I mumble at whoever I hit. My words slosh out of my mouth like water in a small child's bathtub. Strong hands clamp on my forearms. "Are you drunk, Philip?" The voice is incredibly familiar.
"Mateo!" I yell, looking up at him.
Mateo releases my forearms and grabs my hand. His hands are slightly calloused, which is definitely hot. Mateo drags me through the crowd of horny teenagers. He stops his dragging when we arrive at a room.
He pulls me into said room.
"What are we doing in here?" I ask, surveying my surroundings.
"Well, I'm certaintly not letting you drive home. You're drunk as fuck." He drags a hand through his fluffy hair.
Mateo's standing in the middle of the room he pulled me into. I walk toward him and snake my hands around his waist. "That's sweet," I whisper. I prop myself up on my tippy toes and press a soft kiss against his lips....