College Ruled

seventeen

| 17 |
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WHEN GRAYSON and I emerge from upstairs, the house has shed its quiet skin and erupted into chaos.

Empty Walmart bags line the floor from the foyer to the kitchen door. A stack of Domino's pizza lays discarded on the coffee table. And the loud, flamboyant sound of the handful of football players who live here rumbles through the walls.

Grayson lightly shoves me down the last step, catching my hand in his when I stumble forward and nearly fall on my face. "They're here," he says, ignoring the sharp glare I toss over my shoulder. He steps around me and tugs me toward the kitchen. "Perfect."

      Perfect.

     The word sounds much more sarcastic in my head than on his lips.

We shoulder our way into the cramped kitchen.

"Oh, shiiiit," a voice chimes the moment they all spot us. "Christening the house already, Gray?"

The owner of the voice leans into the fridge next to Christina, who is seated on the counter, feet dangling in the space between her and Chase. I recognize him from Gabby's — Preston, I think? He has a runner's physique, tall and lean. Glossy, ebony strands of hair stick wildly out of place. Which is an accomplishment, given how short his hair is. His pale cheeks are flushed with humor, and they only darken when Maverick beelines his way around the kitchen island to toss a bundle of bananas onto the fridge, pausing for the briefest of moments to smack Preston on the back of the head.

The kitchen is way too small for the amount of people currently crammed inside. I have to squeeze in next to Grayson just to get the door to swing closed behind me.

      I lock eyes with Theo, who stands by the wide window at the back of the room. His water bottle pauses halfway to his lips as he takes me in.

    I wonder how much he hates this. How much he must have bitched at whoever it was that initially agreed to let us stay here. How much he must want to shrivel up and crawl his way out of this kitchen, just like me—

     He smiles, holding my stare. Then, he winks. So casually and calm it doesn't even register in my brain until he's glancing away, gulping down his water.

     I scoff before I can think better of it. The sound is drowned out by the other, louder voices decorating the kitchen, but Grayson hears it. His gaze flicks down to me, trails over to where—who—I'm staring at, and ever-so-slowly, a knowing smirk creeps its way onto his mouth.

     Because he thinks this proves he's right. I'm pining—

"Who's ready to parrrtyyy—" A deep voice cuts through the walls. The kitchen door swings open a moment later, nearly smacking me in the face. It would have hit me, had Grayson not reached an arm behind my head to catch it with his palm.

A mop of honey-colored curls pops in around the doorway. Light brown face tinted in red and eyebrows quirked in shy concern, the man offers me a smile. "Shoot, sorry Remedy," he says, voice five notches more nervous than the battle-cry that rung through the house moments ago.

It's a timidity unmatched by the wall of a man that he is — muscles bulging against the confines of his long sleeved tee, shoulders broad and inches above my height.