Collide

s e v e n

Sloane

The night feels charged with an electric energy as we pull up to Malachi's house, the low rumble of bass vibrating through the car windows even before we step out. I'm not sure if it's the anticipation of the night ahead or just the general chaos that comes with these kinds of parties, but my stomach is a knot of nerves and excitement.

As we climb out of the car, I take in the scene—people are already spilling out onto the front lawn, red Solo cups in hand, laughter and chatter mingling with the pulsating music. The house itself is practically shaking with the beat, lights flashing through the windows as if signaling that this is where the real action is.

Harper, always the first to jump into anything, practically bounces on her toes beside me, her energy infectious. "This is going to be epic," she says, her eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and mischief. "Time to show these hockey boys how to really party."

I smile, though I can't quite shake the uneasy feeling in my gut. Harper's enthusiasm is hard to resist, but there's a part of me that's still on edge. Maybe it's the fact that this is Malachi's house, and the thought of seeing him again stirs something inside me that I'm not ready to confront. Or maybe it's just the overwhelming vibe of the party itself, the sheer number of people packed into one place, all looking for a way to let loose.

"Ready?" Hazel asks, adjusting her jacket as a cool breeze sweeps through the night air.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I reply, pushing down the nerves and following Harper up the front steps.

As soon as we step inside, we're hit with a wall of heat, noise, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol mixed with something sweeter. The living room is a sea of people, bodies swaying to the heavy beat that's blasting from speakers somewhere in the corner. The lights are dim, casting everything in a hazy glow, and the air is thick with the buzz of energy that comes from a party that's just getting started.

"Wow, they really went all out," Hazel murmurs, her eyes wide as she takes in the scene.

"Of course they did," Harper replies, already scanning the room with a gleam in her eye. "These are hockey players—everything they do is over the top."

I can't help but agree. The house is filled with little touches that scream "college hockey players live here"—a wall covered in framed jerseys, a few scattered trophies, and of course, the massive flat-screen TV that's currently showing some game on mute, probably a replay of one of their own. It's all so... them.

We make our way through the crowd, dodging groups of people who are either deep in conversation or completely lost in the music. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, booze, and something else I can't quite place—probably someone's attempt at making the night more "fun" with some questionable substances.

As we enter the kitchen, the scene shifts slightly. The room is packed with people, but there's a different kind of vibe here—more relaxed, though no less intense. A makeshift bar has been set up on the counter, bottles of liquor and mixers lined up in neat rows, with a few people taking on the role of amateur bartenders.