The Drinking Game

The rules were easy.
Friday nights. With Agustin Eaton.

Whoever has the most drinks and remains sober wins.
No kissing, no strings, no getting naked, and no sharing of real-life problems.

Just a platonic bet of alcohol.
The winner earns absolutely nothing. Loser gets their egos kicked.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

For the past four months, I've been doing this shit with Gus. Why? Because he was a fucking jackass who called me a whiney bitch. And I was not about to lose to some tie-wearing asshole who thinks he can outdrink me in my own party.

But I admit that I was keeping the fact that I was attracted to him. Very attracted. Like I-want-to-get-naked-with-him attracted.

But the rules say no.

And the rule of nature simply doesn't permit the dropout broke model to hook up with the school bad boy athlete. It was frowned upon.

But I guess it's time to fuck with nature's law exactly how it fucked me
Agustin Eaton? I want him all to myself.