Chapter 6 Jacob
Jacob
“One hour, tops, I swear,” I say for what’s probably the hundredth time tonight.
Hugh just glowers at me like I’ve personally insulted him, but he walks beside me anyway, hands jammed in his jacket pockets like the world's most reluctant chaperone.
When I first got asked to come to this party, because apparently all the sports med students were going, my answer was absolutely the fuck not. I had zero interest in losing brain cells at some sweaty, overhyped college bash.
But then... I got the email.
Early acceptance to fucking Harvard.
I figured I deserved one night off from being a neurotic, overachieving academic gremlin. Just one.
Hugh, ever the ride-or-die best friend, agreed to tag along to make sure I don’t get absolutely shit-tanked and end up confessing my sins to a Taco Bell drive-thru worker. Also, I think he was genuinely happy for me. Which, honestly, made the whole thing feel even better.
So yeah. Harvard. Med school. Me. It’s happening.
I got into, arguably, the best medical program on the entire goddamn planet. And I cannot wait to absolutely crush it.
I spent so many hours on that application I could probably recite the whole thing backwards in my sleep.
My grades? Pristine.
My volunteer hours? Chef’s kiss.
My shadowing log? A symphony of professional ass-kissing and actual learning.
I have been working toward this since high school. I have put blood, sweat, tears, and enough caffeine to kill a horse.
And today, all of it finally paid off.
“It’s fine,” Hugh grumbles, pulling me back to the moment. “Let’s just have fun.”
I grin at him and ignore his scowl. “One hour.”
He rolls his eyes, but I catch the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s proud. He won’t say it out loud, but I know.
The party’s already in full nuclear meltdown mode when we show up. I’m talking multiple “dance floors”, which are really just open spaces with sticky floors, and music so loud it’s rattling the windows.
There’s some dude passed out on the front lawn, girls are laughing and drinking from red Solo cups, and guys are playing beer pong on the porch like it’s an Olympic sport.
I don’t go to a ton of parties, but this? This looks exactly like what the movies warned me about.
We step inside and immediately get hit with a wall of smells: beer, weed, sweat, and whatever body spray some guy absolutely drowned himself in. There are bodies everywhere.
People are dancing, yelling, falling into furniture.
It’s chaotic, but I can’t even be mad. I’m still riding this surreal, electric high from the Harvard news.
I’m here to have a couple drinks, say what’s up to my fellow overworked sports med people, and then dip the fuck out to get some sleep before I’m back at the rink.
“You want a beer?” I shout over the music.
Hugh shakes his head and jerks his chin toward a corner of the living room where a few of the hockey guys are lounging and looking way too cool for their own good.
I nod and peel off toward the kitchen, which is slightly less crowded, but still full of drunk, half-yelling students spilling beer on the counters and pretending like they’re not about to regret all their life choices tomorrow.
I spot Keith, who was supposed to be on hockey duty this semester, leaning against the counter, beer in hand, chatting with another guy from our program.
I saunter over and give them both the universal “what’s up” nod. Keith grins and pulls me in for one of those aggressively masculine bro-hugs.
“Hey man! Glad you could make it!” He yells with a massive drunk grin.
I grin back. “Is this your place?”
He nods, still grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, man. I live with a couple of the basketball guys, so we figured why not throw a rager?”
I chuckle and dig into the sink, which spilled up with ice and beers to create some kind of make shift cooler. I fish out the first can I lay my hand on, crack it open, and take a sip just as it happens.
I swear I smell her before I see her.
That unmistakable vanilla perfume that is way too sweet and way too strong.
It’s the kind of scent that clings to your hoodie for six weeks after a one-minute conversation.
And then, like a demon summoned from the ether, Lauren materializes at our sides with bloodshot eyes, skin shiny with sweat, and wearing a grin so wide it might crack her pretty face in half.
“Jakey!” she shrieks, her voice slicing through the party noise.
Internally, I groan.
Externally, I give her what I hope passes as a polite smile. “Lauren.”
Keith immediately scowls and turns back to his conversation like he’s trying to erase her with sheer willpower. Unfortunately, Lauren is fully locked onto me, swaying like she’s on a boat in open water.
Drunk? Definitely.
High? Probably.
“I’m so happy we get to work together again!” she yells, and then she throws her arms around me like we’re long-lost soulmates.
I’m not a hugger on a good day, and right now I’m halfway through a beer and clinging to the last shreds of my social battery.
But she’s plastered, and I’m not about to shove her off me in front of a kitchen full of witnesses.
So I just… pat her back awkwardly while Keith snickers like he’s watching a sitcom.
“Yeah,” is all I manage to say, because what the hell else can I say? She may be excited to “work together” again but I am, in fact, not excited to pick up her slack and deal with whatever drama she doles out.
She finally lets me go and claps her hands, bouncing up and down like she’s on a sugar high. Her tight-ass tank top leaves nothing to the imagination, and with the way she’s jumping, I’m genuinely concerned her tits are about to make a break for it. I stare at my beer like it can save me.
“It’s gonna be so fun!” she squeals.
I nod, but my smile is brittle at best. My face hurts from faking it, and I can feel the edges of my patience fraying like old velcro.
“So I was thinkin-”
“I have to piss,” I blurt, cutting her off.
Her eyes widen like I just proposed to her or told her I murder people for a living, and then she hits me with that smile. The one that’s supposed to be sexy but mostly looks like she’s really fucking constipated.
“Need help with that?” she asks, voice dropping into this low, gravelly attempt at bedroom talk.
Ew. “Um. With pissing?”
Keith chokes on his drink, not even trying to hide his laughter. Lauren glares at him, then turns her bloodshot stare back to me, completely unfazed.
“Maybe with… holding it,” she purrs.
Oh god no. That’s not even smooth. That’s not even coherent.
“Yeah, uh… I’m good,” I say quickly, already backing away like she’s contagious. “Enjoy the party.”
And then I bail. Fast. Because I’ve officially reached my limit, and I need to preserve the last five functioning brain cells I have if I want to survive morning skate without committing murder.
I push my way through the throng of sweaty, half-drunk bodies, dodging flailing arms and uncoordinated dance moves.
I was using the “I have to piss” excuse to get away from Lauren, but turns out I actually do have to piss.
And maybe stand alone in silence for five blessed minutes so I don’t commit a felony.
First bathroom I find? Occupied. Girl hunched over the toilet, puking like her soul is trying to escape through her mouth. I pause for half a second and feel a flicker of sympathy because she’s clearly having the worst night of her life but I’m not holding her hair. I have a strict no-vomit policy.
I keep moving, navigating through human chaos until I spot a set of stairs and decide to take my chances upstairs.
The first room I try is a bedroom. It’s surprisingly empty for a college party full of horny half drunk adults but no bathroom attached. Just clothes everywhere and the faint smell of weed. I shut the door and try the next one which happens to be locked.
Cool. Love this for me.
Third door? That one is like a train wreck.
I open it, expecting maybe another empty room or someone passed out. What I get instead is a lot of noise. I’m talking moaning. Like loud as fuck aggressive, porn-level moaning.
And then I see it. Or well…them.
There’s a girl, completely naked, bouncing enthusiastically on top of a guy, who’s leaning back against the headboard like he’s living out a very specific and very intense fantasy.
Her blond hair’s flying, her hands are gripping his shoulders, and she’s letting out noises that honestly sound like she’s trying to summon a demon.
And the guy?
It takes me a second to fully process it.
It’s fucking Sam Connelly.
Stone-cold, rule-following, judgy-ass, never-goes-out Sam Connelly.
Getting ridden like a goddamn thoroughbred.
I make some kind of shocked, strangled sound and the girl whips her head around to look at me. Her blue eyes are wide, red painted lips open in horror, hair a mess.
She screams.
I have just enough brain function left to register that she looks vaguely familiar before I slam the door shut and backpedal like I walked in on a live crime scene.
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
Absolutely not.
I’m not a voyeur on a normal day. And I definitely don’t want to think about Sam fucking Connelly getting his dick ridden while I’m working on a tweaked muscle.
I don’t know how fast I move, but it’s somewhere between “get me the fuck out of here” and “I just saw a ghost made of tits.”
I practically launch myself down the stairs, skipping every other step like the house is on fire, because I need to tell someone before the image cements itself in my brain forever. And that someone is Hughie. My emotional support goalie and my therapist in a hoodie.
I finally spot him in the corner of the living room, surrounded by a few of the hockey guys and sipping on a water like the responsible, judgmental bastard he is.
He clocks my face immediately, probably because I look like I just walked out of a horror movie, and raises an eyebrow as I stalk over to him.