Drunk students have already begun to spill out on the lawn as we approach the frat house; many laughing and stumbling about. It’s March—far too early to be spending time outside voluntarily. No one has ever said drunk people make smart decisions, though. Also, when we step inside the house, I sort of get the inclination to head outside. Every square inch of the floor is covered by feet or littered with empty cups that skitter across the hardwood as people mill about. The scent of sweat and spilled beer hangs heavy in the air. Anne sighs at the scene, but I grin, feeding off the boisterous energy swirling around with sweet-smelling smoke.

I lead the way toward the kitchen, ignoring the shouts and suggestions being hurled my way. I got used to the attention guys pay to me a long time ago—about the same time I figured out how to use it to my advantage. A well-timed hair toss, or suggestive smile is a pretty powerful tool when it comes to the opposite sex.

Jason Williams’ eyes light up as soon as the four of us step inside the kitchen already packed with drunk college students. “Hell yes! The party has arrived!”

“And she’s in fine form tonight,” Emma responds. “You’re… what? Four shots deep, Scott?”

“Drink your gross concoction and stop counting my drinks, Watkins,” I retort.

Jason sends Emma a questioning look. Emma sighs. “She’s in a mood.”

“Hello, I’m right here!” I roll my eyes and stalk over to the counter covered with an assortment of cheap liquor. “Do you guys not have gin tonight? I said I wasn’t coming back unless there was gin, Williams!” I call out as I survey the limited options.

Jason sighs and picks up one of the labeled glass bottles sitting directly in front of me, which is in fact gin. Probably a sign I shouldn’t be imbibing its contents—a warning I don’t heed.

“I’m sorry, Saylor,” he says. “I know how much you wanted it.”

I scoff and splash a generous amount of gin into a plastic cup, adding some ginger ale I find in the fridge in a half-assed attempt at a cocktail. “What are you talking about, Jason?”

“The German camp? You heard back today, right?”

“Yes.”

“You know it’s the most competitive soccer—or football, whatever—program in the world. You should be honored you were even considered. “

I snort. “What are you talking about? Of course I got in. I’m ranked first nationally.” Raising the full plastic cylinder, I shout, “To the fucking Germans!” I’m far from the only one who started drinking early, so my toast is met with hearty cheers. Satisfied by the enthusiastic response, I take a large sip of my drink.