Proof I wouldn’t just become some has been who’d wind up drinking himself into an early grave, if the people around him were lucky, taking out his anger at a failed life on anyone within striking distance. I wouldn’t be that bitter POS no one gives a shit about. I was going to find a way to get out and prove I’m nothing like him and never will be.

Snagging a six pack from the fridge, I headed out into the back yard.

The cold snap was back. Spring had tried to make a breakthrough, but winter wasn’t having any of that. My breath hung in front of my face, slicing through my thermal shirt.

“The party’s inside, Dare.” Bennet came around the side of the house with his arm around a staple of the football fan club. Her hair was plastered to the side of her head and his fly was down. So much for some quiet time.

“I know, just getting some air.” I slammed the edge of the bottle down on the stair behind me. The bottle cap flew off and disappeared between the gap in the wooden deck.

“When are we partying at your house? You’ve been holding out on us this season. It’s your turn soon.”

“Been busy.” I’d also needed to repair the holes in the living room, hallway, and bathroom walls before I’d let anyone over.

But my participation in the underage drinkfest wasn’t a request. I’d be expected to play party coordinator before our June 3^rd graduation. The date had been seared into my mind. The date I lost everything.

When the quarterback was also the coach’s son, the coach who was my only shot at escape, he got away with way more trash talking than anyone else. His arm was a cannon, but so was his mouth. He’d been snapped up sophomore year just like I had been. Only his escape route hadn’t been blocked by an alcoholic trucker with a wicked right hook.

The party rotation had made its way through everyone whose parents were never home or didn’t give a fuck, which meant I’d already hosted my fair share this year.

I headed back inside. A clear head was a dangerous thing. I ran plays in my head, drilling them until the moves were ingrained in my muscles and I could run them in my sleep. In a few weeks, I wouldn’t have football. I’d be done. Washed up at eighteen.

Four hours, three beers, and two dance partners later, after the prescribed attendance time, I searched for Knox. And I found him, crashed in one of the bedrooms with Bethany. At least one of us was having a good night.

In front of the house, I zipped up my jacket and stared down the street. The walk wouldn’t be too bad. The soreness in my side and arm would be killer at practice tomorrow.

“Dare, you need a ride?” One of the guys from the team called out.