I never really understood the hype surrounding football, especially college. It’s not like it’s the fucking Superbowl, and even that can barely hold my attention, much to my dad’s dismay growing up. And it’s not like he had any room to talk. The guy was what you’d call a bandwagoner. At best. Sure, he’d say he’s this die-hard Eagles fan, but then as soon as they lost a game, he’d be rooting for the team beating them.

Then again, he was usually too shit-faced at that point to hear how ridiculous he sounded. And like the entitled asshole that he was, no one called him out on it. They thought it was funny. Amusing.

And there I go thinking about him again. Great.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and mumble a greeting as I pass a stoic-looking Shawn as he heads for the other bar. Even in chaos, the guy doesn’t fumble.

Pun totally fucking intended, Dad.

“You’re late.”

I lift my head to find Ivy shooting me a piercing glare over her shoulder. In her hands, a silver shaker rattles angrily with ice.

“Yeah, I—”

“You told Mason you’d be down before the game started.”

I roll my eyes as I make my way past her. I’m fifteen minutes late—if that—but Ivy’s made it her new mission in life to be as difficult as humanly possible when it comes to me. “Lost track of time.”

It’s a total lie. I knew exactly what time it was. But just when I thought I was ready to head down, my anxiety decided to rear its ugly head, and I found myself bent over my bathroom sink, staring into the mirror, wondering how the hell I was going to be able to make it through the next few hours without a fucking drink.

I don’t know why it’s getting to me so bad tonight. It’s not like I can’t drink. I just need to not be a total fucking shit show about it. Meaning, I can’t use alcohol as a form of escape, be it as a social lubricant, sleep aid, or anything and everything in between.

Dr. Wells—my therapist—she’s giving me a chance to do this my way. None of that fucking ten-step shit. Yeah, I have a problem, but it all comes down to poor-ass coping skills and a penchant for self-destruction.

Moderation—it’s my new least favorite word.

But it’s also the only thing keeping me away from stone-cold sobriety, and, well, that scares the shit out of me. Which makes me want to drink. Hell, it even makes me want to snort a line.

Not shoot up though, so at least I have that going for me, I remark dryly to myself.