Page 93 of What We Knew Then
“No, I’m serious,” he continues, gesturing at the house. “This isn’t our scene.”
He’s not wrong. Most of the time, the hockey guys stick to parties thrown by other teams. Soccer, lacrosse, basketball—same general crowd, same general rules. Everyone’s got something on the line, so things don’t usually get too out of hand.
A couple drinks. Loud music. Someone inevitably tries to start a beer pong tournament that lasts three hours.
But this? This is a full-blown blowout.
There are people everywhere—crowding the porch, spilling down the steps toward the beach, leaning against cars with red cups in their hands. Someone’s yelling from the backyard. Another group is already halfway through a drunken argument about something that sounds suspiciously like fantasy football.
Leo glances at me again. “Whose house even is this?”
“No idea.”
“Have you met them?”
“Nope. I know they go to Great Lakes U.”
He squints at the place like that somehow makes it less ridiculous.
“Great,” he groans. “We’re at a mansion party hosted by strangers.”
“Apparently.”
From the outside it looks like someone’s parents’ lake house. Not a normal lake house, either—the kind with giant windows facing the water and a deck that wraps halfway around the building. We’re talking about a million dollar type of home.
Leo shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Remind me again why we’re here?”
I glance toward the open front door where people are pouring in and out.
Because Cora’s somewhere inside.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Just felt like getting out for a bit.”
Leo snorts. “Bullshit.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “But whatever you say.”
We start toward the house, weaving through the crowd gathered on the lawn. The music gets louder with every step, bass heavy enough that I can feel it in my chest.
The closer we get, the more obvious it becomes just how packed the place is. People stand shoulder to shoulder inside the doorway. A couple guys argue near the steps.
Leo leans closer as we climb the porch. “If Coach finds out we’re here,” he says under his breath, “I’m blaming you.”
I push the front door open and the noise rushes out all at once—music, voices, glass clinking somewhere in the kitchen.
“If Coach finds out,” I retort, stepping inside, “we were never here.”
Leo laughs behind me. But my eyes are already scanning the room.
A couple people recognize us the second we step inside. Not surprising. The hockey team tends to stand out in a crowd.
“Maxwell!” someone shouts from the kitchen.
I glance over long enough to see one of the lacrosse guys raising his cup toward me like we’re old friends. I give him a quick nod as we keep moving through the room.
Leo gets pulled into a handshake by someone from the basketball team. “You guys finally slumming it with the rest of campus?” the guy jokes.
“Field research,” Leo answers dryly. “Strictly academic.”
The other guy laughs and disappears back into the crowd.
