Chapter Text
The crumpled piece of paper between his fingers looked more like a lottery ticket than an invitation. Connor nervously smoothed it with his thumb, as if the text might suddenly turn into a two-hundred-dollar check.
Delta Omega Something Party ; the loudest, flashiest fraternity on campus. Apparently, everyone wanted to be there. Everyone except him. Yet here he was.
The house was only a few streets away from his residence. He had followed the streetlights like markers leading to a slightly sketchy island. With every step, the bass pounding from the building made the pavement vibrate, promising a night soaked in sweat and warm beer. Nothing like a fairy-tale ball. In front of him, the house loomed like an American teen-movie mansion: white columns, string lights, perfectly mown lawn… and silhouettes everywhere, on the steps and window ledges, red cups in hand.
He lifted his eyes from the paper, sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. His roommate was still nowhere to be found. Not a sign. Not a word. On one hand, that was convenient. He didn’t yet have the energy to deal with another male surprise in his personal space.
His phone vibrated in his pocket like an impatient little creature. He pulled it out, the screen lighting up his face in the dark. He bit his lower lip, hesitating. Two hundred dollars before midnight… he didn’t have that kind of money. Not even half. So why was he standing in front of this frat house? Maybe the foolish hope that money would fall from the sky in the form of sponsor beer.
He scrolled through his contacts and stopped at his mother’s name. The temptation to call was sweet and guilt-laden. But he could already hear her voice in his head: You just got here and you’re already broke? At the thought, his stomach tightened. His mother had worked hours to get him here. He wasn’t about to call her looking like a loser after three days.
Connor bit his lip again, thumb hovering over the call button. The bass thumped harder from the house. Bursts of laughter exploded into the night. The scent of greasy pizza and cheap perfume wafted into the street. Maybe there’s a chance… he thought. A chance to find a job, a lead, a contact—anything. Or at worst, to get a free drink.
Finally, he slowly tucked his phone back into his pocket, took a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders. Tonight, he might not have two hundred dollars. But he had legs to walk and a somewhat ridiculous dose of hope. And sometimes, that’s enough to push a door open.
He inhaled, gripped his phone a little tighter in his pocket, and pushed the door.
A blast of heat and noise hit him in the face immediately. Inside, the air smelled like a strange mix of spilled beer, cheap perfume, cheesy chips, and a hint of air freshener. The music was so loud it felt like a live band was playing in the living room; in reality, it was just a massive speaker sitting on a wobbly Ikea table.
The entry hall looked like a teen movie set: string lights hung crookedly from the ceiling, metallic balloons spelling “DELTA OMEGA” (or almost—they were missing two), coats piled on a decrepit sofa, and a guy asleep in the middle like a giant cat. Red cups littered the floor, some squashed flat like mushrooms after rain.
Connor stepped forward, his foot sticking slightly to the tile—probably a mix of soda and vodka. To the right, an open door led to a kitchen crammed with people around a table stacked with snacks and bottles. To the left, the main living room had been transformed into an impromptu dance floor. Students were wiggling to a horrid pop-techno remix; some jumped as if at a concert, others attempted choreographed moves with varying success.
Near the stairs, a guy dressed as a cowboy tossed peanuts into a hat on the head of a girl dressed as an angel. In a corner, a duo seemed determined to break a beer pong record under the cheering of the crowd. Further along, two girls perched on a radiator, fully engaged in a make-out session teetering on the edge of climax.
For a moment, he felt like he was in a human zoo where everyone played their part. This chaotic little world smelled of youth, alcohol, and electricity. He clenched his flyer a little tighter in his pocket and inhaled deeply. Okay, Connor. You’re inside. You can still turn back. But maybe here lies the solution. Or at least a sandwich. His eyes swept the crowd, searching for a familiar face, a point of contact. Nothing yet—just a whirlwind of color, laughter, and music.
He slipped over to the makeshift bar set up in what must have once been the dining room. A wooden table covered with a stained plastic tablecloth, behind it a guy in a Hawaiian shirt shook bottles with the serious air of a Michelin-star bartender. In reality, he was just mixing lemonade with rum into red cups. Empty bottles piled around like Jenga towers, and there were more ice cubes on the floor than in the freezer tray.
Connor grabbed a cup, carefully poured himself some sparkling lemonade, ignoring the rum. No desire to play the frat movie hero who ends up in the pool fully clothed. He raised his cup to himself, a silent you’re surviving already, that’s something, then turned around.
In front of him, the living room vibrated. Students danced pressed together, others screamed the lyrics of songs they clearly didn’t know. Strobe lights sliced the silhouettes like an old MTV music video. Confetti stuck in hair, glitter on cheeks, smells of perfume and pizza—everything was dizzying.
A sudden noise rose from outside. Not the music this time, but a mix of screams, laughter, and splashes. Curious, he squinted and saw the illuminated backyard through a glass door. He set his cup on a shelf edge and made his way through.
Moving through this human tide required slalom-like skill: dodging a couple mid-argument, avoiding a cup launched by a beer-pong champ, ducking so as not to get rabbit ears in the face. Finally, he reached the glass door and pushed it open.
The cooler outside air slapped his face. Out there, it was a whole other party. The yard stretched out like a set. In the center, a bluish pool packed with students splashing in all directions. Some swam in jeans, others floated on flamingo or donut-shaped inflatables. It looked like a cross between Spring Break and an episode of Scooby-Doo.
To the left, a long ping-pong table sagged under cups, soda bottles, and chip crumbs. Players were in the middle of an improvised beer-pong game, ping-pong balls bouncing off full cups. A guy dressed as a gladiator served as referee, holding a whistle.
Connor found himself smiling. He put his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath. Maybe this was college. Maybe it would be okay.
Then, everything broke. A heavy hand tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped and turned around.
Standing before him was a slightly shorter, stocky boy, with short hair and a sharp scar across his nose like a signature. He wore the university football team jacket, red and cream, and his smile carried a mix of confidence and provocation, perfectly matching that kind of jacket.
“Nice ass. Got a little name, princess?”
Caught off guard, thinking he’d misheard, Connor’s eyes went wide, stunned.
“Excuse me?!” he blurted, his voice higher than he would have liked.
The world around him seemed to slow: the splashes in the pool, the bursts of laughter, the music… all continued, but he stayed frozen, the empty cup still in his hand, unable to decide whether to laugh, yell, or hit him with it.
“Excuse me, that’s your name?” sneered the scarred guy, raising his cup. The brown liquid sloshing inside reeked of alcohol from three meters away. He took a swig like swallowing a challenge, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What?! No! Who the hell are you?” the student sputtered, more surprised than angry.
The boy puffed out his chest, ready to present his identity like a business card.
“Since you’re asking… I’m Gav—”
He didn’t get to finish. A powerful voice snapped behind them like a whistle.
“Gavin!”
Connor turned. The figure emerging from the yard looked like a cross between an Abercrombie model and a linebacker. Huge, broad-shouldered, curly blond hair falling messily over his ears, a chiseled face, and electric-blue eyes. He walked with the lazy, confident stride of someone who knows they take up space—and enjoys it.
The newcomer smirked, half mocking, half princely, placing a hand on the scarred guy’s shoulder. His palm seemed to engulf Gavin’s upper back, who immediately shrank a little.
For a moment, Connor thought he was being saved. Like a prince rescuing a princess. But… how naïve he was.
“Shit. Already hitting on a freshman?” came the deep, rolling voice. Then he turned to Connor, sizing him up like an auctioneer inspecting an item, adding with amusement: “You could do better, though.”
Time froze for Connor. The pool’s splashes, the laughter, the music behind the glass door… everything seemed to fade. For a split second, he thought it was an apparition: a prince charming falling from the sky to rescue him from the jerk. His breath caught, his heart flipped. Then the giant’s words finally hit him.
This wasn’t a knight in shining armor. This was an American fridge of a guy, seasoning him with a cutting remark. Connor stood there, mouth slightly open, unable to decide whether to take offense, laugh, or ask for his number. The mixture of shock and humiliation pinned him in place, literally flattened by the impact.
“Go get ready for the competition. We need the prize.” The blond giant’s hand slid off Gavin’s shoulder like removing a piece of gum. The scarred guy disappeared into the crowd, grumbling, swallowed by the noise of the pool. Only Connor and the blonde colossus with steel-blue eyes remained.
Up close, he was even more impressive: shoulders wide enough to park two bikes, veined forearms, and that calm aura of someone who knows they dominate the room. He didn’t even need to raise his voice; his silence cleared the space around him. Connor thought for a second he might introduce himself, or at least extend a hand. Instead, the giant just stared, a smirk on his face saying, I know I make you uncomfortable, and I like it.
“We don’t like freshmen here,” he said in a low voice, never taking his eyes off Connor. He scanned him slowly, head to shoes, like inspecting merchandise at a flea market. “You’ve got zero survival instinct.”
Connor felt his ears burn. He expected a name, a handshake, anything. But the other didn’t even bother. No words to reveal who he was. Just that vaguely mocking grin and the scent of expensive cologne cutting through the chlorine.
“I… I was given a flyer…” he began, hoping to escape.
The blond shrugged, already turning away. “Yeah, yeah, I don’t care.”
Then he left him there, cup in hand, and strolled back toward the pool with a nonchalant step. Students moved aside as if he had a magnetic field. In a few seconds, he was just another silhouette in the crowd.
Connor, however, stayed at the edge of the yard, throat dry. His so-called “prince charming” had just ignored him completely, with the elegance of a cat refusing to acknowledge its owner. The dream had evaporated as quickly as the bubbles in his lemonade.
He stood there, lukewarm cup in hand, wondering why he was still at this party. Maybe he should just leave, go back to his room, eat a bowl of cereal for dinner, and finally meet his roommate.
Just as he was about to turn around, a girl’s voice next to him cut through the noise. She wore a plastic tiara and glitter down her neck.
“Did you hear? Hank and the others are having a contest to see who can drink the most! The winner takes 400 bucks!”
Four hundred dollars? His brain lit up like a neon “open bar” sign. He hadn’t even caught the exact rules, but the idea was already lit. Four hundred dollars—that was exactly what he was looking for. His heart started racing. It was stupid. It was dangerous. But it was that or begging his mom on the phone in the middle of the night. And that was never going to happen.
He moved again, weaving through bodies like a scene-stealer. Soon he emerged in front of a tight circle of spectators around a long table piled with bottles. The atmosphere resembled an arena: shouting, whistling, hands in the air.
On the table, a guy in a Hawaiian shirt played master of ceremonies, gesturing with an empty bottle like a microphone.
“Alright! Anyone who wants to participate, put fifty dollars in the box here! Make your bets too! The winner gets four hundred dollars, beating our top player’s record: Hank!”
The crowd erupted with applause and cheers. Phones were filming. The human fridge, standing next to Gavin and two other guys with biceps like ropes, barely raised a hand in acknowledgment, smirking. Hank. The infamous Hank.
Connor bit the inside of his cheek. Fifty dollars to win four hundred… after all, it was just drinking. He could do that. He didn’t want to call his mom. Didn’t want to admit he couldn’t handle it.
He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his only crumpled bill. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and held the bill out toward the box. But a firm grip stopped him dead. Strong, warm fingers clamped down on his wrist. He looked up and met Hank’s eyes. Hank was already laughing, as if amused by a kitten approaching a Rottweiler. He elbowed Gavin to watch the scene.
“Woah, what are you planning to do?”
The hand tightened on his wrist. A dull ache shot up his arm, and he gritted his teeth. Who the hell was this guy to grab him like that?
“Who the hell are you, asshole?” he spat without thinking.
The blond laughed, leaning toward him. “The kitten’s showing its claws, huh?”
“The kitten doesn’t give a damn. Let go of me.”
The retort snapped in the air like a slap. Laughter around him doubled. Hank didn’t let go immediately, as if testing his prey, then finally loosened his grip with a slow smile—the kind a predator gives when it finds a game.
“That’s fifty more bucks, after all.”
Connor stared at Hank with dark eyes, a mix of defiance and pure disbelief. Still clutching his only bill, he slowly lowered it and let it slide into the box with a crisp sound that echoed through the circle of onlookers. The crumpled paper seemed to carry the weight of his pride and financial survival. Every person around the table raised their eyebrows, assessing the courage of this newbie daring to challenge Hank and his crew.
The tension was palpable. Stifled laughter, excited whispers, and clinking bottles accompanied the scene, making it feel like an improvised ring, where the stakes weren’t just alcohol but reputation and fifty-dollar bills. Connor took a deep breath, straightened up like a soldier ready for battle, and felt his heart hammering.
Hank continued to smile, that smirk saying, you have no idea what you’re getting into. He crossed his arms and watched, curious, showing no sign of worry. Gavin, slightly in the background, looked torn between amusement and embarrassment, while the other participants lined up behind the table, ready to raise their glasses like trophies.
The MC raised his hands to call for silence. His loud, resonant voice cut through the party cacophony:
“Looks like we’ve got one more participant! Let the contest begin!”
A thrill of excitement and apprehension ran through the crowd. Connor straightened, the bill in his pocket now forgotten, eyes fixed on the table covered with sparkling glasses. He took a long breath and jumped in.
The contest began. Each participant stood behind a glass already filled with a golden, fizzy liquid, which Connor guessed was heavily alcoholic. The rules were simple: drink in turns, last one standing wins the four hundred dollars. Easier said than done when your stomach was empty and your nerves at their peak.
Connor lifted his first glass, trembling slightly, and brought it to his lips. The liquid slid down like a river of icy fire. His face contorted instantly; he felt his stomach protest violently. The bitter taste, a mix of harsh malt and too many bubbles, rose in his throat. He wanted to spit it all out. Instinctively, he thought: It’s over. I’m done. I’m leaving, dragging my feet…
But then, across the table, Hank raised his glass for the second round. His blue eyes met Connor’s, a glint of amusement shining in his gaze. The kind of look that mocked him.
Connor swallowed hard, gritted his teeth. Courage surged from somewhere, like a flame in a storm. He took a deep breath, stared at his second glass, and despite the nausea twisting his stomach, emptied it in one go. His hands shook, his heart raced, but he did it. He felt the applause and cheers around him as a mix of mockery and encouragement.
Some participants, already shaken by the first sip, turned away or collapsed into the background, victims of the game’s speed. Connor, meanwhile, felt a small pride rise up his spine. He wasn’t out of the game. Not yet.
Hank, for his part, finished his second glass with a disconcerting, almost theatrical ease, casting another sidelong glance at him. As if every sip Connor took was a performance he was watching for his own amusement. The young man felt his stomach knot again, but he took a deep breath, reminding himself of the prize: four hundred dollars. He couldn’t back down now. Not after daring to impose himself at the table.
So he raised his glass for the third round, a mixture of courage and desperation, ready to face what was shaping up to be the first true test of his college life.
Connor went through the glasses like an automaton. Each sip was concentrated torture: the liquid burned his esophagus, slithered like a snake up his throat, and made him want to spit it all onto the floor. Every glass felt heavier than the last. Next to him, Gavin suddenly turned pale. The boy stepped back, pressing a hand to his mouth, eyes wide. He eventually capitulated, staggering away from the table, muttering apologies.
Eliminated.
The crowd erupted with laughter and sarcastic cheers. Connor felt a mix of relief and panic: he was advancing, but at what cost?
Yet he continued. Sip after sip, gritting his teeth, repeating to himself that it was just for the money, that it was to survive. His legs wobbled beneath him as if he were walking on invisible stilts. He saw the lanterns flicker and the bubbles in the lemonade or beer turn into tiny sparks in his blurred vision. Every movement felt like a superhuman effort.
Eliminations piled up around him. Grimacing faces, hands on stomachs, cries of surrender. And yet, he held on. He didn’t even know how he was managing it, but his body seemed to operate on autopilot, driven by the promise of four hundred dollars and pure adrenaline.
Then, finally, he realized: only two were left. Him… and Hank.
His heart leapt. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He blinked several times, trying to stabilize his vision, but the floor wobbled like jelly. The glasses in front of him seemed to tower like invincible mountains. Only one remained.
Hank, meanwhile, looked almost fresh. The empty bottle on the table hadn’t shaken him at all. He raised his glass for the final round, a small smirk playing on his lips, as if he already knew this would be the last. He threw Connor a glance, half-mocking, half-challenging, and took a deep breath.
Connor felt his hands tremble. His stomach tied itself into impossible knots, his head spun 360 degrees, but he raised his glass, determined… or maybe just foolish. The moment was suspended, the silence of a few perfect seconds.
Then Hank drained his glass in one smooth, almost theatrical motion, set the cup down on the table, and crossed his arms, unshaken. His blue eyes sparkled with triumph. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause.
Connor tried to drink his final glass, but his body protested violently. He felt everything tipping over, the drunkenness catching up with him at lightning speed. Hank stood tall, his mocking smile still in place, the undisputed king of this contest. Connor realized, with a mix of admiration and frustration, that the contest was over. Tonight, the prize went to the blond giant… and he would remember this moment for the rest of his life.
A sudden, violent wave surged through his stomach. Connor felt his insides twist like angry spaghetti, and an uncontrollable urge to vomit hit him. He didn’t have time to think: his legs started running almost on their own, clumsily shoving past laughing, shouting students around the pool. All that mattered was the bathroom. He rushed up the stairs, weaving between entwined couples and cheering groups. Finally, he found a bathroom upstairs, the door ajar and smelling of cheap soap.
He nearly collapsed onto the toilet and let everything out. His hands gripped the edges, eyes shut, each spasm draining him of courage, dignity, and lemonade. After what felt like an eternity, the storm inside him subsided. He let out a long sigh, felt his body relax, and slowly straightened up, still trembling but relieved.
Connor leaned over the sink, grabbed a handful of cold water, and rinsed his mouth, the bitter, acrid taste fading gradually. He spat, swirled the water, and wiped his lips, pale but alive.
His eyes fell on the mirror. His brown hair, already messy, looked like a miniature hurricane. Strands stuck to his forehead. He stared silently, a grimace tugging at his lips. He had just lost not only four hundred dollars but also fifty.
It couldn’t get any worse.
He needed to get back to his room. More than anything, he wanted to throw himself onto his bed, cry his eyes out, and forget this chaotic night. He left the bathroom, still trembling, pale-faced, and pushed open the door of the house. He moved quickly, weaving through the students. Big boys don’t cry, he reminded himself, swiping a rebellious tear from his cheek.
He reached Building A, hurried, breathless, legs shaky, eyes still clouded by alcohol and exhaustion. Each step on the fourth floor seemed to stretch endlessly ahead. Everything was blurry, the walls wobbled like a bad movie effect. Finally, he arrived at his room door. But it was already ajar. His roommate must have arrived while he was gone. Perfect. His first encounter would be in this pitiful state.
Connor took a deep breath, tried to straighten his shoulders, and slowly pushed the door. But what he saw froze him.
Two bodies collided violently, arms entwined, hair disheveled, lips devouring each other without restraint. Even completely drunk, he immediately recognized the actors in this scene: the red-and-cream football jacket and the blond giant, impassive, still imposing, his curly hair a wild mess.
Without thinking, Connor slammed the door shut. Both men jumped. Gavin reacted first, retreating hastily and trying to straighten up to regain some dignity. Hank simply raised an eyebrow and smirked, as if the whole situation amused him immensely.
“Don’t tell me…” Hank began, but Connor ignored him and dragged himself to the bed, still trembling, alcohol and fatigue overwhelming him. He collapsed onto it and fell asleep almost immediately, leaving behind an awkward, heavy silence.
Gavin finally fastened his belt again, muttering in a low, frustrated voice:
“Damn, I thought you weren't getting a roommate for the semester!”
Hank shrugged, still standing in the room, eyes fixed on Connor, breathing steadily despite the tumultuous evening.
“Yeah, me too,” he said.
A crooked smile appeared on his lips. This is going to be fun, he thought.