Weekend Friend

05.

But that doesn't mean he'll be thrilled when Sydney and I beat him. We look at each other simultaneously, victory on our minds.

Sydney's brown eyes are bright with focus. "Let's fucking finish this."

I nod in return, and step aside to give him room to shoot. As I do, I realise a crowd has formed around the game. It consists mostly of the men's soccer team, but I spot Madi and some of my former KD sisters from the membership class ahead of mine. One of Sydney's teammates steps forward to give him Nameless Freshman's overshot ping-pong ball and a reassuring slap on the shoulder.

"Kick Levi's ass," the guy instructs.

Sydney simply nods, but doesn't partake in any intra-team banter. At least not yet, not when his work remains unfinished. I hold my breath as he lines up, lifts an arm to make a perfect 90-degree angle, and lands his shot.

A buoyant round of cheers erupt from his teammates, and Sydney flashes them a brilliant grin and dips into a bow. When he pops back up, he plucks the second ping-pong ball off the table and sets it in my open palm.

"Don't. Let. Bear. Down." He's looking at me like our lives depend on me making this shot.

"Jesus, have some faith," I say and pivot in my Docs to meet Levi's gaze. He seems to have recovered from his brief let-down because he's smirking again. "Just for that little comment of yours, I'm ending this now."

It's a bold statement, and it sends murmurs of amusement through the crowd, but I barely notice them. I'm preoccupied with ending this game, and I know I've done so when the ball soars in a perfect arch across the table and finds its one and only target.

While both Levi and Nameless Freshman curse, Sydney gives an exuberant whoop and we embrace as if we'd just won a modest scratchcard. As he lifts me up and spins me around, the lights above my head seem to blur together. "That's my corgis' mom!"

I can't help but laugh and feel delight surge through me. It's only when we break apart that I realise how much fun I had. I still don't like beer pong, but I love winning.

"Everything I do is for that dog," I quip before sashaying over to the losing end of the table, extending a hand to Nameless Freshman like the humble victor that I am. His expression is one of surprise as he shakes my hand. "Don't let Levi give you any crap." I turn to Levi, and arch an eyebrow expectantly. "I think I'm entitled to the good tequila that I know you always keep hidden somewhere."

Levi clenches his jaw before responding, "It's in the kitchen, in the cabinet on the right corner. You didn't hear it from me, St. Clair."

Sydney appears beside me, a smug smile on his face. "And here I thought you'd be a sore loser."

Unamused, Levi jabs him in the chest. "You're getting a new partner next time, champ. St. Clair inflates your ego."

Sydney frowns and folds his arms in front of his chest. "I take it back. You are a sore loser, and that request is an abuse of power."

Levi opens his mouth to respond, but I stage an intervention by looping an arm through one of Sydney's and dragging him a few feet away. "Come on. Let's go take some shots before he changes his mind."

"I mean it, Atwood!" Levi calls out after us, though I can hear the grin in his voice. The two of them could never brood for long.

Just as I grab the handle of the slider with my free hand, Sydney unhooks his arm from mine. "Hold on, Jen."

"I'm holding." I nod down at the door handle. "Quite literally."

Sydney's laugh sounds more like a wince."Listen...I'll catch up with you in a bit, okay? I need to make a quick call."

I release the handle and study Sydney's expression—guilty and almost bashful. He reminds me a little of Bear when he gets caught doing something that he knows he shouldn't be doing, like gnawing on the door stopper.

Except in Sydney's case, the thing he shouldn't be doing is calling a girl.

"Oh, do you now?" I rock up onto the toes of my Docs as I raise both eyebrows. I've reached that comfortable stage of inebriation when moving has an almost weightless feeling about it.

Sydney pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please don't give me shit, I got enough of it from my friends at home. But it's been a year. We're not rushing into things."

"I've never given you shit, I swear." I trace an X over my heart. "Not even when she flew your ass first class to Los Angeles for a weekend."

She refers to an actress who starred in the high-profile thriller series filmed on Sydney's home island last summer. One of Sydney's best friends from high school is some kind of screenwriting and filmmaking wunderkind, and co-directed the series alongside a more experienced industry professional. But the production had taken a turn for the worse when certain devastating events from the screenplay became a reality, unfolding on Friday Island. Sydney and his friends got roped into various conspiracies, and not everyone walked away unscathed.

I try not to ask him too many questions about what happened that summer or the nature of his relationship with the actress. I also make damn sure not to reveal the information I do have whenever people at parties like this one ask me about it, fueled by liquid courage and nosiness.

"I was on a business class flight, but whatever," Sydney says while playing with the small silver hoop earring in his ear. "The series premiere is next week, and some of us are having a tough time with it." He shakes his head, perhaps trying to forget something, then pats the Carhartt pouch still attached to his belt loop. "By the way, I hand-rolled some cigarettes tonight if you're interested."

Relieved by the change in subject, I offer him a conspiratory grin. "Sure, but just one. You know where to find me."

I slip through the narrow opening of the sliding door, and once I'm inside, the chaos of the party pulls me back into its orbit. Despite the crowd, I quickly spot Parker and Morgan. They stand out, partly because they exude the kind of commanding energy you'd expect from two alpha personalities, but also because I know where to find them. Whether they're together or not, they always seem to gravitate towards the speakers that sit on the stone mantle of the fireplace. The music is loud, and the bass reverberates through my chest, but I can still make out the sound of Parker's voice.

"Queue Goth Babe or you're dead to me." Her over-your-bullshit voice has a holier-than-thou attitude that she reserves for anyone who annoys her.

In sharp contrast, Morgan is all smiles. I hear his distinct Geordie accent sail over the music, "If this strips me of my DJ privileges, you're dead to me."

Parker scoffs. "How could it ever? Weekend Friend is also your–"

Something shatters on the hardwood floor, followed by boos that drown out the rest of Parker's sentence. A deep voice yells, "Party foul!" and half the heads in the room turn towards the noise.

Taking advantage of the distraction, I easily make my way through the crowd. Rubbernecking isn't my thing, so I'm not interested in seeing what said party foul is. Instead, I'm fully committed to getting my hands on some tequila.

Or so I think.

I'm one stride away from the crossing the kitchen threshold when I freeze, registering Tatum Wolff on the other side.

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It's murder on the dance floor, but Tatum better not kill the groove x