"Let's settle this like real men — Rock, Paper, Scissors!" Tristan slurred, pointing an unsteady finger directly at the colossal figure, who, as I'd come to find out, was named Adam.
Over the course of the night, the two of them had formed an unlikely friendship, forged through countless rounds of drinking games and challenging each other to all kinds of ridiculous challenges. Despite both drowning in alcohol, Adam's size granted him a tad more semblance of sobriety, therefore rendering him a lot more composed than Tristan — who was doing a remarkable Jack Sparrow impression as he staggered and swayed where he stood.
I'd abandoned any hope of reining him in ages ago. I don't know why I even tried in the first place. Making Tristan do something he didn't want to do was fucking impossible.
And he was an escape artist. When I turned my attention away from him for even a second, he'd vanish. The last time he'd disappeared, I'd found him perched on Adam's shoulders, talking in a terrible French accent while trying to control him like the rat from Ratatouille. Their laughter echoed as if they'd stumbled upon the greatest joke ever. It was... quite a sight.
Bailey wasn't any better. It took ten minutes of gentle convincing to get her to release her grip on the grass because she was convinced she might be thrown off the Earth due to its rapid spinning. Then, I had to intervene when she started undressing because, according to her, it was "too hot". She was currently passed out in her tent, cuddling an empty bottle of tequila.
It was hard to find a sober person at the festival. Since it was the last day, and creeping towards midnight, folks were way past tipsy and gearing up to make some seriously bad choices. It wasn't hard to find people either dancing, tripping out, fucking, or passed out. I was one of the few who managed to stay sober. Sure, I'd had a drink or two, but I figured it was smarter to keep a clear head when everyone else was losing theirs.
I came across this girl who'd drowned herself in way too many vodka cranberries and ended up having to stick two fingers down her throat to get her to throw up. And then I made sure she drank some water and ate a few bites of a hotdog. Tate was a lot less patient than I was — when some guy thought it was a brilliant idea to down an entire bottle of cheap whisky, nearly putting himself in a coma, Tate landed one solid punch to the guy's stomach. He proceeded to projectile vomit all over a group of dancing girls. The aftermath triggered a chain reaction, and now, that area was a no-go zone. The lingering stench was enough to keep people away.
Which led me to the present — fatigue and irritation clung to me like a second skin. And I really wanted a proper shower. The camping-style portable one we were using was nothing more than a glorified drizzle, and the cold water made things worse.
Not to mention, my mental state mirrored my physical exhaustion, and I just wanted to go home, curl up in my bed, and talk to no one. Maybe then, I could gather my thoughts, carve out a moment to simply breathe. The emotional rollercoaster and the unrelenting demands of this weekend were draining me and I felt close to empty. It felt like I was emotionally overwhelmed and I desperately needed some peace and quiet before I inevitably fell off that cliff. I didn't know where I'd land if that happened.
"Who wants to do body shots!" A naked man ran past me, his pale hairy ass an eyesore.
It seemed like I wasn't going to get that rest anytime soon.
"How are you holding up?" A voice asked from behind me.
I turned my head to see Tate walking up to me, holding a closed soda can. I offered him a tired smile and accepted the cool fizzy drink he offered me. The two of us had formed an unlikely partnership as we tried to stop things from getting too crazy — like sober-buddies. Tate, I quickly learned, was a genuinely easygoing guy who had zero tolerance for anyone's bullshit. It increased my respect for him tenfold.
"I'm okay — just ready for the night to be over." As I sipped the soda, my eyes scanned the sea of intoxicated festival-goers. "How does anyone expect to be able to drive home tomorrow morning? They're all going to be nursing hangovers from hell."
He chuckled. "Experience. For many of them, this ain't their first rodeo."
I nodded in agreement, taking another sip. My attention shifted to Tristan, who was laughing at something one of his friends said, head thrown back as his deep rumbling laugh reached even my ears. And then he had to right himself as he nearly fell onto his back.
"Including Tristan?" I asked, my gaze fixed on him.
Tate remained quiet for a moment, studying Tristan until he finally spoke, "This isn't his first rodeo, no. Back when he was a freshman and staying in the football house with the rest of the guys, a lot of his nights were like this. But that's the football house for you. There's a reason a lot of us leave — and why some stay."
"But he stopped all of that stuff when he left, right? He told me he doesn't drink."
I began to wonder if it was to avoid developing a problem. Was he a recovering alcoholic? If so, was he risking all his progress by drinking tonight?
Tate looked down at me, a hint of something indiscernible in his dark eyes. "Yeah. He did. Moved out and went cold turkey on the drinking."
"So why is he acting like this now?" I asked, frustration lacing my voice.
He shrugged, clearing his throat. "It's hard to say what's going on inside that head of his."
"Do you think it's because of me?" Guilt wrapped its cold hands around my throat and squeezed.
He shook his head. "Even if you're the reason, I don't think you're the only reason, so don't pin the blame on yourself."
"What other reasons could there be?" I scoffed bitterly.
He sighed, adjusting his stance and crossing his arms. "Tristan's dealing with a ton of pressure right now — from everyone, including his family. He has to be the perfect athlete, the perfect captain, the perfect son. That kind of pressure tends to build until it inevitably explodes. He holds himself to everyone's impossible standards and somehow manages to reach them, but everyone has a limit to how long they can keep that up for. Maybe he's hit his — but these lessons, you can only learn them by going through them."
He was... right.
Tate's words forced me to reevaluate everything, and I released a soft breath, running my hands over my face. Tristan was pushing himself to the brink, trying to fit into everyone else's mold of perfection, and it was taking a toll on us, on me. It dawned on me that unless he changed his approach, shifted his perspectives and expectations... we had no future. We were both heading straight for that cliff.
The realization hit me hard — I didn't really understand Tristan as much as I thought. His outgoing personality, striking good looks, and charming demeanor were like tools he used to create a sense of closeness with everyone — but beneath that facade, I realized I knew nothing of value. It became apparent that Tristan was a pro at crafting an image that resonated with others while keeping his real self hidden.
Sure, I could list his likes and dislikes, his habits, his many skills... but I couldn't tell you what any of his true thoughts were, or any of his deepest fears and insecurities. The pressure he faced was evident, but the real toll it took on him remained a mystery. I knew everything... and nothing.
"There's my girl," a deep voice whispered into my ear, two strong arms enveloping me from behind.
The familiar blend of men's shampoo, soap, and his distinct scent — a dark, spicy aroma that made my nipples bead — surrounded me. Pulled back into his firm yet warm chest, he pressed an affectionate kiss to the side of my head. Then, lowering his head, he playfully showered my neck with kisses. When I squirmed, ticklish, he tilted my head towards him and claimed my lips in a quick but thorough kiss. Beside us, Tate groaned.
I pulled back, wrinkling my nose at the smell and taste of alcohol. "Tristan, I'm talking to Tate right now."
He looked up, catching sight of his best friend standing next to me, and flashed him a goofy yet adorable grin. "Oh, hey man. Didn't see you there."
"No, you didn't. Your mind was on other things. I'll leave you two to it then," Tate chuckled, the sound resonating through his chest as he turned to leave.
"See you later, Mitchell," Tristan grinned, pulling me even closer against him.
"Don't bet on it, Beckett. Have a good night, Hannah," Tate called out as he strolled away.
"You too!" I yelled, ignoring Tristan as he nuzzled my hair.
I could feel his already half-hard dick poking into my back. "You're crazy if you think I'll sleep with you in your current state. You can barely stand straight for more than ten seconds."
"Still mad at me?" he mumbled, resting his cheek against my temple.
"I'm not mad, I'm..." disappointed. "I just don't want you getting hurt."
He sighed. "I'm fine. It was only a nosebleed. I get them sometimes — it's part of being an athlete."
Internally, frustration simmered, but what could I say? His excuse was weak and he was being an idiot. Sensing my disapproval lingering in the air, he groaned.
"Come on, babe. I'm just having some fun. I wasn't going to let myself get seriously hurt." His hand slipped under my shirt, gliding up my stomach.
I caught his wrist before it could get too high. "News flash, Tristan Beckett, you did get hurt. You were looking for a fight — I could see it in your eyes. In that moment, you didn't care about getting hurt, and you didn't care about the consequences. You were being reckless." I reached for his face behind me and flicked his forehead, making him wince.
"You're being really mean today," he grumbled, rubbing his forehead.
"You know I'm right."
He recovered quickly, burrowing his face in the crook between my neck and shoulder. "Of course you are," he crooned, "You're always right. Can I kiss you now?"
"No."
He twirled me around so that I was facing him. Naturally, my palms came to rest on his rib cage as I tilted my head back to regard him with furrowed brows. He just gave me a lazy, drunken grin and leaned forward to kiss the tip of my nose.
"Have I told you how fucking beautiful you look today?" He asked, ducking his head to kiss my jaw.
His words, and his kiss, did what they'd intended to do, distracting me from my irration. I couldn't help it — when he gave me that wicked grin and said things like that... it made me stupidly weak.
"Pick another day. I was a huge mess today — I am a huge mess." I let out a reluctant laugh.
"A hot mess," he murmured into my skin, pressing small kisses up my jaw until he reached the sensitive spot behind my ear. "So fucking hot it drives me insane."
"You're biased because I'm sleeping with you," I tilted my head to give him better access, struggling to keep my eyes open, though a smile teased the corner of my lips.
"No way." He shook his head, hands roaming my back with strategic caresses. "Have you seen your ass in a pair of jean shorts? I just wanna take a bite out of it."
To substitute, he bit down on my neck, hard enough to leave a mark and make me gasp. To soothe the ache, he sucked and licked the abused skin, hand trailing down my spine to cup my behind. I rolled my eyes because, of course, he went straight for my ass.
This was quickly heading in a dangerous direction, so I pressed my hands against his shoulders and nudged him back a few inches. As he straightened, I reached up to cradle his cheeks. He gazed down at me with parted red lips and half-lidded eyes.
"Are you even in any state to be doing this? Are you not in pain?" My thumb traced the bruise under his eye.
"Babe, I could be dying and I'd still want to fuck you. Don't worry about me."
I gave him a warning look. "But are you in a lot of pain?"
"Yes." He reached for my wrists and drew my hands away from his cheeks, pulling them down until they pressed against the solid erection throbbing against me. "Right here. It hurts here."
This idiot.
"You're ridiculous." I shook my head at him, lips pursed.
Then, he shut one eye and gave me a squinty look.
"What are you doing? Does your eye hurt?"
"No, no. I just can't focus on you when I have both eyes open. I keep seeing your twin... and I'm pretty sure you don't have a twin. I also can't feel my eyes. Is that normal?"
I couldn't help it — I laughed.
Opening his other eye again, his lips spread into a wide, blinding grin as he watched me laugh. Growing self-conscious, I couldn't help the small blush that colored my face.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Chuckling, he pulled me close once again. "Because I like it when you laugh."
"Yeah?" I arched a brow.
Nodding, he said, "It's like when I score a touchdown — it feels earned, like a reward for all my hard work."
My heart thumped painfully in my chest. He didn't get to say things like that. It wasn't fair.
Covering my pain with a small laugh, I replied, "If this is your attempt at getting laid tonight, then let me stop you right there. You are way too drunk to do anything."
The challenge of my declaration registered in his brain, and his eyes sparkled. His hand squeezed my ass.
"Wanna bet?"
°•°•°•°
Making it all the way to chapter 40 is crazy. I guess I have no choice but to finish this book now, lol.
A couple of the drunken escapades in this chapter are based on real-life events. I will not be telling you which ones I'm responsible for, but I will admit that I have unironically made out with more women than I have with men at parties. And for some reason, they always turn out to be American tourists. Do what you will with that information.
Happy Reading!
Brooke