Free Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance by Aubrey Irons

accomplished.
    Well, again, sort of. Because college sorority girls apparently have the alcohol tolerance of Irish dockworkers, which is a bit different than the two-drink drunks from high school.
    Three hours drinking two bottles of nauseatingly sweet raspberry vodka between the four of us, and they’re finally out cold. Somehow, I’m still standing - barely . But I’m drunk as fuck and I barely manage to stagger upstairs to find the rest of the party passed out in chairs or face-down on the beer-pong table.
    Evan’s got his face in some girl’s tits, the both of them seemingly out, but he half-cracks an eye as I stumble past him.
    “ Atta boy, ” he mumbles, raising a limp fist for me to bump. “Don’t forget…” he croaks out. “Practice in the morning, Freshman.” He drops this face back into the sleeping girl’s cleavage. I pat him on the back and teeter out the front door of the house.
    Fuck . I’d actually sort of conveniently forgotten about practice in the morning - “morning” as in five hours from now.
    Jesus, Coach is going to fucking kill me if I show up hung-over and still half drunk. I groan as I stumble towards my Escalade and fish around my pockets for the keys before I stop and roll my eyes.
    What the fuck am I even thinking? Coach won’t even have a chance to kill me if I do it first by wrapping my new car around a fucking guard rail trying to drunk drive home. What a clichéd way that would be to end the streak - the drunk, douchebag sports hero that dies in some easily avoided drunk driving accident.
    Yeah, no thanks.
    I fumble my phone out of my pocket to call a cab, before I realize it’s dead as a brick.
    Wonderful.
    The idea of finding some beer-soaked couch back in the football house to crash on makes my stomach churn. The thought occurs to me that I do technically have a room - and a bed - somewhere here on campus, but I also realize I’ve never actually been to that room.
    Fuck, I don’t even know what Goddamn dorm building I “live” in.
    I groan and run my hand through my hair, muttering to myself and gearing up for the world’s shittiest walk back to my mom’s place, when another idea hits me. Because actually, there is another place on campus I can stay.
    I grin as I stagger off in the direction of her dorm.
    Oh yeah, this is going to be hilarious.

11
Hailey
    B ooks ?
    Check.
    Pens, pencils, binders, notebooks?
    Check, check, and check.
    I’ve done this the night before the first day of school literally every year of my life since kindergarten. Pencils and pens organized by color and ball-point size, books and notebooks stacked in order of schedule, first day outfit picked out and neatly folded.
    It’s tradition, or maybe more-so some sort of superstition. But either way, and even if I’m fully aware of how silly it is, here I am again - the night before my first day at college and going through the same motions I did when I was five.
    Forget tradition or superstition, maybe it’s just a comfort.
    When everything’s laid out on my bed in its perfect place, exactly how I need it for tomorrow, I finally stand back with my hands on my hips to admire my work.
    Perfect .
    I’m good like this. I like knowing what’s coming and preparing and analyzing for it.
    I’m neat, organized, ready to go, and prepared. Unlike some people.
    ‘Some people’ being Dalton.
    I cringe as his name pops into my head.
    I can’t believe I…I touched myself thinking of him.
    I scrunch my eyes shut and shake my head, pushing my hair back from my face as I start to get changed for bed. Yeah, I need to get that sort of thinking right out of my head. It was silly, and maybe I was a little drunk, but there will be no dwelling on the shame of that night.
    He IS good at worming his way under your skin though , I begrudgingly admit to myself as I slip my jeans off. I fold them neatly over the back of my desk chair. He’s good at planting himself somewhere deep inside - a nagging thought that