The house was packed wall to wall with bodies—athletes from every team, girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, girls who would become girlfriends, pledges, random people nobody recognized, and at least one sophomore selling weed out of the bathroom.

The music was deafening, the kitchen counters were sticky with spilled liquor, and somewhere in the living room, Bryce Montgomery had lost a shoe.

He didn't care.

He was too busy drinking out of a glass measuring cup, checking the little red lines on the side like he was conducting very important research.

Sprawled sideways across the couch next to him, one massive leg hanging over the armrest, Conrad Bailey stared at the ceiling with the unfocused intensity of a man who had just tried to unlock the bathroom with his car key.

He had told three separate people he was "completely fucking sober."

Nobody believed him.

Bryce took another drink from the measuring cup, then frowned and turned it slightly, like the measurement had changed since his last check. The couch shifted as Conrad finally moved, sitting up slowly enough that it looked like the action cost him something. He blinked and looked around.

Bryce saw the look and followed it. He was sitting on Conrad's baseball cap. It had been under him for nearly forty minutes.