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LOGAN

April

Lusting over your best friend’s girlfriend sucks.
First off, there’s the awkward factor. As in, it’s really fucking
awkward. I can’t speak for all men, but I’m pretty sure that no
guy wants to leave his bedroom and bump into the girl of his dreams
after she’s just spent the whole night in his best friend’s arms.
Then there’s the self-loathing element. This one’s a given,
because it’s kind of hard not to hate yourself when you’re fantasizing
about the love of your best friend’s life.
At the moment, the awkwardness is definitely winning out. See, I
live in a house with very thin walls, which means I can hear every
breathy moan that leaves Hannah’s mouth. Every gasp and sigh.
Every thump of the headboard smacking the wall as someone else
screws the girl I can’t stop thinking about.
Fun times.

I’m on my bed, flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling. I’m
not even pretending to scroll through my music library anymore. I
popped the ear buds in with the intention of drowning out the
sounds of Garrett and Hannah in the other room, but I still haven’t
pressed play. I guess I’m in the mood to torture myself tonight.
Look, I’m not an idiot. I know she’s in love with Garrett. I see the
way she looks at him, and I see how they are together. They’ve
been a couple for six months now, and not even I, the worst friend
on the planet, can deny they’re perfect for each other.
And hell, Garrett deserves to be happy. He plays it off like he’s a
cocky sonofabitch, but truth is, he’s a goddamn saint. The best
center I’ve ever skated with and the best person I’ve ever known,
and I’m comfortable enough with my hetero status to say that if I
did play for the other team? I wouldn’t just fuck Garrett Graham, I’d
marry him.
That’s what makes this a trillion times harder. I can’t even hate
the dude who’s tapping the chick I want. No revenge fantasies to be
had, because I don’t hate Garrett, not in the slightest.
A door creaks open and footsteps echo in the hallway, and I pray
to God that Garrett or Hannah doesn’t knock on my door. Or open
their mouths, for that matter, because hearing either of their voices
right now will only bum me out even more.
Luckily, the loud knock that rattles my doorframe comes from my
other roommate, Dean, who waltzes inside without waiting for an
invitation. “Party at Omega Phi tonight. You down?”
I dive off my bed faster than you can say pathetic, because a
party sounds like a fan-fucking-tastic idea right about now. Getting
wasted is a surefire way to stop myself from thinking about Hannah.
Actually, no—I want to get wasted and screw someone’s brains out.
That way if one of those activities doesn’t help me with my don’t
think-about-Hannah goal, the other can serve as backup.
“Hell yeah,” I answer, already fumbling around for a shirt.
I slip a clean T-shirt over my head and ignore the twinge of pain
in my left arm, which is still sore as shit from the bone-jarring body
check I took at the championship game last week. But the hit was
totally worth it—for the third consecutive year, Briar’s hockey team
secured another Frozen Four victory. I guess you can call it the
ultimate hat trick, and all the players, myself included, are still
reaping the rewards of being three-time national champions.
Dean, one of my fellow defensemen, calls it the Three P’s of
Victory: parties, praise, and pussy.
It’s a pretty fair assessment of the situation, because I’ve been
on the receiving end of all three since our big win.

“You gonna be the DD?” I ask as I throw a black hoodie over my
T-shirt and zip it up.
My buddy snorts. “Did you really just ask me that?”
I roll my eyes. “Right. What ever was I thinking?”
The last time Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was sober at a party
was never. Dude drinks like a fish or gets higher than a kite every
time he leaves the house, and if you think that affects his
performance on the ice in any way, then think again. He’s one of
those rare creatures who can party like past-day Robert Downey Jr.
and somehow be as successful and revered as present-day Robert
Downey Jr.
“Don’t worry, Tuck’s the DD,” Dean tells me, referring to our
other roommate, Tucker. “The pussy’s still hungover from last night.
Said he needs a break.”
Yeah, I don’t exactly blame him. Off-season training doesn’t start
for another couple of weeks, and we’ve all been enjoying the time
off a little too much. But that’s what happens when you’re riding a
Frozen Four high. Last year after we won, I was drunk for two weeks
straight.

I’m not looking forward to the off-season. Strength and
conditioning and all the hard work it takes to stay in shape are
exhausting, but it’s even more exhausting when you’re working ten
hour shifts at the same time. It’s not like I have a choice, though.
The workouts are necessary prep for the upcoming season, and the
work, well, I made a promise to my brother, and no matter how sick
to my stomach it makes me, I can’t renege on it. Jeff will skin me
alive if I don’t fulfill my end of the deal.
Our designated driver waits at the front door when Dean and I
come downstairs. A reddish-brown beard devours Tucker’s entire
face, giving him a werewolf vibe, but he’s been determined to try
out this new look ever since a chick he met at a party last week told
him he had a baby face.
“You know that Yeti-beard doesn’t make you look more manly,
right?” Dean says cheerfully as we walk out the door.
Tuck shrugs. “I was going for rugged, actually.”
I snicker. “Well, it’s not that, either, Babyface. You look like a mad
scientist.”

He flips up his middle finger as he heads for the driver’s side of
my truck. I settle in the passenger seat while Dean climbs into the
pickup bed, saying he wants some fresh air. I think he just wants the
wind to mess up his hair in that tousled, sexed-up way girls drop
their panties for. FYI—Dean is nauseatingly vain. But he also looks
like a male model, so maybe he’s allowed to be vain.
Tucker starts the engine, and I drum my fingers against my
thighs, itching to get going. A lot of students in the Greek system
piss me off with their elitist attitudes, but I’m willing to overlook that
because…well, hell, because if party-throwing was an Olympic sport?
Every frat and sorority house at Briar would be a gold medalist.
As Tuck reverses out of the driveway, my gaze rests on Garrett’s
black Jeep, all shiny in its parking space while its owner spends the
night with the coolest girl on the planet and —
And enough. This obsession with Hannah Wells is really starting
to mess with my head.
I need to get laid. ASAP.
Tucker is noticeably quiet during the drive to Omega Phi. He
might also be frowning, but it’s hard to tell considering someone
shaved off all of Hugh Jackman’s body hair and pasted it on Tuck’s
face.

“What’s with the silent treatment?” I ask lightly.
His gaze shifts toward me to offer a sour look, then shifts right
back to the road.
“Oh, come on. Is this about all the shit we’re giving you about
the beard?” Exasperation shoots through me. “Because that’s like
the first chapter of Beards for Dummies, bro—if you grow a
mountain man beard, your friends will make fun of you. End of
chapter.”
“It’s not about the beard,” he mutters.
I
wrinkle my forehead. “Okay. But you are pissed about
something.” When he doesn’t respond, I push a little harder. “What’s
going on with you?”
His annoyed eyes meet mine. “With me? Nothing. With you? So
much I don’t even know where to start.” He curses softly. “You need
to stop this shit, man.”
Now I’m genuinely confused, because as far as I can tell, all I’ve
done in the past ten minutes is look forward to a party.
Tucker notices the confusion on my face and clarifies in a grim
tone. “This thing with Hannah.”
Although my shoulders stiffen, I try to keep my expression
vague. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Yup, I’ve chosen to lie. Which is nothing new for me, actually. It
seems like all I’ve done since I came to Briar is lie.
I’m totally destined for the NHL. Going pro all the way!
I love spending my summer as a grease monkey in my dad’s
shop. It’s great pocket money!
I’m not lusting over Hannah. She’s dating my best friend!
Lies, lies, and more lies, because in every one of those instances,
the truth is a total bummer, and the last thing I want is for my
friends and teammates to feel sorry for me.
“Save that bullshit for G,” Tucker retorts. “And by the way? You’re
lucky he’s distracted with all this lovey-dovey stuff, because if he
wasn’t? He’d definitely notice the way you’re acting.”
“Yeah, and what way is that?” I can’t stop the edge in my voice
or the defensive set of my jaw. I hate that Tuck knows I have
feelings for Hannah. I hate even more that he finally decided to
bring up the subject after all these months. Why can’t he leave it
alone? The situation is already shitty enough without having
someone call me on it.

“Seriously? Do you want me to list it off for you? Fine.” A dark
cloud floats through his eyes as he begins to recite every fucking
thing I’ve felt so guilty about. “You leave the room whenever the two
of them enter it. You hide in your bedroom when she stays over. If
you guys are in the same room, you stare at her when you think
nobody is looking. You —”
“Okay,” I interrupt. “I get it.”
“And don’t get me started on your manwhoring,” Tucker
grumbles. “You’ve always been a player, but dude, you’ve hooked up
with five chicks this week.”
“So?”
“So it’s Thursday. Five girls in four days. Do the fucking math,
John.”
Oh shit. He first-named me. Tucker only calls me John when I’ve
really pissed him off.
Except now he’s pissed me off, so I first-name him right back.
“What’s wrong with that, John?”
Yup, we’re both John. I guess we should take a blood oath and
form a club or something.
“I’m twenty-one years old,” I continue irritably. “I’m allowed to
hook up. No, I should be hooking up, because that’s what college is
all about. Having fun and getting laid and enjoying the fuck out of
yourself before you go out in the real world and your life turns to
shit.”

“You really want to pretend all these hook-ups are just some rite
of passage in the college experience?” Tucker shakes his head, then
lets out a breath and softens his tone. “You can’t screw her out of
your system, man. You could sleep with a hundred women tonight
and it still wouldn’t make a difference. You need to accept that it’s
not going to happen with Hannah, and move on.”
He’s absolutely right. I’m well aware that I’ve been wallowing in
my own bullshit and bagging chicks left and right as a distraction.
And I’m equally aware that I need to stop partying myself into
oblivion. That I need to let go of the tiny little sliver of hope that
something might happen, and simply accept that it won’t.
Maybe I’ll get started on that tomorrow, though.
Tonight? I’m sticking to my original plan. Get wasted. Get laid.
And to hell with everything else.
GRACE
I STARTED MY FRESHMAN YEAR OF COLLEGE AS A VIRGIN.
I’m beginning to think I’ll be ending it as one, too.
Not that there’s anything wrong with being a card-carrying
member of the V-Club. So what if I’m about to turn nineteen? I’m
hardly an old maid, and I’m certainly not going to be ashamed of
still having an intact hymen.
Besides, it’s not like I haven’t had opportunities to lose my
virginity this year. Since I came to Briar University, my best friend
has dragged me to more parties than I can count. Guys have flirted
with me, sure. A few of them straight up tried to seduce me. One
even sent me a picture of his penis with the caption “It’s all yours,
baby.” Which was…fine, it was super gross, but I’m sure if I’d truly
liked him, I might have been, um, flattered by the gesture? Maybe?
But I wasn’t attracted to any of those guys. And unfortunately, all
the ones who do catch my eye never even look my way.
Until tonight.

When Ramona announced we were going to a frat party, I didn’t
have high hopes for meeting anyone. It seems like every time we go
to Greek Row, the frat boys just try to sweet-talk me and Ramona
into making out. But tonight I’ve actually met a guy I kinda sorta
like.