When it’s Stella’s and my turn, we’re up against two guys. Stella knows one of them. He’s tall and lanky with a beanie pulled over a mop of longish hair. He smiles at Stella and lifts his chin in a hello to me.
“Ladies first,” Beanie Boy says.
Stella looks at me and holds out a white Ping-Pong ball. I take it, weighing the thing in my hand. It’s light. So light the air circulating from the ceiling fan overhead would be enough to blow it off course. I miss the first time out, but luckily the other team misses, too, so we’re safe from having to drink anything yet.
Stella sinks her first shot on the next round and winks at me. “Told you. I’m a pro.”
When the guys again fail to sink the ball in one of our cups, the one in the beanie picks up the cup Stella’s ball had landed in, and he downs it in a few long swallows.
On my next turn, I take a breath, analyzing my last throw and adjusting my technique in my head. It’s all physics really. Force. Gravity. Arc. I shake out my shoulders, let out that breath, and send the ball flying. It plops into the cup right at the top of the other team’s pyramid.
Stella cheers, and we high-five, and even though the guys sink their shot, too, so neither of us has to drink, I still feel good.
We don’t miss a single shot for the rest of the game, and by the time I sink the ball into the other team’s last cup, the small group in the room has grown to a crowd, and the cheer they let out makes me jump in surprise.
Stella squeezes me into a hug and cries, “Oh my God. You have to be my beer-pong partner forever. No one will ever beat us.” She pulls away.
The guys we beat have come around the table, and they congratulate us. The one in the beanie gives me a hug. “Impressive game,” he says.
Stella claps and yells, “Who’s next? We’ll take on anybody!”
“I’ll take that challenge!”
My back locks up one vertebra at a time. I can’t see him. But I know that voice. I can’t forget it.
“Nell, do you wanna?” Stella gestures toward the bedroom door at the same time that Torres steps into view.
“No,” I say, placing a hand on her arm. “It’s okay.”
Torres leans on the other side of the table, and he’s so big, his arms so long, that he grips both sides of the table easily. His gaze meets mine, and he raises an eyebrow. “So that was your first time playing beer pong?”
There’s an edge to his voice that I don’t like. It makes it hard for me to swallow, and I’ve got goose bumps even though it’s warm in the crowded room. “It was.”
“Beginner’s luck, I say.”
Stella scoffs. “You wish, Teo. She’s a natural.”
He smiles, and holy crap, it hurts. It hurts that he can stand there like nothing’s changed, like I’m just another girl for him to tease. And the fact that it hurts makes me furious.
“Are we going to play or what?” I ask.
“Who’s on your team?” Stella asks Torres.
“Oh, I think Ryan is around here somewhere. He’ll do.”
It’s Stella who stiffens this time. The blond guy with curly hair that I always see around her steps up beside Torres. His lips are pressed together as he looks across the table at Stella, and I can’t read his expression at all.
A few beats of tense silence pass before Stella claps her hands. “Let’s get to it, then.”
I add, “You guys can go first.”
Torres shakes his head. “Oh no, we’ll decide this the official way. With the eyes.”
My brows furrow. I don’t remember seeing this in the set of rules that I read online.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He picks up a ball and gestures for me to do the same. “First throw is decided by eyes. One person from each team gets a ball, and you have to stare into your opponent’s eyes and toss the ball without watching where you aim. First one to make a cup goes first.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. If you think I’m going to believe—”
Stella cuts me off. “It’s true.” I shut up fast. “I’ll do it. Give me the ball.”
“No.” Torres plants a firm hand on the table, and the whole thing sways slightly under the pressure. “Nell and I are doing this.”
I don’t get why he’s being this way, why he’s so tense and pushy. I mean . . . I get that I probably shouldn’t have come to his party. This is his territory, and I’m trespassing. But he could have just asked me to leave. He could have avoided me. Anything but this.
“Fine,” I say, and I hate that my voice is quiet. I roll the ball between my fingers and step to the center of the table. I take a deep breath and face him. His eyes are dark, but more than that, the look he wears is dark.
Shit. He’s mad. Really mad. I should just leave. Screw beer pong and keg stands and my list. This is a bad idea.
But I don’t look away. My gaze stays locked on his.
Ryan puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Sure you’re up for this, man? You should probably—”
“Oh, I’m up for it.”
He shoots me a cocky grin, and I nearly bolt. Nearly.
I’m not scared of him. I’m not scared of this party or fitting in or being different. I’m not even scared of being scared. I’ve got this.
“You ready?” I ask.
“On the count of three,” he says.
Then he proceeds to give the slowest count in the history of the universe. I swallow because his eyes are piercing. There’s no other word for it. And I’ve never been good at looking him in the eye. I remember that night in the pickup truck when he let me close my eyes so I didn’t have to, and I very nearly give in to the impulse to close them now. But I stay steady, and when he says three, I toss the ball, doing my best to find the rhythm that I’d felt in the last game.