MONDAY, AUGUST 24, 6:47 PM

The house on the corner of Bellweather is impossible to miss.

Not because of the address.

Because, apparently, five Division I hockey players returning to campus requires enough noise to alert the entire fucking neighborhood.

Music spills through the open windows of the two-story house, bass carrying across the front lawn. Two cars are half-assed into the driveway, another is parked partly on the grass, and the front door has been propped open with a battered hockey skate.

Preseason started this morning. Judging by the house, unpacking did not.

The shout comes from somewhere upstairs.

Chip, from the landing.

A door slams.

Feet come down the stairs at speed, and Ryland Sturgis crosses the downstairs hallway with a protein shaker in one hand and his phone in the other, his dark hair still damp from a shower.

He says it without raising his voice.

Milo grabs a stray puck off the floor and hurls it at Chip's head. Chip ducks it with a mocking grin.

Errol Padgett walks into the kitchen carrying a grocery bag, considerably calmer than anyone else currently occupying the house.

Silence.

Someone appears at the open front door. You. Milo sees you first. Tait appears from the hallway behind him, black T-shirt, dark hair.

That is Ryland, halfway down the hall.

Errol sets the groceries on the counter.

Chip places a hand dramatically against his chest.

Tait glances at you once, then back at his phone.

Two blondes catch Milo by the wrists and start dragging him toward the hallway.

A girl appears at the bottom of the stairs, her makeup smudged, her eyes puffy.

Chip barely acknowledges it.

Tait keeps walking.

The crying girl grabs one of the blondes by the hair and they go down in a tangle of shouting. Ryland takes the tequila off the counter before they can knock it over.

Then he turns, and apparently discovers that you are somehow still standing there. He looks at you.