Chapter 5 KNOX

My head was still pounding like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the inside of my skull and was now using it as a drum set.

Last night’s party had been a bad idea from the first tequila shot. The team had kept them coming—round after round—while random girls appeared out of nowhere with fresh glasses of whiskey chasers and whatever radioactive punch was floating around the kitchen cooler. It tasted like regret mixed with Red Bull and bad decisions.

I’d stumbled to bed around 4 a.m., still in last night’s clothes—jeans half-unzipped, shirt smelling like spilled whiskey and someone else’s perfume—and passed out face-down on top of the comforter.

The alarm went off at 9:30 like a personal attack. I slapped it silent, rolled over, and told myself five more minutes.

Five more minutes became forty-five.

By the time I peeled my eyes open again, the room was too bright and my phone was screaming missed calls from Hunter.

I dragged myself upright, head throbbing like someone had parked a construction site inside my skull.

Quick shower—cold, punishing—then I threw on yesterday’s jeans (still passable), a fresh black T-shirt, and my team hoodie. No time for coffee.

No time for food.

I grabbed my keys, my backpack, and whatever dignity I had left, and bolted out the door.

The drive to campus was a blur of red lights I probably ran and horns I ignored. I parked crooked in the first spot I saw, sprinted across the quad like I was late for my own execution.

Now, slouched as deep as the shitty lecture-hall chair would allow, legs sprawled under the desk, I regretted every single pour from last night.

The fluorescent lights stabbed straight through my eyelids, the whiteboard markers smelled like chemical warfare, and Professor Lang’s voice—usually just background static—was drilling into my temples like a jackhammer.

She was mid-lecture on structural functionalism, explaining how society is a body with interdependent parts, blah blah blah.

I’d memorized the key points last semester for the midterm; today it was just white noise layered over the hangover from hell.

The blonde whose name I still hadn’t bothered to learn pressed her thigh harder against mine, warm and insistent, her fingers toying with the hem of my T-shirt like she was staking a claim.

I didn’t push her away. Didn’t pull her closer either. It was just… there.

I’d met her on the way in—literally. I was sprinting across the quad, still half-drunk and fully late, when she stepped out from behind a pillar like she’d been waiting for me. Tight skirt, low-cut top, eyes already hungry.

“Knox,” she’d purred, stepping right into my path. “You’re late.”

“Yeah,” I’d muttered, not stopping.

“And?”

She’d fallen into step beside me anyway, hips swaying, voice dropping.

“I thought we could skip and you know.....”

I’d glanced at her—pretty enough, eager enough—and for half a second considered dragging her into the janitor’s closet just inside the building.

The door was right there, half-hidden behind a vending machine. Dark, cramped, private enough for a quick fix to take the edge off the hangover.

I could already picture it: her back against the shelves, skirt hiked up, my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet while the mop bucket rattled beside us.

But the clock was ticking, Lang was probably already calling roll, and I wasn’t in the mood to rush something that wouldn’t even feel good.

So I’d kept walking.

She’d kept following.

By the time we reached the lecture hall, she was glued to my side like she belonged there.

Now she was glued even closer.

My hand had disappeared under the edge of her skirt five minutes ago—slow, lazy circles on the inside of her thigh, enough to keep her squirming quietly in her seat, breath hitching every time my fingers brushed higher—but the thrill had evaporated before it even started.

Same soft skin. Same breathy little gasps.

Same scripted reaction I’d heard from a dozen others. I was going through the motions on autopilot, mind already drifting somewhere else—anywhere else—away from the headache, the boredom, and the faint nausea still churning in my gut.

She shifted again, pressing her chest against my arm, trying to pull my attention back. I gave her thigh another half-hearted squeeze, just enough to buy me another minute of silence.

Professor Lang paused to adjust her glasses and clicked to the next slide.

“As Durkheim argued, social facts are external to the individual…”

I tuned her out completely and let my gaze wander the room—lazy, unfocused, searching for anything to distract me from the jackhammer behind my eyes.

That’s when I noticed the girl in the next row.

Baggy gray hoodie swallowing her whole, hood up even though we were indoors like she was trying to disappear into the upholstery.

Black trousers underneath, nothing flashy—just plain, practical, forgettable.

I almost laughed out loud, the sound catching in my dry throat.

Who the hell let the strays in?

She looked like she’d rolled out of a thrift-store bin and decided today was “don’t notice me” day.

Glasses perched on her nose, head down, pen flying across a notebook like she was being timed for a world record. I couldn’t see her face properly—too much hood, too much distance, too much deliberate concealment—but the whole vibe screamed leave me alone so loudly it was almost funny.

Almost endearing, in a pathetic, try-hard sort of way.

The blonde shifted closer, trying to recapture my attention with a soft whine against my ear.

“Knox…”

I gave her thigh another half-hearted squeeze—enough to shut her up for another minute.

A warm breath ghosted the back of my neck.

“Who the fuck is she…” Tracy whispered from the row behind me, voice syrupy and low, laced with that possessive edge she never quite hid.

“You don’t need her… when you have me.”

I didn’t turn around.

Didn’t need to.

Tracy Evans—on-again, off-again, mostly benefits, zero actual relationship. She was a good fuck but irritating as hell.

“We’re not together, Trace,” I muttered without looking back.

“Never were.”

“But we’re good together…”

“We were fuck buddies,” I said flatly, still facing forward.

“Nothing more.”

Her manicured nail poked my shoulder—sharp, insistent, like she could physically prod me into changing my mind.

“You’re in a mood.”

I was.

Just not the mood she wanted.

Professor Lang kept going, oblivious, her voice cutting through the low hum of the room.

“Functional prerequisites include adaptation, goal attainment…”

“You always get like this after a party. You need me to fix it. I can fix it right now—meet me in the hallway after. Five minutes. You’ll feel better.”

I finally turned my head just enough to glance over my shoulder.

Her eyes were wide, hopeful, lips parted like she was already picturing it: me pinning her against the lockers, skirt shoved up, her legs wrapped around me while she moaned my name like it meant something.

It didn’t.

“Not interested,” I said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

“Go find someone else to fuck.”

Her face tightened—hurt flashing for half a second before the mask snapped back into place.

“Fine. Your loss.”

I rubbed my temple with two fingers, willing the headache to back off.

The blonde’s hand slid higher on my leg; I let it happen because stopping her would require more energy than I had right now.

Hunter leaned over from two seats away, voice low.

“Yo, party at my place tonight. You in?”

Slate, on Hunter’s other side, smirked without looking up from his phone.

“Low-key. Just the team. No sponsors, no bullshit.”

I snorted under my breath.

“Fine. But if Coach finds out we’re drinking again after last week’s ‘team bonding’ lecture, he’s gonna bench us all until graduation. And I’m not explaining to him why my spiral looks like a drunk toddler threw it.”

Hunter grinned. “We’ll keep it quiet. Scout’s honor.”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered.

“Your scout’s honor lasts about as long as a beer pong game.”

They both laughed—quiet, knowing.

Professor Lang wrapped up the lecture with her usual “see you next class” dismissal. The bell rang—thank fuck—and the room erupted into the usual chaos of chairs scraping, bags zipping, voices rising.

I glanced back toward the corner.

Hoodie girl was already out of her seat, moving fast. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and slipped out the side door before half the class had even stood up. Gone. Like she couldn’t get away quick enough.

I shrugged to myself.

Whatever.

Not my problem.

The blonde tugged on my sleeve, pouting.

“Coming to Hunter’s tonight?”

“Maybe,” I said, already standing.

“Got shit to do.”

Tracy leaned over the seat again.

“Knox—”

I walked away before she could finish the sentence.

Head still throbbing, mouth tasting like yesterday’s mistakes, I headed for the door.

The girl in the hoodie was long gone.

And I told myself I didn’t care.