THE TWO IBUPROFEN I swallowed last night have zero effect on my pounding head when I wake up. It's pitch dark in the room because of the blackout curtains, and I slam my hand down on the nightstand trying to find my phone and turn off the loud and insistent alarm.
"Fuck."
Once the sound stops, I turn on the bedside light, squinting into the room with a groan. The bus leaves in forty-five minutes. Thank God I'm packed and ready to go. I take a quick shower, pull on board shorts and a T-shirt, and grab a protein bar on my way out of the apartment. The entire time I'm heading to the bus, small glimpses of my drunk-fest last night flash through my head.
I drink a few beers here and there and don't usually go overboard. I have no idea what got into me last night. My lack of enthusiasm for this coming season and my desire for a sexy little kicker could have something to do with it.
