Page 2 of Offside Rules

"If you guys don’t knock it off soon, I’m bringing you cupcakes laced with Dramamine," I tell the ceiling. "Extra drowsy."

Drugging a crowd of partygoers would probably still get me hauled off to jail, but at least it wouldn’t be on murder charges.

I debate whether it would be worth it as I measure powdered sugar into a second bowl and the pendant gives another twitch above my head. Whatever is happening upstairs has been going on for almost an hour. I haven’t called the building manager because I didn’t want to be the neighbor who complains about a party on a Tuesday.

It is now Wednesday. I’ve shown plenty of restraint, and I don’t have time for jail.

I open the building’s resident app and tap Report a Problem. There isn’t a button for "I think my upstairs neighbors are running an unauthorized trampoline park," so I choose a noise complaint and type "unknown" into the apartment number field. The form won’t let me submit without a unit number. I try upstairs. That doesn’t work either. I put in my own number, then explain that I’m reporting the noise above 406, not confessing to throwing a party in it.

A message appears the second I submit it.

Thank you for contacting us. A member of our team will respond within twenty-four to forty-eight business hours.

"By then, you’ll be responding to a police report about a dead body."

I know which floor the noise is coming from. At this point, I’d rather tell them to turn it down myself than wait for someone to check the app.

I take off my apron and drop it on the kitchen island. The cupcakes can wait five minutes. My patience cannot. I grab my keys and phone, then hesitate at the door.

I glance in the full-length mirror by my door. Leggings, gold under-eye masks, an oversized San Diego Blue Devils sweatshirt I stole from my brother’s apartment when I visited him in California last month, and fuzzy socks. My long rose-gold pink hair is braided but starting to fall out around the ends. I find my pink Hello Kitty slippers and pull them on. There. Ready to meet the neighbors.

My phone buzzes.

Ellie: Do I need to put on pants?

Me: Only if the police call you.

Ellie: I should probably do my hair then. Mama needs a new boyfriend. I could date a cop.

Me: No, you cannot. You’ll corrupt him, and he has a duty to this city. He doesn’t have time for your shenanigans. Now go to bed. I’m going upstairs to tell them to turn it down.

Ellie: If you end up in jail, I’ll bring your piping supplies. You pipe faster when you’re mad, anyway.

I tuck my phone into my sweatshirt pocket and head upstairs. The fourth-floor hallway is quieter than my apartment as I exit my door and head for the elevator. On the fifth, the bass gets louder as I walk toward 5012.

I knock.

Nothing. Apparently, they can’t hear me over the music.

I try again, harder. This time, the door opens, and the music hits me at full volume. I’m suddenly impressed by how much these walls have been keeping out.

The man who opened the door stares at me for half a second, then breaks into a grin.

"Baylor Fairbanks? Is that you?"

I blink at the six-foot man in front of me. It takes my exhausted brain a second to catch up.

"Rooks?" I croak, my voice as tired as the rest of me.

"What the hell… Come here," he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in for a hug.

Carson Rooksdale played hockey with my brother Beau from their peewee days in Boston until they went off to different colleges. He used to turn up at our house with a hockey bag and eat whatever Mom had planned for four people. Seattle is one of the last places I’d expect to run into him, but here he is, hugging me while I’m trying to free my arms. Then he backs into the apartment and brings me with him.

"Come in, come in. Have a beer," he says.

He lets go of me, then takes my wrist and pulls me toward the kitchen. The front door swings shut behind us. I’m not sure if it’s the exhaustion or finding out the guy throwing the party is someone I practically grew up with, but I need a second to catch up. Staying for a drink is the last thing I want to do right now.

I glance around and count at least forty people. I could maybe fit ten in my living room if everyone agreed to stand.