Fanboys

Chapter 1

DASH

I stop outside my dorm room and take a deep cleansing breath. In through the nose and out through the—nope, I am going to hurl.

I only have a few minutes. Mom and Dad are waiting downstairs with the rest of my crap, but I have to do this on my own.

Why in the name of all that is holy the housing department decided to assign me the captain of the hockey team as a roommate, I will never know.

We exchanged a couple emails over the summer, and obviously, I’ve cyberstalked him, but I still can’t get a handle on the guy.

What I know: Gavin West, newly anointed captain of the Green Mountain State University Stags, Division I hockey team (whatever that means).

Living in the dorms—in a double—as a junior for some reason (I'm going to guess financial, because what else could there be?

He's just dying to share a ten by twelve space with a freshman?

I think not.) I know a bunch of stuff about his hockey stats that makes zero sense to me.

And I know what he looks like, thanks to the team roster photos.

He doesn't seem like a raging homophobe based on his profile shot.

But then again, he doesn't not seem like one.

I'm pretty much navigating in the dark here.

He doesn't have a ton of personal social media presence, and what there was was kind of all hockey. So, yeah.

That’s all I got.

Oh, and I know that he's in there because I can hear him shuffling around. Okay, enough stalling. I say a prayer to Dionysus, god of theater, rap three times on the door as warning, and then push into the room.

One side is totally empty, one side looks like someone has made themselves at home. But I don't immediately see that someone. My eyes search the space for a jock. There's a mop of unruly brown hair moving around in the corner. After a beat, a face pops up. His eyes land on me, and he smiles.

“Hey! You must be Dash.” Now my roommate is rising to his feet, extending a hand. He's huge, at least compared to me. Then again, most guys are. Broad shoulders, six feet tall. Lean, though. He's wearing a Green Mountain State hockey t-shirt, but other than that, he looks pretty normal.

I shake his hand. “Guilty. Gavin, I presume?”

“Yep.”

…and introductions done. I have no idea what to say next.

I drop the oversized duffel I'm carrying on the unclaimed bed, open it up, and start placing things around. It's mostly clothes, which I put in the dresser, but I've also got some of my tchotchkes in here, padded out by sweaters and such so they wouldn't break.

Gavin blows out a breath. “Hey, yeah, sorry. I hope you don't mind. I just picked a side. I've been here a week, you know, because of the preseason. Anyway, we can switch if you want to. Wouldn't be a problem.”

“No, it's fine,” I say. Which side of the room I'm on is the least of my concerns here.

“You sure?” He drops down to sit on the side of his bed. His legs take up half the room. He pulls them in to let me by as I cross to my closet. “I don't want to be the insensitive jerk roommate who just pulls crap without consulting you.”

He looks genuine. Like, maybe he's actually worried what kind of impression he's making on me. I take it as a good sign.

“Seriously,” I tell him, “I don't really have a preference. It's all good.”

“Okay. Good.” He seems to relax.

I sneak a peek over at his side of the room.

It's definitely sporty. There's a heap of equipment with what I assume is a hockey stick poking out of it in the corner.

Some textbooks on the desk. A photo of a dog.

Some hockey posters on the wall. No half-naked women, though.

No beer tap in the corner. No Campus Nazis flyers lying about or whatever.

I am tentatively willing to consider my roommate situation is not as dire as it could have been.

I return to the bag, pulling out my Ruby Slippers snow globe. This needs a place of honor. Where should I put it? Dresser or desk? Maybe the window sill?

Gavin clears his throat. “So, theater major?”

I freeze. Oh. Okay. Here we go.

I turn to face him. “What gave me away?” I gesture to my skinny jeans and vintage blazer. “The outfit? The general vibe? The Judy Garland collectible?”

He blinks at me, looking abashed. Good.

“Uh, the email? You mentioned it in one of your messages?”

Shit. Right. Heat creeps up my neck. “Oh. Yeah.”

“That sounds cool,” Gavin says, flashing me a smile I don't deserve right now.

“Yeah, I like it.” I give an awkward laugh. “Obviously.”

“You act?”

I nod.

“That sounds fun, but I mean, also super hard. I can't even imagine getting up and performing in front of an audience.”

I crack a smile. “I'm sorry, don't you regularly play games in front of like six thousand people?”

This gets a laugh out of him. “Huh. Yeah, I guess I do. I don't think it's the same, though.”

“Right, for example, I am hardly ever knocked into by two-hundred-pound guys while I'm on stage.” I grin at him.

Okay. Fine. Gavin doesn't totally suck. I suddenly realize we've only been talking about me, and I don't even know what his major is.

If he told me, I don't remember. Maybe I suck. “Hey, so what are you studying again?”

“Oh, um, education?”

I wince. “Sorry. You did say that, didn’t you?”

He shrugs. “I spend more time at the rink than in the classroom anyway.”

“Truth? I think I sort of assumed all jocks just major in like Muscle Management or something.”

He grins. “That's my minor!”

Now it's my turn to laugh, and damn, I might actually like him.

The idea that I might not have to spend the next two semesters in roommate hell is such a relief I almost want to cry.

I unpack the rest of the bag, and he doesn’t even blink at my collection of Pride t-shirts.

He mentions his practice schedule, which is apparently intense. “I’ll try not to be too loud when I have to head out for morning practice.”

“Do I want to know what time that will be?”

He sizes me up, then smiles. “Nah, probably not.”

I’m tucking the last of the clothes from the duffel into the dresser when he pipes up. “Hey, you think you’ll be in a show this semester?”

I have no idea what the odds of a freshman landing a part that soon are, but that’s what I’m here for. “No clue,” I admit. “I hope so.”

“Me too. You let me know, okay? I’ll come check it out.”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, okay. That’s… thanks. That’d be cool.”

He gives me one of those bro nods, flicking his chin up. I almost laugh. He’s not completely different from what I expected.

My phone buzzes on the bed.

Mom: Can we come up yet, sweetie? Your father is threatening to “go all ally on his ass” if your roommate isn’t nice.

I glance up at my roommate, who has turned back to the floor in the corner, where I now see he is digging in a small and tightly packed dorm fridge. He holds up two of some kind of crazy protein drink, offering one to me. I shake my head and bite back a smile.

Dash: All good here. Tell Dad to stand down.

The next afternoon, I’m walking back from the bookstore, my backpack stuffed with ridiculously priced textbooks, mostly for general ed classes I didn’t really want to take anyway. Math for Arts majors, anyone?

I’ve got to be half a mile from the dorm.

Green Mountain State is a sprawling campus, and I’m still trying to get the lay of the land.

I’m ninety percent sure if I head in the direction of the church spire I can see in the distance, I’ll be going the right way.

I refuse to break out the map on my phone in front of the students around me, who all somehow seem to have the place figured out.

My bag is heavy, though. I’m contemplating stopping at the coffee cart up ahead for caffeine and a rest when I notice the building behind it.

It’s a huge modern structure, like the size of an aircraft hangar, all glass and concrete and angled lines, set smack in the middle of all the quaint brick and stone buildings of yore.

Kind of hard to miss. Oh, and it says Stags Hockey on a big green and black banner right above the entrance, complete with the little antler logo.

So. This is where the magic happens.

I have to admit I’m curious. Partly about what Gavin and the team are doing all those hours at practice.

Which is happening right now, I realize as I glance at my watch.

I’m also curious to see what this mythical place looks like, given (a) hockey is what put the U (aka “Puck U”) on the map and (b) the theater department is housed in a former high school…

I mean, I get it. Our production of Tartuffe later this year isn’t going to bring in thousands (millions?) of dollars in revenue for the school. Still, you can’t blame me for wanting to know what all the fuss is about.

And Gavin did offer to come see what I do. It’s only fair I reciprocate, right?

I’m not really sure what drives me to do it, but a second later, I am opening the gleaming glass door and stepping into the lobby.

It’s deserted, but I can hear muffled sounds coming through what must be the doors to the seating area.

Probably locked. But I try one anyway, giving it a hard yank, as if that would make a difference.

And miraculously, it opens. Huh. Welp, I’m just gonna assume that if they didn’t want me watching, they would have locked that.

I step inside, cold air hitting me. Brr. I was not expecting that. Which, okay, ice, Dash…

Behind me, the heavy door swings shut, slowing until it clicks into place.

In here, the sounds are more distinct. Skate blades scraping across the ice, a sharp crack that must be a stick hitting a puck. Someone, probably the coach, yelling out instructions in lingo that’s gibberish to me. A whistle, loud and shrill.

I’m in a little entry tunnel, so I have to take a few steps forward before the ice and the arena come fully into view.

Holy shit, this is a lot of seats. Like a lot, a lot of seats. Like, I knew hockey was popular at this school, but… holy shit.

“Hey, watch it, West!” I look down at the ice to see some guy skating backwards and giving some other guy—presumably my roommate—double middle fingers. But his tone is teasing, so I guess that’s just how it’s done in Jockland.

A sharp whistle cuts the air. “Knock it off, Griff,” yells a middle-aged man off on one side of the ice. Okay, maybe that is not how it’s done in Jockland.

There are a dozen guys skating around on the ice.

It’s hard to tell who’s who. They’re all wearing helmets, plus pads that make them look like Transformers and jerseys with numbers but no names.

I know which one Gavin is, thanks to his friend there, but other than that, I’m lost. Still, it’s kinda mesmerizing, watching these hulking figures zipping around at crazy speeds, intent on doing whatever exactly it is they’re doing.