3. Gabe
THREE
GABE
Gabe had the smallest room in the house that Mac and Parker owned.
The roommates revolved throughout the years, and while their house used to have multiple students, Gabe was the only one of his roommates still in college.
When one person left, another got brought in, and when you moved in, you got the room that was available.
It would have been more than enough room for himself, but it wasn’t just him.
It was him and about eighty cubic feet of art supplies.
Mac had helped him build a high shelf around his entire space for art supplies and books, and while Gabe worried a giant box of alcohol markers might fall on him in his sleep, there was nowhere else for his shit to go.
He had a full-size bed and a skinny old desk with terribly shallow drawers.
His closet didn’t have a door, which was probably a blessing, because he wouldn’t have had the space to open it.
He had bins under his bed with clothes and more art supplies, and things he’d drawn or painted were tacked up on his walls.
Gabe wasn’t the only artist in the house.
Duncan was a mixed media artist and baker, and Mac was a guilder and sign painter, who added gold to his window designs.
The two of them shared a cheap studio space in an old warehouse building close by, so Gabe was the only one suffocating in his own supplies.
It would have to do. He didn’t have the money for a studio.
He dug a notebook out of his messenger bag.
Since most of his classes were art classes, he allocated one notebook to the semester.
Starting in the front he had math problems written down, and the back had his English notes.
He’d been doing his creative writing homework on his phone in the downtime he had between work and classes and other work, so he was pretty sure the notebook would last the full semester.
He’d had to borrow Parker’s laptop for the Zoom call, since the camera on his laptop was fucked up. He set the computer on a stack of sketchbooks on his desk, then sat on the stool he’d found on the side of the street on campus during move-out one year.
He logged in to Zoom and pulled up his meeting, waving to his small group.
Three other people were also in his class, looking like they had no idea what they were going to write about either.
A woman with two French braids. An older Asian man wearing a sweater Gabe was pretty sure Wyatt had, and a young man who…
fuck…took his breath away. Short dark hair, a square face, soft, kind eyes.
He looked like he could bench-press Gabe.
They made quick introductions. Chloe had a kid when she was pretty young and picked this program to work on her degree during lunch breaks and nap times.
Haruto had gone to college after high school initially but had been forced to drop out and contribute to his own young family.
Now his kids were in school themselves and had convinced him to go back.
Gabe was the only student in the regular in- person program, but with his weird schedule, he’d had to pick up an online credit to knock out the English requirement.
Brandon explained that he was a pro hockey player, so there was never a guarantee that the location you start your semester would be where you ended it.
Plus, there was no such thing as a regular pro hockey schedule.
Gabe forgot to breathe for a moment.
“A pro hockey player?” he asked, leaning in closer to Parker’s computer. “It’s like I manifested you.”
“Oh, cool. Big hockey fan?” Brandon asked, with God’s most earnest look on his face.
“I was actually just talking about how I need to find a rich guy to pay for my tuition, but I can become a hockey fan if that’s what it takes.” He winked at Brandon, whose eyes looked like a loading screen while his brain processed something to say.
“Oh, uh, that’s funny. I’m in the minors. An AHL deal doesn’t make me rich, unfortunately.”
Oh. A poor hockey player. If the rich ones weren’t making as much as a basketball player, a minor leaguer definitely wasn’t rolling in the dough.
Still, Gabe was certain Brandon had more cash in his bank account than he did.
“I’ll have to hit you up again in a few years,” he joked.
Brandon’s shoulders hunched forward, and he tucked his chin.
He looked defensive. Gabe would stop harassing him.
“Which brings me to my story ideas,” Gabe said, pulling up a chicken scratch list of ideas.
He was currently leaning toward one about a guy who befriends a crow in order to overthrow his HOA?
Solve a murder? It was a work in progress.
Chloe had a few ideas, mostly autobiographical about being a young mom, and Haruto’s best idea was about a man on a long vacation and the events that led to self-discovery that happened along the way.
Gabe was impressed by his classmates’ ideas.
This was a general requirement. None of them were English majors.
He prepared himself to be disappointed by Brandon’s idea—an un-generous thought based on his experiences with other athletes—but when he finally opened his mouth after nearly twenty minutes of affirmative nods and quiet mm-hmms, there were… thoughts in his head.
“My little sister has been sick most of her life. There are things she hasn’t been able to do. So I want to write a story about two siblings who both make each other’s lives better in different ways.”
“That’s so sweet,” Chloe said.
“My two kids are different people but were raised to be considerate of each other. I have a thousand little ideas if you need any,” Haruto offered.
“That’s…” Gabe struggled for words. “That sounds like a great idea.”
Gabe couldn’t give a fuck about this class.
He was a studio art major and doing whatever he could to finally graduate.
Hence the weird online class. His classmates kept chatting for a few more minutes.
The meeting was to talk about ideas before they started writing, and they got through it in under twenty-five minutes.
In a few weeks, they would have another meeting to share their work, and one after that for critique feedback. Gabe was already tired of it.
He wasn’t tired of the hot hockey player, though.
The class roster was on Blackboard, and he found the only Brandon in class.
Brandon Gatlin. A Google search was Gabe’s first step.
Brandon’s roster photo for the Iowa Stars, the AHL team he played for apparently, was extremely serious.
On-ice photos had the same intensity to his gaze.
Next was a quick Instagram investigation.
His profile didn’t have a ton of photos, but there were ones where he was smiling.
His jawline caught Gabe’s eye first, coupled with the instinct to draw it.
Brandon’s whole body was a war of curves and angles.
Shirtless on a boat, in a suit at some function, sweaty while working out.
Gabe usually went for guys who looked like they had opinions on French films, but he could be into this hockey player.
He followed Brandon and sent him a message but chose to be less forward than he’d been with the baseball player.
Gabe
Hey, it’s Gabe from class. Had to verify to make sure you really are a hockey player, and from the evidence displayed on your feed, you weren’t lying. ;)
He could avoid overtly propositioning him, but he could not avoid using a winky face emoticon.
While he waited for a response, he shut Parker’s laptop and brought it across the hall to his room.
He knocked on Parker’s perpetually closed door, opening it when invited.
Parker had the largest room in the house, which was fitting for someone who spent nearly all of his time in it.
He had a queen-sized bed piled high with pillows, soft blankets, and a few stuffed animals, his desk he worked from home at, and a big chair for reading or watching TV in.
He was curled up in the chair, and Gabe crossed the room to put his laptop back on his desk.
Otis was curled on Parker’s shoulders. If Otis had a second parent, it was Gabe, but he was extremely attached to his actual father.
Parker had rescued Otis when he found him as a stray, and Otis seemed to understand his good fortune.
Mac had installed cat doors on Parker’s and Gabe’s bedroom doors so Otis could move freely and not wake them up at three a.m. looking for a different cuddle buddy.
“How are you feeling, man?” Gabe asked, plopping down in Parker’s desk chair.
Pretty much everything Parker owned was bought secondhand (more for the planet than for his bank account, the way Gabe ended up with a bunch of cheap old shit), but he also had endless patience and discerning taste, so instead of the slightly wobbly stool Gabe had collected off the street, Parker’s secondhand desk chair was a Herman Miller.
Gabe wished he didn’t know that by name.
“I’m alive,” Parker said, pausing the farming sim he was playing on his Switch.
“I’ve got time tonight if you want to talk. Or hang out.”
Parker’s cute little smile appeared, and Gabe was stoked to have a hangout buddy.
“I was thinking I could use a haircut actually,” Parker said, combing fingers into the not-yet-shaggy back of his hair. Parker had specific haircut preferences.
“Hell yeah.” Parker owned fancy clippers that he (of course) found on Facebook Marketplace, and he and Gabe traded haircuts back and forth. Parker could afford to go get his hair cut, but he didn’t like strangers touching him, and Gabe, well, couldn’t afford it. It was a solid trade.
Gabe grabbed the stool from his room and brought it into the bathroom at the end of the hall. When things in their turn-of-the-century house started falling apart, Gabe liked to appreciate the black-and-white daisy hex tiles and the claw-foot bathtub.
That strategy only worked when the thing that was broken wasn’t his window AC in the summer .
Parker took a seat on the stool facing the mirror as Gabe unzipped the pouch the clippers were in and rooted around for the #4 guard. He gave Parker the same haircut every time, thank god, because he could manage this specific haircut and do a pretty good job, but he didn’t trust himself with more.
Parker put some music on, the sad cowboy songs he was into recently coming out of his phone speakers where it rested on the sink. He took his shirt off to avoid a prickly neckline, and Gabe draped a towel over his shoulders.
“How’d your meeting go?” Parker asked as Gabe got his hands wet, cupping them to get Parker’s hair damp.
Every time they did this, both of them promised to remember to get a spray bottle for water before the next haircut, and neither of them ever did.
Instead, Parker had defined spots of wet and dry, as drips of water slid down his neck and into the towel.
“Good. Going to write a story about befriending a crow.”
“Sick.”
“Yeah. But more importantly,” he said, flipping the clippers on, the buzz of them vibrating down his hand, “I have a pro hockey player in my class.”
“Duncs said no hockey players,” Parker joked. Gabe gently nudged his head down so Parker was looking at his feet. “They’re practically broke.”
“Yeah, he plays for the minor league team I guess, so he makes even less money.”
“That’s terrible news. I’m so sorry. Is he hot?”
Gabe flipped the clippers off for a second as he fished his phone out of his pocket. He opened Instagram and found Brandon.
“Oh yeah. God, I love sports. ”
“Even if he’s not a soccer player?”
“He’s wearing tiny shorts in this photo,” Parker pointed out. The primary concern.
Gabe turned the clippers back on and got back to work on the back and sides of Parker’s head. This part wasn’t the hard part.
“Someone just got a DM,” Parker singsonged.
“From Brandon?”
“The one and only. Can I read it or is it private?”
“My message to him pretty much just said hello, so go for it. We’re not exchanging secrets or nudes.”
“Yet. It says, ‘Hi, Gabe. It was nice to meet you tonight.’”
“And no credit card number or anything?”
“I can ask him for it if you want.”
“Nah. Just double tap for a heart. This isn’t a dating app. Is there a dating app to find a rich guy?”
“You could start charging for haircuts.”
“That’ll be sixty bucks, please.”
“I’d pay it. You do a good job.”
“The only way for you to pay me for a haircut is by giving me a haircut in return. Plus, I think you need a license for that.”
“Just trying to help you brainstorm. And you’re really not into Only Fans? I think Mac has an old camera you could take nudie shots with.”
“I’m beginning to suspect you and Duncs just want to see my junk.” With the back and sides complete, he grabbed a pair of scissors and a comb and got started on the top, mimicking techniques he’d seen hairstylists do but didn’t understand, and prayed.
“Har har,” Parker said .
“It’s not that exciting. Standard fare. How’s work going?”
“I clock in, I press the buttons I’m supposed to press, I clock out. Same as it ever was. I’m cranking through podcasts like they’re about to be taken away from me though.”
“Anything good?”
“A two-parter on Fabio. That was enlightening.”
Gabe got an earful about ’90s romance novel cover models as he finished up the top of Parker’s hair, then trimmed his sideburns and neck.
An experienced hairstylist could finish this cut in fifteen minutes, but it always took Gabe nearly an hour.
It was okay though, because at the end, Parker was smiling and relaxed, and even though Gabe was dead tired on his feet from class, work, and his meeting that day, he agreed to watching TV with Parker in bed, where he promptly fell asleep next to his friend for the millionth time.
His life was a crushing hustle he didn’t think was sustainable, but he had the best roommates in the world. And the cute hockey player had followed him back on Instagram. Not everything was bad.