Chapter 1 #2
I should grab it back. I should say something. But I’m frozen, hands still gripping my bag strap, and all I can do is watch as they open the dating app I downloaded two weeks ago in a moment of desperate optimism and have since opened exactly zero times because the thought terrifies me.
“OK, so Kell’s got… Tinder… classic.” Nash grins. “Let’s see what we’re working with here.”
“Don’t—” I start, but Stiles is already swiping, and a few other guys drift over now, because apparently my humiliation is tonight’s entertainment.
“Dude, you haven’t even filled out your bio,” Stiles says, his expression one of theatrical disbelief. “No wonder you’re not getting matches.”
“That’s your problem,” Nash adds. “You play with broken toasters and shit, and then you act shocked when you’re not drowning in pussy.”
The accusation feels unfair, because I’ve never once complained about not getting girls. But I don’t react, because reacting shows them they got to me. So I deploy the self-aware grin that says I know I’m pathetic, you know I’m pathetic, so can we please just move past this?
“Let’s fix this,” Nash says, swiping now—rapid-fire, left, left, left, right—
“Whoa, wait, go back,” Stiles says, grabbing Nash’s wrist. “That one.”
“Check the bio,” Nash says, turning the screen toward the group.
Stiles grins. “‘Loves thrifting and vintage finds.’”
A spark of hope flares in my chest, bright and dangerous.
Vintage finds.
That’s… close to what I do. Maybe she’s into old stuff, and she’d think it’s cool that I can bring dead gear back to life. What if I could actually talk to her? What if I sent her a message about the weird antique mall off Route 9 that’s basically a goldmine if you know what you’re looking for?
I lean forward, my voice coming out too eager, too earnest, but I can’t stop it. “I could show her the microwave I got on Marketplace for five bucks last week. It took a bit, but I got it working again. It just needed a new—”
I stop.
Because the room is suddenly as quiet as a funeral.
The noise—the constant, overlapping chatter of twenty guys—just… stops. It’s not natural. It’s the silence that opens up right before something terrible happens, the moment before a car crash when time slows and you realize disaster is coming and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
Every single guy within earshot is staring at me. Nash’s mouth hangs open slightly, like I just told him I collect vintage Nazi memorabilia. Stiles blinks, his face frozen in an expression of confused pity. Even Schmidt, usually unflappable, looks like he’s trying to figure out if I’m joking.
And then someone lets out a single, choked laugh.
That’s all it takes.
The room explodes.
Nash slaps his knee.
Stiles wipes his eyes.
Heat floods my face, instant and total, a burning flush that starts at my neck and crawls to my hairline. I want the floor to open up. I want a do-over, a Ctrl+Z, anything. But the words are out there now, floating in the locker room air like a virus I can’t recall.
This is it. The latest reminder that my true self isn’t just unlovable. It’s a punchline. It’s the funniest thing these guys have heard all week. So I retreat inside myself, forcing myself to keep smiling and wait for it to end, because if I let them see how much this hurts, it’ll be worse.
Then I catch Schmidt’s eye.
He’s not laughing. He’s just watching me, his expression carefully neutral, and there’s something in his gaze that feels like pity. That’s worse than the laughter, because I can survive that, but Schmidt sees me for what I am and feels sorry for me.
“Kell.”
Rook’s voice cuts through the chaos, and the laughter starts to die. He’s standing a few feet away, his expression radiating earnest, well-meaning concern, and I know—I know—he’s about to try to help, which is going to make this so much worse.
“Come here for a sec,” he says, nodding toward the hallway.
I follow him, because what else am I going to do? Behind me, I hear Nash saying something about “teaching Kell to show girls his cock instead of his secret junk collection,” which gets another laugh, and when I turn my head to look, I see Stiles using my stick as a prop penis.
Rook stops just outside the locker room, far enough that we won’t be overheard. “You OK?” he says.
I nod, but keep quiet.
“Listen, man,” he says, and his tone is so genuinely kind it makes my chest ache. “I know the guys can be rough, but they’re just trying to help. You have to put yourself out there… be confident… and if you do, the guys will back off and you’ll be drowning in girls.”
I stare at him.
He’s serious. He actually thinks this is helpful advice. He actually thinks the problem is that I’m not confident enough, not that every time I speak… to the guys… to a girl… I make a complete ass of myself or just freeze up entirely, like I just did.
“Just… don’t overthink it,” Rook continues, clapping me on the shoulder. “You’re a great guy, Kell, so just let people see that.”
I nod again.
“Good chat.” He grins, gives me another encouraging pat, and then heads back into the locker room, leaving me standing there, alone.
You can’t be yourself. Not with them. Not with anyone.
I’ve known this for years, but I keep thinking maybe the next time will be different. Maybe these guys, my teammates, my brothers, will get it. But they don’t, and they never will, and that’s not their fault. Because I’m the common denominator in every failure.
That girl in the cafeteria being repulsed by “the nerd.”
Mia, disgusted I didn’t stand up for her.
A million other times.
I’m the guy trying to fit into a world that was never designed for someone like me, and no amount of effort is going to change that fundamental mismatch. Every time I forget and let my guard down, the world reminds me exactly where I stand.
So I do what I always do.
I force a goofy grin, push the door open, and step back into the humid blast of the locker room, turning myself into the punchline.
“Got it,” I call out, loud enough that the chatter dies down, loud enough that I can feel Nash and Stiles and half the team turning to look at me. My voice comes out steady, like I’m in on the joke, like I’m not dying inside. “New rule: no talking about electronics until the third date.”
For a second, there’s silence.
And then the room erupts.
Nash lets out a bark of laughter and slaps me on the back hard enough that I stumble forward a step. “That’s it, Kellerman! You’re learning!”
Someone else—I think it’s one of the sophomores—yells, “Third date, Kell? You’ve got to get a first date!”
There’s more good-natured, approving laughter. The kind that says I’m still one of them, the lovable kid brother who just needs a little help. I smile wider, because that’s what they’re waiting for: confirmation that I’m not taking it too seriously and that I know my place.