Chapter 3
JACKSON
Two Years Ago
Holy hell. I’m officially a Berkeley Shore University student.
An empty cardboard box dangles from my fingers as I take in my room for the next four years.
I’ve been here less than three hours, and my side of the room already screams Jackson lives here.
Cleats kicked halfway under the bed, my lucky jersey hanging off the desk chair, and somewhere in that mountain of T-shirts and shorts is the football Coach Daniels signed for me after the state championships.
Mom would have an aneurysm seeing this mess, but that’s the beauty of college—she’s hundreds of miles away and can’t make me fold a damn thing.
Across from my chaos, the other half of the room sits untouched.
The bed has been made with hospital corners, the desk surface gleams, spotless.
According to the housing email sent out last week, my roommate is a sophomore and also on the football team.
We’ll probably become instant bros, stay up late talking plays and girls, maybe even play grab-ass in the shower as all teammates do.
Wait—that’s not what I mean.
I drop onto my bed and give it an experimental bounce. The whole frame groans loudly, the springs protesting under my weight. Great. This thing has probably seen more action than a frat house mattress. I bounce again to make sure it won’t collapse mid-sleep and send me crashing to the floor.
Through the thin walls, move-in day chaos bleeds into my room.
Some dad bellows about watching the corners while his kid grunts noncommittally.
Down the hall, a woman sobs about her baby growing up too fast. And from somewhere—I cock my head to pinpoint the direction—yeah, that’s definitely porn playing from three doors down.
Some guy couldn’t even wait until his parents left the parking lot.
I snicker. Can’t judge too hard. I’ll be doing the same thing once I meet my roommate and figure out his schedule. A man has needs.
Pushing myself off the creaky death trap, I wander to the window and press my forehead against the glass.
The quad buzzes with activity—students lugging boxes, orientation leaders in matching neon shirts waving maps, a group of guys tossing a football near the fountain. My fingers itch to join them.
This is it. Berkeley Shore University. My first real step toward the NFL.
Sure, BSU’s football program isn’t exactly a powerhouse.
The hockey team gets all the glory around here, filling Infinity Arena while we play to half-empty stands.
Rugby pulls decent crowds too. But none of that matters.
Scouts don’t care where you play; they care how you play. And I plan to play my ass off.
The door swings open behind me.
I spin around, plastering on my friendliest smile, the one I like to call the Jackson Monroe special. Approachable. Warm. Definitely not the guy who thinks about grabbing asses in the showers.
But the person stumbling through the doorway isn’t a linebacker. Or a wide receiver. Or anyone who has ever touched a football.
He’s short and skinny, and drowning in an argyle sweater vest that hangs off his narrow shoulders.
His brown hair gleams with enough gel to lubricate an engine, and his wire-rimmed glasses have slipped halfway down his nose.
His face burns beet red as he struggles with two vintage leather suitcases.
“Hey, you lost?” I ask, already moving to help.
A bead of sweat rolls down his neck, disappearing into—wait. Is that a bow tie? Now that I think about it, his whole ensemble screams 1950s prep school, complete with khaki pants pressed sharp enough to cut paper and honest-to-God penny loafers.
“I am…” he huffs, adjusting his grip on the suitcases, “most certainly…not lost.”
His voice comes out strained, formal.
“This is room 301, correct?” He peers at me through those crooked glasses. “I’m Ryan Abrams. Your new roommate.”
My brain short-circuits. “You’re—but the email said—”
“A sophomore on the football team, yes.” Ryan attempts to drag his suitcases farther into the room, but fails spectacularly. “I’m afraid there’s been a clerical error. I’m neither a sophomore nor an athlete of any kind. I’m a freshman majoring in astrophysics.”
“Astrophysics,” I repeat dumbly.
“The study of celestial objects and phenomena.” His glasses slip further. “Stars. Planets. The fundamental nature of the universe.”
“I know what astrophysics is.”
I don’t. Not really. But admitting that feels wrong when this guy clearly thinks everyone should know what astrophysics is.
“Here, let me—” I grab both suitcases from his white-knuckled grip. They weigh approximately a thousand pounds each. “Jesus, what do you have in here? Rocks?”
“Books, primarily.” Ryan straightens his bow tie with trembling fingers. “Also, my telescope components, star charts, and a complete collection of Carl Sagan’s works.”
I haul the suitcases to his side of the room, my biceps straining. Football training didn’t prepare me for this. “You carried these up four flights of stairs?”
“The elevator was occupied.” His face somehow gets redder. “I didn’t want to impose.”
“Dude, that’s what elevators are for. Imposing.”
Ryan blinks at me like I’ve spoken a foreign language. Then his eyes roll back, his knees buckle, and he crumples toward the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
“Shit!” I lunge forward and catch him before he face-plants into my pile of dirty laundry. His body weighs nothing—I’ve lifted heavier equipment bags. “Hey! Ryan! You okay?”
No response. The guy is out cold, limp in my arms, his bow tie askew and glasses dangling from one ear.
I stand there, holding my unconscious roommate, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
This is definitely not how I pictured my first day of college going.
No bro bonding. No talking plays. Just me cradling an astrophysics nerd who passed out from carrying too many books up too many stairs.
His chest rises and falls steadily. That’s a good sign. He’s not dead. Just…exhausted? Dehydrated? I grab a water bottle from my mini-fridge and crouch beside the bed, unsure whether I should splash him or wait it out.
Ryan’s eyes flutter open before I can decide. He stares at me, then at the ceiling, then back at me. Confusion clouds his face for exactly two seconds before mortification takes over.
“Oh dear.” He tries to sit up too fast and sways dangerously. “Oh dear, oh dear. I apologize profusely. That was entirely inappropriate of me.”
“Dude, you fainted. It happens.”
“It most certainly does not happen. Not to me.” He accepts the water bottle with shaking hands. “My father would be appalled. He always says a man should never show weakness.”
“Your father sounds like a dick.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Ryan’s eyes go wide behind his crooked glasses.
“He’s a colonel in the United States Army,” Ryan says quietly. “Weakness is not tolerated in our household.”
Shit. Way to go, Jackson. Insulting your roommate’s military dad within five minutes of meeting him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re quite right.” Ryan takes a long drink of water. “He is, as you so eloquently put it, a dick.”
I bark out a surprised laugh. Ryan’s mouth twitches—the barest hint of a smile—before he schools his expression back into something neutral.
“I truly am sorry for the drama.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “This isn’t how I intended to make a first impression.”
“Forget about it.” I drop onto my creaky bed across from him. “I’m Jackson, by the way. Jackson Monroe.”
“I know. Your name was on the housing assignment.” Ryan pushes his glasses up properly. “Quarterback for the BSU football team. Impressive statistics from your high school career. The sports section of the campus newspaper ran a piece about incoming athletes last week.”
“You read the sports section?”
“I read everything.” He says matter-of-factly. “Knowledge is power, as they say.”
I study my new roommate. He’s nothing like what I expected, and yet something about him is oddly endearing. The way he talks. The bow tie. The fact that he apparently researched me before we even met.
“So,” I say, stretching out on my bed, “astrophysics, huh? You gonna be one of those guys who discovers a new planet or something?”
Ryan’s face lights up. “That would be the dream,” he admits. “Though, realistically, my research interests lie more in the theoretical realm. Dark matter. The expansion of the universe. The fundamental questions of cosmic existence.”
I understand maybe a third of those words. But watching Ryan talk about space—his hands moving animatedly, his formal speech pattern loosening ever so slightly—makes me want to understand more.
“That’s pretty cool,” I say, and mean it.
Ryan blinks at me. “You think so?”
“Yeah, man. Most people just want to talk about sports or parties. You’re out here trying to understand the universe.”
Something shifts in Ryan’s expression. The tension in his shoulders eases, and for the first time since he stumbled through that door, he doesn’t look like he’s bracing for impact.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. The chaos of move-in day continues outside—doors slamming, parents yelling, that porn still playing three doors down—but our room is now in its own little bubble.
“There are, um.” Ryan clears his throat and fidgets with his bow tie. “There are more suitcases in the hallway. I couldn’t manage them all in one trip.”
“More?” I’m already on my feet.
“Seven suitcases total.” His face flushes again. “My father insisted I bring everything I might need. He’s very thorough.”
I head for the door without hesitation. Growing up with three younger brothers taught me a few things. How to break up fights. How to make grilled cheese at 2 a.m. when someone has a nightmare. But most importantly, how to spot when someone needs help but is too proud to ask for it.