Chapter 2
The guy sizes me up. Then his whole face changes. A wide, lopsided grin spreads across it, and the sharp angles soften. His eyes focus on mine.
“Oh shit, neighbor! What’s good?” He pulls the headset off his neck and tosses it somewhere behind him. “I’m Trey.”
He sticks out a hand. It’s massive, almost twice the size of mine, and his palm is clammy, his grip firm enough to rattle up my arm. When he lets go, my fingers are tingling.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. My voice comes out higher than usual.
“You just move in?”
“Last week.”
“Cool, cool. Well, welcome to this shithole.” He leans against the doorframe, totally unbothered about standing there in his underwear. The muscles in his stomach tighten when he crosses his arms. “Was I being too loud? My bad, man. I get in the zone and forget there’s a whole world out there.”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” I lie, my brain defaulting to people-pleasing mode. “Don’t worry about it.”
“So you didn’t hear me yelling?” He tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow.
“Barely. I mean, maybe a little.”
Trey knocks on the wall next to the doorframe with his knuckles. “Huh. Thought these walls were paper thin. Guess they’re thicker than I figured.”
They’re not. They’re really not. But do I say that? No. Because apparently, when faced with a giant, half-naked, ridiculously good-looking guy with a disarming smile, I lose the ability to say what I came here to say.
But he’s not a jerk. That’s the thing. He’s being nice about it, and he’s already apologizing, which he didn’t have to do. It would be rude to press the issue now. I built this up way too big in my head, as usual.
“Yeah,” I say, taking a step back. “Well, I just wanted to say hi. I’ll let you get back to your?—”
“Nah, it’s all good. I needed a break anyway.” He pushes the door open wider and jerks his head toward the room. “Come in.”
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding, you’re my neighbor.” That grin again. “You play? Apex? CoD?”
He steps aside to make room, and I find myself walking in before I can think of a decent excuse. “I, uh... I don’t really play games.”
His room is the same layout as mine, flipped.
That’s where the similarities end. Clothes cover every surface.
Sweatpants hang off the back of his gaming chair, socks litter the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs.
The bed’s unmade, sheets tangled into a messy ball.
Two monitors glow on a desk buried under energy drink cans and protein bar wrappers.
A pair of cleats sits on the windowsill next to a tub of creatine with the lid off.
The trash can in the corner is overflowing, and a couple of pizza boxes are stacked next to it.
“Ignore the mess,” he says, kicking a towel out of the way. “I know how I live.” He drops into his gaming chair, and it groans under him. “So what’s your thing then?”
“I draw.”
“For real?” He spins the chair to face me. “What, like, comics and stuff?”
“Portraits, mostly. I’m an art major.”
“No shit.” He leans back, looking at me with something like genuine interest. “That’s cool, man. I couldn’t draw to save my life.”
“It’s just a skill,” I say, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. There’s nowhere to sit that isn’t covered in clothes. “Like anything else. Takes practice.”
“Oh, hold on.” He leans over and sweeps a pile of cables off the edge of his bed. “Here. Sit down.”
“Thanks.” I perch on the corner of the mattress, trying to take up as little space as possible.
“You should show me sometime.”
“Show you what?”
“Your drawings.” He nods toward the wall between our rooms.
“Oh. I mean, they’re mostly unfinished. Just studies. Practice stuff.” Why the hell am I downplaying my work? It’s what I’m good at.
“Even better. I like seeing the process.”
What is with this guy? He’s nothing like what I expected from the yelling and the slamming.
He’s so... easy. Guys like him, big and confident and comfortable in their own skin, they don’t usually notice me.
I’m background noise. A fly on the wall.
But Trey’s looking at me like he actually gives a shit.
“What about you?” I ask, trying not to look at the line of dark hair trailing from his navel into his boxer briefs.
“See, I had one skill, and it didn’t work out.
Football. I was the worst offensive tackle on the team.
” He leans back in the chair. “The plan was always to go pro. The league. But plans change. Dreams get crushed. You know how it is. I still play pickup, keep in shape. But mostly I game and try not to think about it too much. Maybe I’ll coach someday. I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“What happened? Did you get injured or something?”
He shrugs. “Nah. Got benched. Butted heads with Coach one too many times. Big ego meets bigger ego. You know how it is.”
No, I absolutely have no idea how that is.
He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m still on the roster. Just not starting. Coach wants me to ‘get my head right.’ Whatever that means. So yeah. It is what it is.”
“You don’t seem like the type,” I say before I can stop myself. What a weird thing to say to someone you just met. “Sorry. I mean, you seem pretty laid-back.”
“Oh, I am. Mostly.” He gives me a half-smile. “But I can get intense. When I want something, I go after it. Can’t help it.”
There’s a weird flutter in my stomach when he says that.
I can’t place it. My fingers itch for my pencil.
He gets intense. I’ve already heard it through the wall.
Passionate. And now I’m thinking about how I’d draw him.
The strong bridge of his nose, that full lower lip.
Those dark eyes with a warmth I’d have to work in layers to get right.
The way they stay on me even when I look away.
I realize I’ve been staring and force my eyes to the floor. There’s a crumpled sock next to my foot.
“Well, I hope it works out with the team,” I say, my throat dry.
“Appreciate it, but nah. I’m cooked. Think I’m done for.”
“Maybe just... tell your coach what he wants to hear? Swallow your pride for a bit?” Am I really giving this guy, this giant, confident athlete, advice on how to handle himself? It’s absurd.
“Man, I’m too hardheaded for that. That’s my whole problem.
” He stretches an arm over his head, and I have to look away from his biceps flexing, his stomach pulling tight.
And there’s the matter of his boxer briefs, which are doing very little to hide what’s underneath.
I definitely shouldn’t be looking, but it’s hard not to when it’s right there.
A thick bulge straining against the gray fabric, the outline of him clearly visible, pressed to one side.
Proportionate to the rest of him. Jesus, Nico. Get a grip.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, I should probably get back to it.”
“Already? You want a drink or something?” He looks around his desk. “I got... Monster and protein shake. And some Gatorade, I think. That’s the menu.”
“I’m good, thanks.” I stand up a little too fast and the room tilts for a second.
“Alright, man.” He gets up and follows me to the door, and I’m reminded again how big he is. “Hey, for real though. If I’m being too loud, just bang on the wall. I’ll chill out.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I step into the hall and almost walk into the wall opposite his door. I correct course, feel my face go hot, and pray he didn’t notice. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m past socially awkward. This is complete malfunction.
“Nico.”
I turn back. “Yeah?”
“Don’t be a stranger.” He leans against the doorframe. “I mean it. You need anything, or you just wanna hang, come over. Door’s always open.”
“Okay.” I give him a pathetic little wave.
Then I’m back in my room with the door shut and the silence rushing in. The silence I wanted. But now there’s a ringing in my ears and the sound of my own heartbeat. I stand there for a full minute, just breathing, replaying the whole conversation in my head.
Finally, I sit down at my desk. The crying girl stares up at me. I flip past her to a blank page.
My pencil moves on its own. A jawline. The curve of a brow. Full lips, slightly parted. A neck, a shoulder, a torso, all lean muscle. My hand flies across the page, shading and smudging.
I keep going. I don’t think about what it means. Why there’s a weird fizzy buzz in my chest. Why my jeans feel tight.
I just draw.