The Wrong Roommate (Straight College Jocks)

Chapter 1

“Dude, those are my briefs.”

North holds up the box he just grabbed from the hallway, peering inside. He pulls out a pair and dangles them from one finger. “You still wear tighty-whities?”

“They’re practical.”

“They hold things in place, North. I don’t like those boxers you wear. They ride up.”

“You need to learn to let things breathe a little.” He glances past me toward my new bed. “You’re never going to find a girlfriend with that attitude. The ladies can tell a man who’s afraid of a little movement.”

I snatch them from him and stuff them back into the box. “There’s a difference between breathing and flopping around.”

“It’s called confidence, Gavin.” He leans against the door frame, wiggling his eyebrows.

“It’s called jiggling.” My face is hot. He loves to talk about my dating life, or lack thereof, because he thinks it’s funny to see me get flustered. “Let’s just unpack, shall we?”

“Relax. We’ve got all weekend, bro.”

“Better to do it first, then have the rest of the weekend free. I don’t like procrastinating.”

“Some of us work better under pressure. I never start a paper until the night before.” He pushes off the door frame and crosses the room in two steps.

Our mini fridge is wedged between the desks, already plugged in because that was the first thing North set up.

Priorities. He pulls it open and grabs two Cokes, tossing one to me. “Let’s christen the room first.”

I fumble the catch. Almost drop it. Recover with both hands against my chest. North can snag a one-handed pass at full sprint in pads. Watching me catch a can must be physically painful for him. He doesn’t comment though, which is generous.

“To being roommates,” he says, cracking his open.

“To being roommates.” I pop mine and we clink.

North takes a long pull, his throat working. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Freedom. You and me. And college girls. Lots and lots of college girls.”

I take a more measured sip, the carbonation biting the back of my throat.

I’m still adjusting to the idea. Yes, I like not having walrus-snoring across the room anymore, but I’m not sure I like being in North’s orbit 24/7.

He’s my best friend. My only real friend, if I’m honest. But North’s a lot, and I’ve always had the buffer of a dorm room to retreat to.

Now there’s no escape. His energy is constant. His presence is huge.

It’s not for nothing that he’s the star quarterback.

He has that charisma thing. People are drawn to him.

Girls especially. The golden-boy look. Short-cropped black hair, tanned skin, even teeth, a square jaw that’s starting to show some serious scruff.

At six-five, he’s impossible to ignore on the field, and it’s the same off it.

The guy can’t even blend in at a grocery store without some girl trying to get his number.

I’m the polar opposite. Five-nine on a good day.

My hair is this weird dishwater blond that can’t decide if it wants to be brown or not, so it settles for a sad, mousy in-between.

I’m not ugly, I guess, but I’m not what anyone would call handsome.

I have the kind of face you look at and instantly move past. It’s useful, sometimes.

Is it a little weird that we’re best friends?

Maybe. A quarterback and a bookworm. The loudest guy at the party and the one trying to leave it.

But when we met at freshman orientation, he walked up to me and said, “You look like you hate this as much as I do. Wanna go find food?” And that was it.

We clicked. Instantly, stupidly, like a pair of Lego bricks.

He gives me shit constantly. My wardrobe, my music, my underwear, my nonexistent sex life.

Nothing is off-limits. I fire back when I can, but my ammo is weak compared to his.

He’s got a comeback for everything. He’s never mean, though.

Just a pest. A giant, handsome, unstoppable pest. The worst part is I miss him when he’s not around.

So rooming together made sense. But now that it’s actually happening, I don’t know if I can handle it.

“You’re not gonna bring girls here every weekend, are you?” I try not to let the worry show in my voice.

North pretends to be offended. “Gavin Marsh, are you suggesting I’m some kind of lecherous man-whore?”

“I’m suggesting I’d like to be able to sleep occasionally.”

“I’ll try to stagger them out of respect for your beauty sleep.” He winks.

“North. Serious.”

“Dude, relax. I’ll be discreet.” He slaps me on the shoulder, meant to be reassuring, but it nearly sends me sideways.

His hand is enormous. “But let’s not pretend you’re not going to be beating it raw to the thought of Staci McPherson every night.

At least one of us should be getting the real thing. ”

“I’m not—”

“Save it. I saw you watching her practice with the cheerleading squad.” He leans in close, lowering his voice. “Her ass is a gift from God, my friend. A work of art. So I get it. I really do.”

“I wasn’t watching her like that.”

“Sure you weren’t.” North finishes his Coke in another long swallow and crushes the can in one fist. The aluminum shrieks.

He tosses it toward the wastebasket by the door.

It bounces off the rim, rattles around, and drops in.

“Three points! And the crowd goes wild.” He cups his hands around his mouth and makes a roaring sound.

Then he scans the stack of boxes by the wall and finds the one labeled TV.

“Let’s get this bad boy set up. There’s gotta be a game on somewhere. ”

I shove the box with my underwear into the bottom of my closet. Maybe he’s right, and I should buy some boxers. Or boxer briefs. A compromise. Something that says I’m willing to let things breathe but not so much that anything’s flopping around.

He’s wrong about Staci McPherson, though.

Yes, she’s pretty. But she’s way out of my league.

And I wasn’t looking at her like that. I was just watching.

Observing. That’s what I do. I watch people.

It’s why I’m good at drawing. I see things other people miss.

The way she chewed her thumbnail between routines.

The little furrow in her brow when she missed a catch.

The slump of her shoulders when she thought no one was looking. That’s what I saw. Not her ass.

North is already wrestling the flat-screen from its cardboard prison, humming to himself. He hums when he’s excited. It’s like a human barometer for North’s happiness. Right now, he’s humming some pop song, completely off-key.

The room is small. Two beds, two desks, two closets, one tiny bathroom.

Once the TV is mounted above my desk, we’ll be able to see it from both beds.

I picture him with a girl in here, watching some action movie, his arm slung around her, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. And me on my bed with headphones on, trying to read, feeling like a third wheel in my own room.

The thought makes my stomach clench. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Maybe North and I are better in small doses.

But then he catches my eye and grins, that big, stupid, infectious grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he says, “Dude, help me with this cord before I electrocute myself,” and the knot in my stomach loosens a little. We’ll figure it out. We always do.