Trudging up the stairs,my legs scream from a workout that was meant to ease my stress levels. Did it work? No.
The hallway is empty except for the faint sound of music bleeding through someone’s door. I dig my key out of my pocket, already planning to collapse face-first onto my bed and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a few hours.
The door swings open, and I freeze.
Ryan is on his bed, laptop propped on his chest, one hand down the front of his meticulously pressed khakis. His other hand grips his headphones. Through the reflection of the window, I catch a glimpse of what’s unmistakably Oliver Jacoby walking across campus.
“Oh my God!” Ryan shrieks, yanking his hand out of his pants. He scrambles for his blanket, pulling it over his headlike a five-year-old hiding from monsters. “Jackson! You’re supposed to be at the gym!”
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, doubling over in the doorway. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Go away!” The blanket muffles his voice. “This isn’t happening!”
“Oh, it’s happening.” I stumble into the room, still wheezing with laughter. “Mr. Hounds Me About My Masturbation Habits just got caught red-handed. Or should I saysticky-handed?”
“I hate you so much right now.”
“You wait exactly two minutes after my shower starts,” I quote him, pitching my voice high in my best Ryan Abrams impression. “The walls are thin, Jackson. I can hear your breathing patterns change.”
The blanket shifts, and one incensed eye peers out at me. “That’s different.”
“How?Howis it different?” I drop my backpack and lean against my desk, savoring this moment. “You’re going for it in the middle of the room, same as I do!”
“I thought you’d be gone longer.” He slowly emerges from his blanket cocoon, his face the color of a fire truck.
“Yeah, well, I got tired faster than I expected.” I glance at his laptop, where the video is paused on a particularly flattering shot of Oliver adjusting himself. “Oliver in compression shorts, huh?”
Ryan slams the laptop shut. “It’s the Ice Queen’s latest post. She was analyzing the team’s…proportions.”
“And viewing it required your hand in your pants?”
“I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Absolutely not. I’m texting Elliot right now.” I pull out my phone, but Ryan launches himself off his bed to grab it.
“Don’t you dare! Jackson, I’m serious!”
We wrestle for the phone, but Ryan’s coordination is compromised by his desperate attempts to keep his unbuttoned khakis from falling. I easily keep it out of reach, typing one-handed.
“Dear Elliot, you’ll never guess what I walked in on.”
“I’ll murder you in your sleep!”
“Ryan, mid-stroke, watching?—”
“JACKSON!”
I stop typing, taking pity on him, mostly because he’s on the verge of tears. “Fine. Your secret’s safe. But we’re even now on the masturbation shaming.”
“Deal.” He collapses back on his bed, rebuttoning his pants with shaking fingers. “This is the worst day of my life.”
“Drama queen.” I kick off my shoes and collapse on my bed. “I’m taking a nap.”
By the timeI emerge from slumber, Ryan’s changed into plaid flannel pants and a NASA shirt. He’s sitting at his desk, pointedly reading a textbook. His laptop is nowhere in sight.
“Hey,” I say with a yawn. “I’m sorry for laughing.”
“No, you’re not.”
