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 carewhereyou play; they carehowyou 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.”
