“Sit on the floor or stand,” Weston told him.
I wanted to yell out, repeating my claim that I was okay with the bed. Guilt sunk in when Weston appeared at the door again with an on-campus housing desk chair in hand. He kicked the door close with his foot and said, “Now, is it the bed that makes you uncomfortable or me being on the bed with you?”
“You on the bed,” I confessed in a low tone. “With me.”
“Perfect, cause this desk chair is trash. You take the bed,” he said as he grabbed his laptop again and placed the chair near his bed side. “Need a pillow for your back?”
I smiled and shook my head. “No, but thanks.”
He waited for me to unpack my laptop and water bottle. I kicked off my shoes before climbing into the bed. The warm sheets smelt of fresh detergent. My mind wandered to images of Weston lying here at night. According to his roommates, he rarely slept here, but that didn’t stop my mind from painting a detailed picture of him tangled in the sheets.
“I came up with a few mock-ups,” he started as he typed on his computer. “Nothing breathtaking. So, don’t get your hopes up.”
I nodded and took a sip of water, trying to cool myself off. It felt warm in here. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten that far.”
Between practice, classes, and brand deal photo shoots, I didn’t understand how college athletes juggled it all. It wouldn’t have been fair, but I had wholeheartedly prepared to do most of this project on my own.
“I’ve had some extra time on my hands,” he confessed. “My probation will be finished by Monday, though. Back to the grind after that.”
He said it so casually. Like probation was his broken car, a mechanic finally fixed. Maybe I was projecting the feeling of being ashamed about doing something terrible enough to warrant a ban.
“That’s good… congrats.” I didn’t know if that was the right thing to say. It seemed like getting off probation would be a celebratory thing, except Weston’s face was blank. He looked up at me for a moment without so much as a smile before looking back down at his laptop.
“Here we go,” he said, changing the subject. Weston pulled his chair closer to the bed. “What do you think? Be honest.”
I looked at the laptop screen he turned my way. Our assignment was to design an ad campaign for an upcoming film. Professor Ida assigned genres to everyone and we had the privilege of figuring out how to rebrand a blockbuster superhero film.
“It’s…”Finished, I wanted to say. He had come up with three different posters for the main characters and six different mock-ups for merch. And though the designs weren’t completely original, they were still good. Good enough for us to get an A, and I didn’t even have to lift a finger. So, this was what it felt like to be the slacker group member? I didn’t like the feeling.
“What’s your major again?” I questioned. I was ever so slightly annoyed that not only did Weston complete our assignment without consulting me but had done a great job. He was a talented athlete. Of course, I hadn’t seen him play, but being the team captain and having posters across campus was an indication that this guy possessed skill.
“Business Admin,” he said as he leaned back into his chair with his laptop balanced on his knees. “You don’t like them?”
I shook my head. “It’s not that. I just thought, since this was a group project, we were going to do it together.”
He raised one eyebrow. “You’re upset?”
“No.” My voice squeaked. I took another sip of water, hydrating my dry throat. “I wouldn’t say upset.”
“Frustrated?” He tried while tapping his index finger on his chin.
I considered. “No, I’m not frustrated.”
“Stressed,” he decided with a curt nod.
“I’m grateful,” I told him and quickly added, “Thankful you put in the time to take this project seriously.”
He raised both eyebrows this time. “You’re thankful that I put in time to complete a class assignment like I was supposed to?”
I nodded, not even trying to meet his gaze. Instead, I gazed over his shoulder at the wall of posters on the other side of the room. There were a few scattered pieces of sticky tack in the empty spaces on the wall. A few posters must have been taken down recently.
“Are you always this non-confrontational?” Weston questioned.
“I can do confrontation,” I defended. And I could. When it was in e-mails or replies on social media. But the context didn’t matter because confrontation was confrontation.
“Really?” Weston chuckled as he shut his laptop.
“Really,” I repeated with hesitation.
