“Put me down,” I whisper.
He sets me on my feet, and the grass is cold and wet between my toes. I straighten up, momentarily dizzy from all the blood rushing out of my head—or into it, depending on how you look at things.
A security guard with a megaphone steps forward. He’s a stocky man with a mustache and the resigned expression of someone who’s seen this exact scenario play out before. “Berkeley Shore University Campus Security. You are all in violation of at least four codes of student conduct. Hands where I can see them.”
“They can already see everything,” Gerard mutters.
“Hands!” the guard repeats.
Twenty-something pairs of hands rise slowly into the air. Drew, who somehow circled back, raises his hands with theatrical flair, wiggling his fingers.
“Single file,” Mr. Mustache orders. “Into the vehicles. Now.”
What follows is the most humiliating scene in the history of higher education. Naked men shuffling across the quad, single file, while a growing crowd of late-night students gathers at the edges with their phones held high.
Oliver stays close, his broad frame partially shielding me from the cameras. Regardless of whether he’s doing it intentionally or not, I’m grateful. His hand finds the small of my back and guides me toward the nearest cart.
“In,” the guard says gruffly.
Oliver climbs in first, the cart groaning under his weight. I follow, pressing myself into the corner. Our bare thighs touch,and I focus very hard on the headrest in front of me, and not on what’s resting on the seat.
Gerard, Drew, and Nathan pile into the cart behind us. Jackson ends up in a third vehicle with Mason and a group of freshmen who are either about to cry or about to laugh.
The ride to the campus security building takes four minutes. I know this because I count every second, hyperaware of Oliver’s skin against mine, and the quiet rumble of the cart as it ferries us to our doom.
BSU’s campus “jail”is nothing more than a holding area in the basement of the security building. A row of cells with concrete benches. They herd us in groups, and by some stroke of luck—or cosmic cruelty—Oliver and I end up in the same cell with Gerard, Drew, Nathan, and Jackson.
The metal door clangs shut behind us, and the sound reverberates through my skeleton.
“Well,” Drew says, settling his bare ass onto the concrete bench with a wince. “This is a first.”
Oliver lowers himself onto the bench beside me. His knee bumps mine, and he pulls back slightly, leaving an inch of space between us that’s simultaneously too much and not enough.
“Ryan.” His voice is low, meant only for me. “I’m sorry.”
His green eyes are heavy with genuine remorse, brow furrowed, jaw tight. Water still clings to his dark hair, and a droplet slides down his temple, tracing the line of his cheekbone.
“For what?” I ask.
“For this.” He gestures broadly at the cell, the concrete, the collection of naked athletes arranged in various poses of defeat. “For getting you arrested. You came tonight because Jackson asked, and I should’ve made sure you got out before?—”
“Oliver. This is what college is about.” The words leave mymouth, and I’m startled to realize I mean them. Not the arrest specifically or the fact that if they decide to take a mugshot, mine will presumably feature my bare chest and a dazed expression. But this—the recklessness, the camaraderie, the kind of story you tell at reunions decades from now. The kind of night my mother would have loved to hear about, laughing until she cried, asking me to repeat the part about the pool noodle javelins.
Oliver blinks. “Did you just say ‘this is what college is about?’ You? Ryan Abrams? The guy who irons his socks?”
“I don’t iron my socks. I steam them.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. “You’re not mad?”
“I’m cold, I’m in my underwear, and I’m fairly certain that the bench is going to give me an infection. But no. I’m not mad.”
Am I slightly unnerved? Absolutely. The cell is small, the air is thick with the body heat of naked athletes, and Gerard’s bouncing on his heels now to stay warm, making everything jiggle.
Oliver is here. Sitting beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his ridiculous body. And that makes the whole thing almost tolerable. “Hey, Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For accepting my friend request.” The words tumble out before I can second-guess them.
