Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“She’ll give you your room number.”
“Room number?” They’ve always been called suites since freshman year.
“You’ll have a roommate.”
“Suitemates,” I clarify.
Athletes have a lot of luxury here at Lindell University. We have the equivalent of four-bedroom apartments, each athlete getting their own room and sharing a common area and two bathrooms. We have more room because we’re bigger and need more space.
“Roommate?”
“As in one room, two beds, and a bathroom with a row of showers,” he explains.
“Seriously? That sucks,” I mutter as I approach the woman.
“Only as bad as your roommate makes it, I guess,” Silas says.
I give the woman my name and she shuffles through a set of cards before handing me the one with my name on it.
“Longhorn?”
“Sweet. We’re in the same dorm.”
“Do you snore?” I ask, stepping out of line so the next guy can get his card. I flip mine over, but all it has is the dorm name and room number.
“No, I mean we’re in the same building. I’m bunked with Huxley Shaw. I texted to give him the news, and he said he won’t be on campus until the day before classes start.”
“Fucking track team,” I mutter as I walk in the direction of the Longhorn dorm building.
“Right?” he quickly agrees.
“If I end up with Calhoun,” I hiss as we enter the building.
Silas visibly shudders.
Todd Calhoun is bathing adverse, and everyone in the locker room avoids him after practice because of the body odor. We mention it and often, but the smelly bastard just laughs, somehow thinking the word musty is a compliment.
I’m lost in my head, wondering whose room Rick ended up in. It would serve him right for the way he acted at the clubhouse if he and Calhoun are stuck together.
“Shit,” Silas hisses when I open the door to my assigned room.
Rick, standing beside his bed, pulling clothes from a suitcase, doesn’t seem any more thrilled than my closest friend.
Silas doesn’t have beef with Rick, but he’s well aware that the two of us don’t get along. I can’t help but wonder what his reaction would be if he knew the story of what went down the last time I saw him at the Fourth of July party.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Silas says, dropping the strap of my bag and letting it settle at my feet.
“Fucking perfect,” I snap as I walk inside.
I’ve managed to avoid the guy for the most part of three years, and now my last year, the one that will make or break my chances at going pro, has turned to shit.
“I’m no happier to see you either,” he snaps, his back to me as he continues to unpack.
Rick drove back to Texas, leaving two days ago according to my dad. I took a plane this morning. Despite my fears, no questions were asked, and it wouldn’t surprise me if whoever caught us in that hallway lip-lock went and told everyone what they saw. Cerberus is an amazing group of men and women, but they gossip like teen girls at a slumber party.
I drop my bags on the unmade bed, clenching my jaw at Rick getting the better bed. He knows I sleep on my left side, and he’s purposely forcing me to be uncomfortable or sleep with my back to the room which would be even more uncomfortable because it leaves me vulnerable.
“Can we switch beds?”
He scoffs. “No.”
“I can’t sleep with my back to the room,” I remind him, doing my damnedest to keep the ire from my tone.
“Really?” he asks without facing me. “I figured you’d gotten good at turning your back on people.”
It would be so fucking easy to wrap my hands around his throat, but just the thought of it reminds me of that show of anger and aggression at the clubhouse. It was his hand on my throat then, and possibly one of the hottest moments of my life, the only thing better being that kiss and little grind that had happened moments before in the hallway.
His words sting, a little too much truth in them, but doing it without even having enough respect to face me head-on seriously pisses me off.
“Dick,” I snap before storming to the door and leaving the room.
I can’t even be in there for five minutes before we’re at each other’s throat. How am I expected to live with him for, at a minimum, the fall semester?
I pull out my phone and call my coach. Having access to the coaching staff night and day is another benefit to being an athlete at Lindell. They don’t just say you can call me anytime day or night, they follow through with it.
“No,” Coach snaps instead of offering a greeting.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not talking to administration about changing your room.”
“Then change his.”
“What you may not know, Mr. Andrews, is that the university had to withdraw their offer of housing for thirty other students to accommodate everyone from the athletic dorms.”