by Eden Finley
“Okay …” Worry starts to creep into his voice.
“I’ve got this, Seth,” I say, pulling my key card from my bag. “It’s understandable you’re concerned, but I’m fine. I’m actually excited about this year.”
“You’re the only person I know who’s excited about getting their master’s degree.”
“That’s because it’s interesti—”
“And would you look at that? Time to go. Sorry to cut off your psych talk.”
“Your sincerity is overwhelming,” I deadpan.
“Well how’s this for sincere. I’m proud of you, Zach.”
I appreciate the sentiment, but it reminds me of why I chose CU for my grad program in the first place. “Thank you.” The door clicks open. “Talk soon.”
“Anytime.”
Once inside, I make my way to the elevator and head straight up to my dorm. The bare private room is … well, okay, it’s tiny, but it’s a welcome sight and even more exciting is the small attached bathroom. My own bathroom. No more timing my day around the schedules of the other people occupying my floor. No more rushed, two-minute showers.
My head drops back at the sweet relief that floods through me.
I take a shower to wash plane and baby vomit off me, then dress in fresh clothes and comb down my black hair so it doesn’t dry at weird angles. I make my bed, set up my laptop on the desk, and hang my clothes one by one. When I’m finally done, the room feels a little more comfortable. Still bare and small and missing Seth’s presence, but it’s mine. The first time I’ve ever been completely self-sufficient.
Dear God, what have I done?
No. Nope. This is good. This is … fine.
After checking my maps—twice—I walk down to the closest coffee shop. The earlier stress of the day is trying to take hold, but I won’t let it better me. No. I am a master of emotion, and even if I’m here, alone, metaphorically lost, I can do this.
The barista at the cafe is far too friendly and chatty, filling every pause with useless small talk. I’ll never understand people’s discomfort with silence. Silence is my happy place. As soon as my order is up, I send her a quick smile of thanks and leave. Fast.
I like people well enough, I just don’t like talking to them.
The path I follow leads around the corner to what looks like a main thoroughfare onto campus. There are large trees lining either side of the wide path and cute benches set periodically along the way. It’s unexpectedly cozy considering everything else I’ve seen of CU.
I think I’ve found my new people watching spot. Or “creepy lookout point” as Seth calls it.
I like the way people interact, and it’s even better when their expressions and reactions aren’t what I’m expecting. It’s fascinating to watch.
As I take a seat and sip my drink, contentment settles over me. This was a good choice. Social psychology is my comfort zone, even if it meant leaving my physical comfort zone to pursue it. There are so many positives to being here, and even if the rest of campus is a bit of an eyesore, I’m sure I’ll grow to love it. Yes, my positive mindset has completely turned the day around. Emotions are only a transient state, and I’ve tricked myself back into being hap—
Splat.
I jerk. What the …
A white streak hits my glasses before I flinch as something wet lands on my head. I stare at the offending mark for a moment, trying to work out … oh. My gut sinks as I snatch my glasses off and jump from the bench, looking for the guilty bird. Which is ridiculous because without my glasses on I’m practically blind. Well, to anything farther than a few feet away.
What are the damn chances?
I try to calm myself, but my insides quake with injustice. All I wanted was a coffee and a quiet moment where people ignored me and I sat and watched, absorbed in them.
Instead … my cheeks heat as I quickly check no one is watching. My main goal for Colchester was to go as unnoticed as possible, so of course a bird would choose me—me!—to land a projectile on within hours of arriving on campus.
I’ve changed my mind. This is the icing on my day.
No. No, this isn’t going to get to me. I’m going to shower, again, and forget this. I will not take this as a sign that Colchester University hates me.
Because that would be irrational. Bird poop is supposed to be good luck, after all. And even if I don’t believe in that nonsense, there’s no reason why I can’t look at the positivity in that belief. This was a random, statistically possible event.
I will not cry.
“Please tell me that’s bird shit on your face and not something else white and creamy.”
But that voice, most definitely, is not possible. No. Not now. I struggle through my inhale as I turn to see the twin brother of my best friend watching me and clearly trying to hold back a laugh. What’s that saying?
Fuck my life.
Yes, quite sincerely, fuck this version of my life.
Foster Grant is possibly the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, and so, based on the trajectory my life has taken this morning, it makes total sense he’d find me like this.
“Yes. Thank you.” Thank you? What in sweet hell am I thanking him for? My cheeks are basically blazing at this point, and I remind myself emotion is transient. Emotion is controllable.
But chemistry isn’t.
And the explosion of it that short-circuits my nerve endings when Foster’s around is completely out of my control.
“Having a rough start?” Foster asks, clearly trying to backtrack on his original statement.
“Your attempt at relating is useless when I’m still the one wearing bird shit.” I hurry to pick up my coffee, which is thankfully unsoiled, and start back in what I hope is the direction of Albany Hall.
Positives, Zach. Positives …
To hell with positives. Why is this happening to me?
Foster easily matches my quick strides. “I’d say you’re shit out of luck this morning.”
“And I’d say you’re hilarious. Except. Oh yes. Still covered.”
“I can see that.”
I risk a quick look in his direction to find him staring at my face. Well, the mess on my face. He gives me a wide grin. The kind of smile he’s always teased me with, that makes my knees turn the consistency of Jell-O. “Is there any reason you’re continuing to torment me? I’m attempting to make a getaway.”
“Yeah. My day just got a whole lot more interesting.”
“I’m glad I could be of service to you.” Now where on earth is my dorm?
“You look lost.”
“I’m not.”
He smirks but stays silent.
“I’m not.”
“Well it’s a good thing you’re not heading for Albany Hall, then.”
I pull out my phone. Yup. Wrong way. Again. “I’m taking the scenic route.”
Foster laughs, and I have to swallow around the lump building in my throat.
Wait.
I stop suddenly. “How did you know which dorm is mine?”
“Lucky guess?” His deep brown eyes flick left.
Oh no. No, no, no. “You were looking for me.”
“No offense, Zach, but why would I be looking for you?”
“Seth told you I was coming here, didn’t he?”
“Ah …” He scratches his neck. “It might have come up.”
It “came up”? I’d bet it came up when Seth asked Foster to keep an eye on me. I press my lips tight to keep the frustration inside. “Well you can report back that you checked in, and I’m fine—”
“Minus the bird shit.”
“Yes, minus the hilarious bird shit. I’d appreciate it if you left that part out.”
Something crosses Foster’s face that I don’t want to delve into right now. If it’s sympathy or pity, I don’t want to know. I also can’t stand here looking at him much longer anyway because I’m mentally tallying all the ways he’s grown up since spring break when I saw him last. I’d stayed in
Vermont with Seth’s family instead of flying home to Wisconsin. How can Foster have gotten that much more attractive?
“Well …” He kicks the path as his attention catches on a group of guys heading in our direction wearing navy and silver windbreakers. Ugh. Hockey players. “I’m here if you need me.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.” Even if it is an empty one. “And I know Seth thinks I need babysitting, but contrary to that, I can look after myself. There should be no reason why we’d need to cross paths.”
Foster frowns. “If that’s how you want it.”
“It is.” I flee before his friends have the chance to catch up to us.
I’d like to get through today with the tiniest bit of dignity I have left.
“What was on that kid’s face?” I hear one of the guys ask.
So much for dignity.
3
Foster
Ah. Classes. Oh, how I’ve not missed them.
I love this campus. Staying here over summer break when all I had to do was play hockey was amazing. Now it’s back to lecture halls and essays.
Fun times.
Though, thanks to Seth and his organizational wizardry, he showed me how to plan my four-year degree so I could defer all the easy subjects and take the senior classes earlier, giving me more time this year to focus on hockey and the NHL contract I’m chasing instead of academics.
I enter the lecture hall for a junior sports psychology class, and my teammate Jacobs waves me over to where he’s sitting in the middle row.
Someone bumps into me from behind. “Sorr—”
I turn and stare down into the green eyes of the guy who apparently wants nothing to do with me. “Zach?”
He adjusts his thick-framed glasses. “F-foster. What are you …” He glances around the class that’s rapidly filling with mostly jocks, then slumps. “Sports psychology. Should’ve figured.”
“What are you—”
“Everyone take your seats.” The loud, booming voice of Professor Lawrence fills the space.
I expect Zach to leave, but instead, he follows the professor down to the floor and sits at the desk in front.
“Mr. Grant, unless you intend to stand for the next ninety-minutes, would you mind finding a spot?” Professor Lawrence asks.
He had me freshman year for a class I dropped after only a week. Clearly, I’m memorable.
Everyone in the class snickers.
Zach makes eye contact with me, and I feel his stare the entire way to my seat next to Jacobs.
“Who’s the kid?” he whispers.
I shrug.
Then I immediately feel bad. It’s not like I don’t know him. But it’s also clear he doesn’t want my help even if Seth insists he needs it. So, whatever.
Our eyes lock, but he quickly turns away. His cheeks are a little flushed, and he focuses so hard on the laptop screen in front of him I can only figure he’s watching porn.
No man focuses that hard on a computer screen for anything else.
Then again, this is Zach. From what Seth’s told me, chances are he’s got coursework on his screen right now.
Probably more appropriate for class.
What I don’t understand is—
“My TA this semester is Zach Sawyer. His contact details are on the website and on the information sheet being passed around right now. If you need to get in contact with me outside of office hours, you go through him.”
Zach hands out papers to the front row to take and pass backward.
He’s the TA for this class. Sports psychology. Sports. And Zach.
Jacobs leans in. “Are we in the right room? What does that kid know about sports?”
Even though I was thinking the same thing, hearing it from someone else makes me growly.
“He did his undergrad in three years and is doing his master’s in psych. I’m sure he can handle it.” I’m actually not sure he can handle it, but for some reason, I have the urge to defend him.
Because Seth asked me to? Because of something else? I don’t know.
“So, you do know who he is?”
“He’s my brother’s friend. I barely know him.” I feel Jacobs’s eyes on me while I keep watching Zach.
He keeps his head down.
His graphic T and jeans suit him, but maybe that’s because it’s all I’m used to seeing him wear.
It’s weird. He somehow lacks confidence but exudes an I don’t care attitude at the same time.
Maybe I didn’t handle the bird shit incident as well as I could have. I probably should have helped him instead of finding it amusing, but I don’t think that’s the reason he told me to stay away.
I honestly think he doesn’t want me hanging around him.
And that fascinates me.
“Uh-oh,” Jacobs says. “I know that look. You’re not allowed to bang the TA.”
I shush him with an elbow to the gut. “Dude.”
“What? It’s not like no one knows about you. Not after you made out with that frat guy at the Kappa party last year.”
I did more than make out with him, but that’s not the point. It’s not a secret on campus that I swing both ways, but I still don’t go around throwing my sexuality in everyone’s faces.
The team is mostly cool with it apart from a couple of guys who try to avoid me in the locker room, but that’s okay with me. At least they’re not making a big deal out of it.
I don’t know if Seth’s told Zach about me or not.
I wouldn’t be mad if he had, but Seth’s been so supportive about the whole thing I assume he wouldn’t out me to anyone without asking or at least telling me. Even his best friend.
Seth was the first person I told. It was on our fifteenth birthday. I told him I thought I was gay. He hugged me and said if anyone hates me for it, they’re dickheads. He also told me he’d beat anyone up for me if he had to, but that I had a better chance at actually doing damage if I did it myself. Especially if I had my hockey gear with me.
Six months later, I told him it turned out I was bi. He asked what had changed. I said getting a blowjob from Jade Mackenzie in the locker room at school. He’s since learned not to ask too many questions.
Jacobs leans in closer. “You’d definitely have a chance. That guy is gay as f—”
“Stereotype much? What makes you think he’s gay?” I know for a fact Zach is gay. Over the past three years, he’s spent most holidays with us instead of flying home to … wherever he’s from. The Midwest somewhere, I think. But one of those times—Thanksgiving maybe—Mom asked if he had a girlfriend.
He’d snorted. “That will never happen.” When Mom asked about a boyfriend, he said, “That’ll never happen either but for other reasons.” His pale cheeks had gone pink at that. I remember because I might have gotten off to the image of his flushed cheeks later that night.
Still, I hate it when someone looks at another person and assumes they know how they identify. Just like everyone looks at me and assumes I’m straight because of hockey.
“You can tell,” Jacobs says.
I grunt.
Class moves by in a blur because I can’t take my eyes off Zach.
He rarely looks up from his computer, but when he does, his gaze sweeps the room before his eyes land on mine.
I can’t help it. I cock my brow at him every time and try not to smile.
He averts his stare immediately.
Before I know it, Professor Lawrence is giving us our assignment for the week and dismissing us.
We file out of the room, but I linger outside the doors.
“You coming, man?” Jacobs asks.
“I’ll catch you later.”
He smiles a knowing smile, and I fight to keep from flipping him off.
Zach’s the last one out the door. He immediately narrows his eyes in suspicion. “You can tell your brother I didn’t fall on my face in front of everyone.”
He walks off, but I keep pace.
“I think you talk to S
eth more than I do. You can tell him yourself.”
We reach the quad, and Zach stops walking. “What do you want, Foster?”
I wince. “Can you call me Grant? Everyone else here does.”
He flattens his lips, but I can’t tell if he’s actually contemplating it or pretending. “I don’t think so.”
Pretending it is.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t buy into the whole frat mentality of using each other’s last names. And … because it’s weird. Would you expect me to call you Grant in front of Seth? Should I call Seth that?”
“Frat mentality?” I try to squash my smile. “How were you assigned to this class?”
He lowers his voice. “It might have been suggested by my advisor because I’m great at analyzing individual behavior but not so great at the group and herd mentality thing. It will help me when it comes to writing my thesis. Apparently.”
“Are you sure you’re qualified to teach a sports psychology class?”
“I’m sure I can manage.”
I rub my jaw. “Well, if you need any help …”
“I won’t. I have to go. I have another class to get to.”
“You know where to get my number if you need it.”
4
Zach
If I need help.
If I need help.
Am I qualified?
I’m the damn TA.
I shake Foster’s words away for possibly the hundredth time this week. Other than that little blip on Monday, things have gone surprisingly well. Professor Lawrence is nice enough, a few students have reached out to introduce themselves—over email and text, thank God—and I made it to all my classes on time with only minor detours. And Foster … well, he just keeps popping up. All big smiles, and warm eyes, and the kind of stare that twists my gut.
We might not know each other well, but over the last few years I’ve become very aware of the fact that when Foster’s around, I’m powerless to stop my gaze from finding him over and over again.
After a late lunch on Thursday, I head to the library to research. Professor Lawrence said to start thinking about my thesis now, which was admittedly a good prompt as I still have no idea what my hypothesis should be.