Hard Stick

by Paige North

  “Go ahead,” he says, and goes back to his boxes. I try to incinerate him with my eyes. It doesn’t work.

  I grab my phone from my back pocket; when I go to call the Dean of Housing, I see I’ve already missed three calls from him. Probably calling to tell me they’d accidentally assigned some football asshole to the wrong dorm. I hit his name to call him back—

  “Lucy!” the dean says. I can hear dozens of voices in the backroom, freshmen chattering about their rooming assignments in the housing office.

  “Hey, Rick! There’s a football player here that got some incorrect information. He’s trying to move into Adams 300, which is my room? Is he supposed to be in 300 over in the football dorms?”

  “I was trying to get in touch with you about that— no, no, just take her over in the golf cart—Lucy. The football dorms are overfilled because— sure, go ahead and allow them to switch— of Stewart Adams and his buddies trashing their rooms. So we’re having to overflow new players into regular housing for the time being.”

  I blink, confused by both his explanation and his attempts at talking to his staff and me at the same time.

  “Still there?” Rick asks.

  “Yeah— yes. You just gave my room away?” I ask, lowering my voice as best I can so the guy— Gabe— can’t hear me. He’s turned on some music on his phone and is listening to it as he continues to move boxes in, muscles bulging through the hem of his t-shirt sleeves. It wouldn’t be such a bad view, if he wasn’t moving his stuff into my room.

  “We had to give him your room, Lucy. The football players need the rooms with queen beds— can you imagine those boys sleeping in twins?” Rick says, laughing a little.

  “I can,” I say coolly. “It’s my room, Rick. I’m the RA.”

  Rick exhales. “Give me a second here. Lucy, relax. You’ll get your room back just as soon as they’re done fixing the damage in the football dorms.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I’m not sure. Soon. There are three empty rooms on your hall— you’ll still be in a single, just not one with an attached bathroom.”

  “I needed the office space. I specifically needed the office space,” I reply, smashing my lips together to keep them from quivering. I am working very, very hard on not crying when I get angry. People think it means I’m weak, or scared, or upset— but I’m not. I’m just angry, and my body unfortunately reacts in both clenched fists and tears.

  “We’ll be able to give you a desk in the RD’s office.”

  “That’s not the same,” I say, immediately hating myself for how pouty I sound. But it really isn’t the same. Being an RA comes with a lot of perks, but the best is getting a suite to myself, rather than having to share the bathroom with a roommate. Since I also edit for the Student Writing Center and run three different volunteer organizations, I had big plans to use the second room exclusively as an office space. I’d already bought some stuff at Target for it, in fact— cute paisley lamps and a rug that coordinates with my bedspread, but isn’t matchy-matchy.

  “It’s just for a little while. I have to go— just shoot me a text and let me know which room you wind up in so I’ve got the info in the database, okay?”

  “Sure,” I say bitterly, and hang up. It’s just for a little while. Maybe, but the smell of man— football player man, no less— won’t be out for years, I bet.

  “So what did he say?” Gabe asks. When I turn to him, he’s grinning arrogantly.

  “He said you can borrow my room for the time being,” I answer firmly.

  “Right. So it…is my room, at least for now?” Gabe presses.

  “You don’t have to be so smug about it,” I say. “You’re just like all the other football dicks. Used to getting your way, shoving everyone else out of line to get what you want. I’m not impressed, okay? Anyone who happens to be big and tall can play a sport that ends in concussions and cluster headaches.”

  To my surprise, Gabe looks startled, though not exactly offended— almost pleased, if I had to put a label on his expression. He drops the box he’s holding, and grubby t-shirts bounce into the air when it hits the floor.

  “You don’t know a thing about me. You’re just mad I’m taking your room, and you aren’t getting your way,” he says coolly.

  “Of course I’m mad you’re taking my room. It’s my room. And because Stewart Adams and his asshole friends trashed their dorms when they got pissed about not getting into the NFL, you get it, only because you’re a football player. Not because you’re an RA. Not because you paid for a single. Not because you’ve done anything to earn it,” I answer. “I have a job in this dorm. I have three organizations to run. I earned this room and the one attached to it, and now I’m going to have to not only cram all my stuff into one room, but I’ll have to move everything here when your magical football dorm is ready and you leave in a month.”

  Gabe shakes his head at me, still grinning, always grinning. He tilts his chin up at me almost appraisingly. “Alright. Move into the attached room. That way you won’t have to move everything you own, just half of it, and just through the bathroom.”

  “You want me to share a suite with you?” I say, appalled at the suggestion.

  “Not really. I want the whole place to myself. But I’m offering to share the suite with you to make your life easier. Because yes, I was assigned this room, but no, I’m not just another dick football player, and I’m trying to do something nice for you, even though you’ve basically insulted me as frequently as possible ever since you walked in the door.”

  I stare. Gabe lifts his eyebrows, like he’s daring me to respond— daring me to insult him again, actually, and prove his point. I swallow. That’s not exactly what happened— he’s leaving out the fact that ever since I walked in the door he’s been giving me that cocky, jerk-off smile. If it weren’t for that smile and the fact that he stole my room, I bet I’d even be texting my friends right now about the hot guy moving onto my floor.

  “You know what, I will take the other side. And the bathroom. You use the communal one,” I say stiffly.

  “Fine with me, I’ll never be here to shower anyway. Why shower here when I’ve got the football locker rooms?” he says, giving the bathroom door a disparaging look.

  “Well. Good,” I say.

  “Good.”

  “Stop repeating me.”

  “Whatever.”

  We stare at each other for a few moments. Gabe chuckles a little, then clears his throat. “So, are you just going to hang out in my room all day? Because typically, if I’ve got a girl in my room, I want her wearing a lot less clothing than you are.”

  I feel my nostrils flare. How dare he? I turn around, grab the box of my underwear, and shove through the bathroom door, locking it behind me and darting to the room on the other side of the suite.

  Chapter 2

  The rest of move-in day feels like some sort of weird dream sequence. I’ll be there happily checking students into the dorms, then bam, I remember that Gabe Forest screwed me out of a room, and suddenly I’m in a bad mood. Move-in day is always stressful, but with all that’s happened I really don’t have the patience to listen to some parent fuss over how small the dorm rooms are.

  My room— well, my little tiny half room that is not at all what my room should be— is still totally unpacked when I drag my way back to it that evening. No surprise there, since RAs never get a chance to actually get themselves fully unpacked on move in day. I yawn and put the sheets on my mattress, then go brush my teeth, double-checking that the door leading into Gabe’s room is still locked from the inside.

  It is, and I don’t think he’s in there anyway — there’s no light from under the door and it’s quiet. Still, I can smell the scent of his cologne or aftershave or sweat or whatever it is that men smell like, wafting through the door. It’s not a bad smell at all and, to be honest, a nice change from the hairspray and tropical deodorant smell that usually comes with a female suitemate.

  I can’t h
elp but wonder if he did anything ridiculous to his room— my room. What do football players decorate with? Do they decorate, or just sort of throw their stuff down? I’ve never known a single football player, to be honest. The private school I went to had lacrosse and soccer, not football, and even though football is a religion here at Harton, I’ve never been interested enough to attend a game, much less meet a player.

  I press my lips together and unlock the door to his room slow and steady so nothing clicks. I try the handle – the doors lock from either side – but it’s unlocked on his side. Obviously he wasn’t worried about me breaking in, although apparently he should have been.

  I don’t know why it matters, since he’s clearly not there, a certainty that’s confirmed when a rush of cool, dark air sweeps over me. A ray of light carves into the room from the bathroom vanity, illuminating a half dozen broken down liquor boxes— I guess he unpacked before practice.

  I glance behind me, then step inside. He’s got a toaster oven, which isn’t allowed, and a pack of beer, which actually is allowed so long as he’s over twenty-one. I make a mental note to check his age, so I’ve got more to bust him for should I need to. There are still some unpacked boxes and, when I step fully into the room, I see he’s got a mountain of junk— lamps, shoes, speakers, some photos— over by the bed.

  The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and the line of light is extinguished; the room goes cool and blue and dark. It’s…peaceful. Hell, it’s almost nice. My room goes from all-the-lights-on-study mode to dark-sleep-now mode instantaneously. I’m not sure I’ve simply stood in a darkened room and taken long, slow breaths once in my entire life. I’m not sure I’ve ever been alone in a guy’s room in my life either, and I’m struck by how weirdly calming it is, to be surrounded by someone else’s totally foreign priorities rather than my own.

  That calm is interrupted sharply when I hear the door to the stairwell across the hall bang open. I leap backward and grab at the bathroom door handle, ready to rush back through the bathroom and into my room.

  It doesn’t turn.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I whisper to myself. I’ve somehow locked myself out of the bathroom and IN GABE’S ROOM. It’s okay, it was just the staircase door, it could be anyone in the hall—

  I hear a key in the lock. I thank god that no one listened to my presentation last year on the dangers of those old fashioned brass keys being able to get lost or duplicated— those keys are buying me time right now. There’s got to be something I can slide into the hole on the doorknob and open the door, a bobby pin or earring back or damn this boy room damn it damn it—

  The lock on the main door clicks. I frantically try the bathroom door again, as if it might suddenly decide to unlock itself when faced with my panic. It does not. The main door swings open and a shadow falls across the room. I cringe and squeeze my eyes shut; I hear things hitting the ground, the jangle of keys, a yawn, a—

  “You again?” Gabe asks, sighing.

  I open my eyes and turn to him, plastering a smile on my face. “Me again.”

  “In my room. Again.”

  “In my room. That is yours for now. Again,” I say, but the words are jolted, like I’m carving them out of rocks. I need to get out of here, now, but Gabe is blocking the door. I don’t think he’s intentionally walling off my exit or anything, but he’s enormous— tall and broad shouldered, yet somehow lean all the same. He’s sweaty, and there are bits of grass clinging to his t-shirt, I suppose from practice.

  My dad taught me ages ago that whenever you’re in an argument, you should let the other person speak first— because the first thing out of their mouth will be the big thing, the thing you need to fight hardest against. I suppose I’m not technically in a literal argument with Gabe at this exact moment, but it feels like I am, and so I stay quiet and wait.

  “And how, exactly, did you get into my room?” Gabe asks.

  “The bathroom. I accidentally left myself locked in,” I say, and then a lie flowers neatly in my mind. “I thought I left a box of my things in here.”

  “Missing some panties, maybe?” Gabe asks.

  I flush, but try to keep my face hard. “No. And it doesn’t look like it’s here, so I’ll just be going—”

  “So, tell me, because I’m not quite sure— is it allowed, for RAs to come into your room without permission when there’s no emergency? Just because they think they might have left something behind?” Gabe asks, smiling. He walks toward the Harton issue desk and, without much fanfare, grabs the back of his t-shirt. He pulls it over his head and tosses it onto the floor in a single swift motion, revealing the most impressive set of abdominal muscles I’ve ever seen in person. So impressive that I find myself mute for a moment, until Gabe tilts his head to the side, like he’s listening hard for my answer.

  “Look, you don’t have my box. Sorry I invaded your man cave,” I say. I’m aiming for sarcastic, but the words come out sort of whispery, and I can’t for the life of me keep my eyes from jumping down to Gabe’s abs.

  He sits down in the desk chair and leans back, knees spread wide, arms slouched down between his legs. I look at him for a moment, then another, then another, before finally breaking free and hurrying toward the main door. I’ve got to get out of here—

  “Why don’t you stay and have a beer with me?”

  He says this right as I yank the door open; the burst of tepid air from the un-air-conditioned hall is welcome and normal and not at all scented like the spicy masculinity of Gabe’s room. I take a deep gulp of it before turning around to give him what I hope is a withering look.

  “I’m not having a beer with you.”

  “Why not?” Gabe asks.

  “Because I’m twenty, for starters, and I’m an RA. I can’t drink underage in my own dorm,” I say, shaking my head at his gall.

  Gabe snorts. “You’ve had a beer underage before, Lucy. There are a dozen pictures of you drinking on your Instagram.”

  My mouth drops open. “My Instagram is locked. How did you see it?”

  “Football player, remember? We get everything we want, right? Isn’t that what you said?” Gabe asks, smirking.

  I scowl. “That’s a huge invasion of my privacy.”

  “As big an invasion as someone letting herself into your dorm room while you’re out?” he presses, lifting his eyebrows. He has the sort of intense, dark eyebrows that girls everywhere want but only models and boys have.

  I scowl harder, so much so that it makes my cheeks hurt a little. That’s all I do though, because I’m not sure what to say. Yeah, I was snooping in his room. Yeah, I’m embarrassed I got caught. But no, I’m not going to tell him that. I fold my arms and give him a daring look, hoping he’ll think I’m a total bitch and decide to drop this whole beer thing.

  “Fine,” he says, almost like he’s answering my thoughts exactly. “Sit here while I have a beer then. It’s been a long practice and a long day. And I want to know the person who’s likely to sneak into my room a little better.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  “One beer,” he says, shrugging, and stands. He crosses to the box of beers and cracks open a can. I’m not even sure if it’s cold, but that doesn’t seem to bother him; he checks his phone, motions me toward the desk chair, then sits on the edge of the bed.

  His shoulders are so well carved that they look almost unrecognizable as parts of an actual human. In fact, most of his muscles are like that, and I find myself wondering what it would be like to drag my pinky finger along the edges of them, like I was tracing lines in stone.

  “Whatever,” I mutter, and walk to the desk chair and sit down, crossing my legs at the ankle. I want this to look as stiff and formal as possible.

  “So. Tell me about yourself, Lucy,” Gabe says, swigging the beer. He makes a face at it— it’s definitely warm, I’ve decided— but takes another drink anyway.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know whatever it is you want t
o tell me,” Gabe says.

  “I’m your RA and reluctant suite mate. Your turn,” I say.

  “Alright, let’s see— I’m from Valdosta. I have literally never in my life played a video game. And I lost my virginity when I was fifteen.”

  “That’s so gross.”

  “Not my finest work, that night,” Gabe says, shaking his head at the memory. I can’t help myself— I laugh. The sound instantly makes Gabe’s eyes widen a little in delight. “So you do have a sense of humor, buried really really deep.”

  “I have a sense of humor. I’m just…” I sigh. “Look, I’m sure you’re nice, okay? But I’m pissed you took my room. It’s not fair.”

  “Ah,” Gabe says, nodding.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ah— you expect life to be fair. That means it’s been fair to you so far, I’m guessing,” he says.

  I open my mouth. There’s nothing I hate more than people not recognizing their own privilege, and so I’ve always prided myself on being the first to say that I understand the advantages I was lucky enough to be born into— upper class family, plenty of money, nice house, private schools, married parents, trips overseas, even a pretty nice wardrobe of designer clothes. Hearing Gabe call me out on that privilege first— to identify it in my saying “it’s not fair” when even I didn’t— stings a little.

  “Yeah. Life has been fair to me. But life should be fair. For everyone,” I counter.

  “Of course. That’s why I’m trying to find some common ground, here. We’re going to live next door to each other. I’m going to help you move all that ridiculous paisley furniture in here in a few months. I’m trying to make it a little fairer. For both of us,” Gabe says. He’s still grinning, and it’s still super cocky, but it’s also…nice? I think? Yes. It’s nice, and it softens something in me. I exhale and glance to the dorm room door.

  “Alright. I’ll drink one beer. But I’m putting it over ice if they aren’t cold,” I say.

  “I have zero ice,” Gabe says, rolling his eyes and jumping from the bed to grab me one.