Right of First Refusal (Radleigh University #2)

by Dahlia Adler

  “Are you Cait?” Samara prods in a lilting southern accent, and I realize I’ve just been standing there, spacing out.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m Cait. I met Andi earlier, but…”

  Lord, please let me crawl into my bed and die.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Andi says, the words coming out in a rush like she’s been holding them back for hours. “I didn’t even think before bringing my boyfriend in before. If you have a trigger thing with guys in your space—”

  “No!” I blurt, then instantly regret it. I sound crazy. I feel a little crazy. But as much as I want to take the excuse she’s offering to have him banned from my room, at least without prior warning, I can’t let her think she hurt me like that. “I mean, you’re sweet to be considerate, but no. Nothing like that. I was just a little stir-crazy after spending the day cleaning. Must’ve inhaled too many fumes or something.” As if I busted out a single cleaning supply today.

  “Oh, okay, phew.” She laughs. “He just transferred here this semester, and he doesn’t know anyone, so he’ll probably be around a decent amount until he makes friends, if that’s okay. I mean, he’s not a complete loser or anything,” she adds quickly. “He’s just new.”

  This conversation is completely surreal. Thank you, girl I don’t even know, for telling me that my hot-as-fuck ex-boyfriend is not a complete loser. I wasn’t sure.

  Of course, that still leaves the question: What the hell is Lawrence Mason doing here?

  Mase was good at basketball in high school. Good enough to get scouted by the best of the best. Good enough to end up at Indiana. I stopped following his career once I started on lacrosse; my own college sport is the only one I track like a hawk. I can’t imagine what could send him from a major Division-I team to one that’s barely D-III. Lax is the only D-I team at Radleigh, and it’s why I came here in the first place.

  So why did he?

  Did he come here for Andi?

  Not that I can ask her any of those things. And Samara’s kind of staring at me as if I’ve grown another head. I’m guessing my cheeks are tequila-bright, as they tend to get. I should just go to bed. Make a better impression tomorrow. Or not. I have enough friends, between my traitorous former suitemates and the lax team. I should just go to bed.

  Yes. Bed. That sounds good.

  “I’m gonna go to bed,” I announce. “Big day tomorrow.” Not that I have class before noon, but I do have practice in the morning—at the gym, thanks to the snow on the field. “So, uh, nice to meet you guys. G’night.”

  Not my smoothest exit, but it does the trick. The other girls murmur, “Good night,” and I feel their eyes on my back as I let myself into my room.

  Inside, Andi’s stuff is perfectly neat, from her pristine sheets to the color-coordinated drawers next to her bed. I can already tell she’s gonna hate living with me, and the feeling will probably be mutual. It’s exactly the opposite of the feeling I had when I walked into my freshman dorm the first day of orientation and saw a pair of brown legs emerging from an oversized T-shirt—and nothing else—as Lizzie repeatedly jumped up to try to hang her Idris Elba poster on the wall.

  I walk over to her desk, above which hangs a picture-frame trio. The top picture is obviously her family, and the bottom one looks like a group of friends, but it’s the middle one I can’t stop staring at. The one of her and Mase, smiling at the camera, her pretty brown curls cascading over her shoulders, his perfect teeth bright against his dark skin. I wonder how long ago it was taken, how long they’ve been together. I wonder if they went to high school together. I wonder if she knew him back when I did, and what made them get together.

  I wonder if she’s ever heard the story of the girl he lost his virginity to under the stars at summer camp.

  I wonder if I’m mildly deranged and torturing myself for no good reason.

  At least that one, I know the answer to.

  I change into my T-shirt and sweats and get under the covers, feeling gross for not brushing my teeth but deciding it’s worth not having to go back out there.

  And then I lie awake, praying for sleep that won’t come, far too many memories filling my brain.

  • • •

  Waking up at five is basically like breathing for me at this point, and the fact that Andi’s still asleep with no sign of moving is just a bonus. I slip out of bed as quietly as I can and jump into the shower, relishing the calming feeling of the water on my skin. I feel like shit, both from the tequila and a lousy, way-too-short night’s sleep, but I need to get the semester off to a good start. I have a real shot at being named captain this spring for next year, but only if I keep my grades up and stay in shape.

  A prospect that sounded like a complete no-brainer, back when Radleigh held zero distractions.

  Mase is not a distraction, I remind myself as I rub shampoo into my hair. Mase is your roommate’s boyfriend, and a guy you used to know. That’s it. I try to focus on something else—my first practice back from break, my afternoon stats class, the fact that I have to officially declare this semester—but I know that’s all stuff I can handle.

  Mase’s existence on this campus is a brand-new problem.

  I quickly finish up, throw on my practice sweats, and then bundle up to face the Upstate New York cold. At least trudging through the snow to the gym takes my mind off of Mase for a few minutes while I place the focus on not falling on my ass. By the time I step into the building and head toward the mats for my dynamic warmup, I’m finally feeling a little more clearheaded.

  Which is, of course, exactly when that familiar deep voice rumbles, “Caitlin Johannssen.”

  “Mase.” I say it without even thinking, before I even turn around. And when I do turn, he’s smiling. But not the kind that shows off his teeth. It’s simultaneously amused and pained, and gives me the feeling I don’t wanna hear the next words out of his mouth.

  “Mase. Shit. No one’s called me that in years.”

  I pull off my sweatshirt; it’s a billion degrees in here. “People call you Lawrence?”

  “Law, mostly.”

  “Oh.” Law. I don’t know Law. I guess it fits.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here,” he says, and I wonder if I’m imagining the way his dark eyes flicker down my legs. “Still an athlete, obviously.”

  Did you think I wouldn’t be? I wanna ask, but that would suggest he’s been thinking about me at all. “Yup. Still lacrosse. Are you…here to play basketball?”

  “Nope.”

  I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t.

  “You’re here, though,” I say after a minute. “You go to Radleigh now?”

  “Yup. Just transferred.” He scratches the back of his shaved head. “Small world, huh?”

  Tiny. Too tiny. So tiny it’s suffocating me right now. I’m standing here in the gym at a fairly small university in upstate New York, talking to a guy I haven’t seen in almost four years, who also happens to be one of three men in the entire universe who knows exactly where I have a café au lait birthmark shaped like a cruise ship.

  “So, you’re Andi’s new roommate. That’s… weird.”

  “I was there first,” I point out.

  This time, when he smiles, there are teeth. “Ever competitive, huh, Johannssen?”

  The unintended double-meaning behind my words brings a flush to my cheeks. “I meant to the suite.”

  He raises his eyebrows innocently. “And what’d you think I meant?”

  I huff out a sigh, but it breaks into a laugh. “This isn’t gonna be really weird, is it?”

  “Not if we don’t let it.” He nods decisively. “We shouldn’t let it.”

  “Did you tell Andi? After I left yesterday, I mean?”

  He reaches up to squeeze the back of his neck, and it’s so familiar as his nervous gesture that I feel a nostalgic pang at the sight.

  It also makes his biceps look really, really good.

  “No,” he admits, his voice dripping w
ith regret. “It felt too weird. That was probably a dumb move, but I don’t want shit to be awkward.”

  “Agreed,” I say quickly, relieved. There’s just nothing good to be gained from learning your new roommate used to bang your boyfriend. Just like there’s nothing good to be gained from thinking about that you used to bang your roommate’s boyfriend.

  “So…okay then.” He glances down at his watch. “I should go. But I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

  That’s it? That’s the great Cait-and-Mase reunion? “Yeah, I guess.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, though I’m not sure why. “See you around, Mase.” I purse my lips as I remember that’s not him anymore. “Sorry. Law.”

  He smiles again. Teeth, again. “See you around, Jo.”

  I debate telling him no one’s called me that in years either, but for some reason, I don’t, and then he’s gone.

  • • •

  I linger at the gym for a while after practice, drying my hair completely after my shower so it won’t freeze outdoors. Every now and again I question my wisdom at staying in the northeast and continuing to subject myself to this weather. But I prefer having actual seasons to year-round sun, and more importantly, my dad’s just an hour bus ride away, right outside Syracuse.

  There are still a few hours before my first class, so I make my way toward the coffee shop, not allowing myself to glance around to see if Mase is still present. I don’t make it far before I feel my phone vibrate in the back pocket of my jeans. I slide it out and check the screen, then pick it up. “Hey, Dad. Please tell me this is a surprise ‘I have tickets to the Celtics game this weekend’ call. You know those are my favorites.”

  He laughs, but it sounds…nervous? I have never heard my dad sound nervous when it wasn’t about having money on a team that was up or down by only a couple of points with ten seconds to go. “Alas, not one of those calls, Caity-Cat, but I hope you’ll think it’s good news. You remember Abigail, don’t you?”

  “Your receptionist, right? The one who made us that awful dinner a couple of weeks ago?”

  He coughs. “Yeah, that’s her, though that’s not quite the most flattering way to be remembered. Anyway, she and I…we’re, uh…”

  We’re? No. I think about the dainty little blonde only a few years older than I am—probably about the same age as my big sister, Cammie—who served us raw pork chops with overcooked green beans and burnt rice. Who asked if lacrosse was “the one with the stick.” Who spent half of dinner texting at the table, even though “no phones at dinner” has always been my father’s number one rule.

  I mean, it’s not like I couldn’t guess they were hooking up—serving us dinner isn’t exactly in the job description of a receptionist at a local paper—but I spent two weeks of my winter break at my dad’s house and that was the only time I saw her. Whatever he’s about to say is not going to sit well.

  “You’re…dating?” I try to fill in. In fairness to him, this is a pretty new conversation for us. My parents divorced when I was in high school—to no one’s surprise—but while my mom’s semi-seriously dated a few men since then, my dad has been living the bachelor lifestyle he was obviously meant for. Being a small town sports editor who has Heineken and pretzels for dinner more often than not doesn’t exactly scream Relationship Guy. “Is your boss okay with that?”

  “We’re getting married, Caity,” he says in a rush. “Abigail and I. We’re getting married.”

  I freeze in my tracks. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Cait—”

  “I don’t even know her! And neither do Matt and Cammie! We just met her last month and now you’re bringing her into the family? Why the hell—oh, no.”

  “Caitlin.”

  My head is swimming. It’s a billion degrees below zero outside but I am sweating through my clothes. This can’t be happening. “Tell me she’s not pregnant, Dad. Tell me you did not get some random woman pregnant.”

  “She’s not some random woman, young lady, and she’s going to be your stepmother, so I hope you’ll learn to treat her with more respect. And you’ll have plenty of chances to meet her before we move—”

  “Move? Move where?”

  “Abigail wants to be closer to her mother when the baby comes, which is perfectly reasonable, Cait.”

  Nothing about this mess is “reasonable.” I can’t even believe this is my life right now. I can’t believe my father is talking about a new wife and a new child and all of this is happening in a random phone call before the season has even started. “Where’s her mother?” I ask, though I’m sure I don’t want to know.

  There’s a long silence, and my stomach drops. “San Diego, honey,” he says in a low voice. “You and Matt are already off to college, and Cammie’s living on her own in Brookline; you don’t need me around here.”

  I don’t need him. Right. Because who cares that he used to come to my biggest games but hasn’t even acknowledged them since this new chick came into his life? Who cares that he won’t be a bus ride away for a weekend? Who cares that I’m about to have a new baby brother or sister, and he or she will be living three thousand miles away? Yeah, I definitely don’t need that.

  “How do Matt and Cammie feel about this?” I ask, because there’s no way they’re on board. There’s no way.

  “I wanted to tell you first, Caity-Cat. We’ve always had a special bond, and—”

  I cut him off with a snort. “Yeah, it’s so special that you’re running off to California with your child bride. Okay. Why don’t you give Cammie a call and see how she feels about your happy news, Dad.” It’s uber bitchy of me and I know it—he and Cammie barely even talked when he and my mom were still married—but right now I don’t give a shit. “I have to go. It’s freezing outside and I’ve just been standing here, and I have to go to class.”

  “At least let me tell you details about—”

  “Later,” I bite out.

  “Fine. I’ll call you during my dinner break.”

  “Fine.” He usually eats around six. I can always arrange to be back at the gym at six.

  Not my fault it has shitty cell service.

  I’m dying to skip class and wallow, but that doesn’t really seem like an option for the first day. Instead, I wolf down a turkey sandwich and make my way to the Econ building. The nice thing about a class like Advanced Microeconomic Theory is that I know I’m already gonna know pretty much everyone in it; we’ll all have been in Intro and Intermediate together too.

  It also means I definitely won’t be bumping into Mase or Andi.

  I spot Vindra Swami almost immediately and smile when she waves me over. She and I have been buddying our way through Micro ever since we were paired up for an assignment the first week of Intro and completely kicked everyone else’s asses. “How was your break?” she asks as soon as I slide in next to her.

  Just a prelude to a total shitshow, apparently. “Pretty good, though I had a couple of nightmares that Professor Stein would be back to teach Advanced.”

  She laughs. “Oh, good—it wasn’t just me. I still consider pulling off an A last semester to be a minor miracle.”

  “Totally.” I’d gotten an A-minus, which I’d classify as miraculous too, though it did require studying for the final at such absurd hours to work around my lax schedule that I’d learned to survive on three hours of sleep a night. “How was your break?”

  “Glorious,” she says dreamily, an instant reminder that she’d spent half of it on a trip to Jamaica with her boyfriend, Jeff, who goes to…one of the SUNYs—I forget whether it’s Albany or Binghamton. “It’s so depressing to be back up here in the freezing cold.”

  We chat for a bit while the rest of the class fills in with familiar faces, pausing every now and again to respond to someone saying hi. There are only two other athletes in the class besides me—Jake Moss, who’s a point guard on the basketball team, and Quentin Russell, the second-string wide receiver—and they both slap me five as they pass on their w
ay to seats in the back. We in the athletic community at Radleigh aren’t quite the rock stars we might be at a bigger school, especially with all the other sports being D-III, but we’re tight-knit. Other than Lizzie and Frankie, they’re my favorite people here, and in classes, we tend to cling to each other, since we all know the pain of working around practice and game schedules.

  It’s nice to have people who get you. I used to think my dad was one of those people. But if he were, he never would’ve made a decision like that without talking to me, without at least pretending what I wanted mattered.

  Just thinking about my father puts a scowl back on my face just as Professor Arnold walks into the room. I’ve never had him before, but the Econ department at Radleigh’s relatively small, and every professor’s face is a familiar one. Rumor has it he’s a huge sports fan and has a special place in his heart—and grade book—for athletes, but I’m definitely not relying on that.

  “All right, everybody—settle down.” Professor Arnold watches us with hawk eyes as everyone shifts in their seats and grows quiet. “Welcome to Advanced Microeconomic Theory. If you have not taken Intermediate Microeconomics, you are in the wrong room. Please see the registrar about being put in another class.” He waits, as if half of us are going to suddenly file out. When no one does, he coughs and speaks again.

  “In-class participation is going to be worth ten percent of your grade, so if you’re feeling shy, or unable to rise to the challenge of delivering critical analysis, again, this is not the class for you.” My gut churns a little bit at that, not because I’m nervous I’m not up to the task—I can do pretty much anything involving numbers in my sleep—but because I truly hate public speaking. Thankfully, Vindra loves it—she does theater, too—and I know she’ll have me covered for any presentations.

  “Thirty percent of your grade will depend on in-class presentations, and the materials you provide with said presentations,” he continues, as if reading my mind. “You’ll be required to deliver these presentations in pairs.” Vindra and I exchange smiles, but they quickly fall with Professor Arnold’s next words. “I know most if not all of you have been in class together before, and many of you have probably been working in the same pairs for multiple semesters. As it is extremely important that you open your minds to different ways of thinking, for this class you’ll be required to work with a new partner. And don’t think I can’t easily find out who you’ve partnered with in the past, by the way.”