just tell her everything so I don’t have to exhaust myself forcing smiles and reminding my lungs to breathe every time something like this happens. Or maybe I should grow up already and stop letting every single thing on Earth remind me of the boy who broke my heart.
Part of me just wants to tell her everything, get it all out. My condition, what my last test results indicated, and even about him . But another part of me still can’t trust another person with my heart for fear they’ll shatter it all over hell like he did.
D orms for athletes are nicer than the ones for regular freshmen. Thank fuck because if I had to cram in some tiny closet with a dude I barely knew, well, one of us probably wouldn’t make it out alive.
As I carry my crap in, I notice that I’m in one of two adjoining quad rooms that share a bathroom. Four shower stalls, sinks, and toilets are all that separate me and my roommates from four other guys on the university soccer team. Could probably throw a hell of a party in there, get some serious steamed-up action going in those showers with whatever girls are willing. Not that I’ve felt much like partying this past year.
I already know most of these guys from summer workouts so we don’t waste time with introductions. We just pick out our beds and unload our shit. Lucas Taite and a few older guys from the team tell us the best places to party on and around campus as we finish up.
“We’re getting introduced at freshmen orientation in a few hours so you fuckers need to get a move on,” Ben Blackburn sneers. He’s from Scotland so it comes out more like “fookers.” He’s the fullback and the biggest dude on the team. But he’s only an inch or two taller than me. Not that I’m comparing. He’s also a complete dumbass and how the hell he’s made it to his junior year of college is beyond me.
“And don’t forget, ladies, you have to clean the field house and spit-shine the locker rooms,” he adds, probably because he gets off on hassling the eight of us who are freshmen. For now I’m letting it go because I don’t want to get kicked off the team. It’d give my dad a hard-on if I fuck this up. Soccer is a pussy sport, he informed me each time I chose to play it instead of football. I grit my teeth and dump my comforter and sheets onto my bed so we can head to the field house.
“Chill, man,” Skylar Martin says under his breath as he does the same. “It’s just for a year, and then we’ll be the ones giving the orders.” He says something else but I don’t hear it. Because what he just said reminds me of a time I’ve shoved, kicked, and fucking wrestled out of my memory.
“It’s just for a year or two, Landen,” my mom would say each time we moved. Right, a year or two. Long enough to make a few friends so it would hurt like hell when we had to leave again, but not long enough to ever be missed. Same shit, different town. Not that my stupid little kid feelings mattered compared to the Colonel’s oh-so-important highly classified position. I learned the hard way what complaining about moving so much got me. Stitches. A cast. Compliments of dear old dad. By the time I entered high school, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I also learned not to bother forming any kind of attachments to anyone. And I was doing a pretty damn good job. Until we moved to Hope Springs. Until I met her .
“O’Brien, you good to drive?” Skylar asks as we load into my truck. He’s watching me with a weird look in his eyes. As if I weren’t one hundred percent there. Shit, I must’ve been spacing out again.
“Yeah. I am. It’s not like we’d all fit in your P.O.S. anyways.” Once we’re all in, I back out into the street and head towards the field house to clean up before orientation. Skylar, Austin, and Michael are crammed into the extended cab of my truck while the guys rooming in the quad attached to ours are piled in the back. Not sure if that’s legal in California, not sure I
Part of me just wants to tell her everything, get it all out. My condition, what my last test results indicated, and even about him . But another part of me still can’t trust another person with my heart for fear they’ll shatter it all over hell like he did.
D orms for athletes are nicer than the ones for regular freshmen. Thank fuck because if I had to cram in some tiny closet with a dude I barely knew, well, one of us probably wouldn’t make it out alive.
As I carry my crap in, I notice that I’m in one of two adjoining quad rooms that share a bathroom. Four shower stalls, sinks, and toilets are all that separate me and my roommates from four other guys on the university soccer team. Could probably throw a hell of a party in there, get some serious steamed-up action going in those showers with whatever girls are willing. Not that I’ve felt much like partying this past year.
I already know most of these guys from summer workouts so we don’t waste time with introductions. We just pick out our beds and unload our shit. Lucas Taite and a few older guys from the team tell us the best places to party on and around campus as we finish up.
“We’re getting introduced at freshmen orientation in a few hours so you fuckers need to get a move on,” Ben Blackburn sneers. He’s from Scotland so it comes out more like “fookers.” He’s the fullback and the biggest dude on the team. But he’s only an inch or two taller than me. Not that I’m comparing. He’s also a complete dumbass and how the hell he’s made it to his junior year of college is beyond me.
“And don’t forget, ladies, you have to clean the field house and spit-shine the locker rooms,” he adds, probably because he gets off on hassling the eight of us who are freshmen. For now I’m letting it go because I don’t want to get kicked off the team. It’d give my dad a hard-on if I fuck this up. Soccer is a pussy sport, he informed me each time I chose to play it instead of football. I grit my teeth and dump my comforter and sheets onto my bed so we can head to the field house.
“Chill, man,” Skylar Martin says under his breath as he does the same. “It’s just for a year, and then we’ll be the ones giving the orders.” He says something else but I don’t hear it. Because what he just said reminds me of a time I’ve shoved, kicked, and fucking wrestled out of my memory.
“It’s just for a year or two, Landen,” my mom would say each time we moved. Right, a year or two. Long enough to make a few friends so it would hurt like hell when we had to leave again, but not long enough to ever be missed. Same shit, different town. Not that my stupid little kid feelings mattered compared to the Colonel’s oh-so-important highly classified position. I learned the hard way what complaining about moving so much got me. Stitches. A cast. Compliments of dear old dad. By the time I entered high school, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I also learned not to bother forming any kind of attachments to anyone. And I was doing a pretty damn good job. Until we moved to Hope Springs. Until I met her .
“O’Brien, you good to drive?” Skylar asks as we load into my truck. He’s watching me with a weird look in his eyes. As if I weren’t one hundred percent there. Shit, I must’ve been spacing out again.
“Yeah. I am. It’s not like we’d all fit in your P.O.S. anyways.” Once we’re all in, I back out into the street and head towards the field house to clean up before orientation. Skylar, Austin, and Michael are crammed into the extended cab of my truck while the guys rooming in the quad attached to ours are piled in the back. Not sure if that’s legal in California, not sure I
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