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“What about it?”
“You don’t have a problem with it?”
“Fuck no.” I shake my head vehemently.
“Then why the quip about liking guys in my bed?”
“Because I was drunk and stupid? Because I felt the need to take a cheap shot like you did? Because I was trying to be funny and it didn’t land? I honestly don’t know. Probably some combination of the three.”
“So, if I brought a guy back here…?”
“I don’t care who you fuck, if that’s what you’re asking. Although, I’d rather not have a front row seat. And before you assume I’m singling you out, that goes for gay and straight sex. Voyeurism isn’t my thing.”
“It was last night,” he says.
I guess he’s got me there.
“That was… I’d never seen two guys make out so it caught my attention for a second then I moved on. It wasn’t like I set up a chair to watch. I didn’t watch anyone else making out either, I just talked with my friend.”
Liam seems to mull that over, and based on the way the crease between his brows seems to fade a bit I think he accepts my answer.
“What’s with all the workout gear?” He tips his head toward the stack of clothes on my bed that hadn’t yet made it into the dresser. It’s not an apology—maybe a peace offering—so I take it.
“I go through a lot of clothes during two-a-days.”
“Football?” He arches a skeptical brow.
“Something wrong with that?” I’m not sure why I phrase the question like that. Intuition, I guess. But he doesn’t explain his look.
“Aren’t you in the wrong place?”
“Why would you say that?” I put the clothes in a drawer.
“This is the honors dorm.”
“Athletes can’t be smart?” I arch my brow the same way he does when he doesn’t seem to like what I say.
“I didn’t say that. I just thought they had special dorms for athletes.”
“They do. I requested this one.”
“Why?” Liam chews on his lip like he’s puzzling through that answer.
“As much as I love the game, I’ve got less than a two percent chance of going pro, so I need to get a degree while I’m here. Why are you in this dorm?”
“What do you mean?” He wrinkles his nose.
“Isn’t that a lacrosse stick over there?” I nod toward the corner of the room, where a stick easily six feet tall is propped against the wall.
“Smart guys can’t be athletic?”
“I didn’t say that.” I mirror his earlier words. “You’re an athlete, then?”
“Club, not NCAA.”
“Still counts.” I put the last of my clothes in the drawer and close it.
“Not to everyone,” he says quietly.
