Page 3 of These Secret Years

“It just means he’s not playing this season. He’s on the team, but he’s not using one of his eligibility years, which is smart in his case because the starting quarterback is a senior, and the new guys likely won’t get much play time. Ideally, what you want as a quarterback is for a coach to build the team around you, and this team is already built around the current starter, which is why I’m red shirting this year, too.”

I shake my head. “It won’t make sense no matter how many times you try to explain it.”

He chuckles and stands. “Fair enough. I’m gonna hit the shower. Want to join?”

I’m struggling to warm up to the idea of community showers. The stalls are private enough, but I’m no jock. I’ve never had a conversation with someone while I’m washing my hair. “I’ll go in a little bit. I have a song I want to play.”

Deandre glances at the violin. “Yeah? What song?”

“Something I came up with while you were doing push-ups.”

“Like just now?”

I nod, making myself sit.

“That’s a thing you do? Write music in your head?”

I reach for the case where the violin bow is still strapped in. “It is a thing I do,” I say quietly.

He grabs a fresh t-shirt and a pair of shorts from the small dresser in his closet. “Is the song any good?”

“It’s new,” I tell him. “Sometimes it takes people awhile to appreciate new things.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, it is good, but you might not get it.”

He huffs. “Guess I’ll be the judge of that when I get back from the shower.”

Whoa—absolutely not. “I’m not playing it for you.” I say as he opens the door to the hall.

“Yeah, you’re gonna, or it’s gonna be the longest year of both our lives.”

Not entirely sure what he means by that either, I shrug and let him go. Carefully placing the practice mute on the bridge of my new violin, I stand in the narrow space between my bed and desk and play the notes, listening to the new song again. It’s finished within minutes, probably before Deandre’s water in the community shower gets hot.

The Four East common room sits at the intersection of the East and South wings of our dorm. Earlier today, it looked like a basic study area and lounge, but now it’s crowded with a bunch of shitty card tables and chairs. There’s a larger table off to the side covered with a plaid bedsheet where the snacks are laid out. There’s a cheese and meat tray, fresh from the grocery store, an assortment of crackers, various chips and dips, and a container of crappy looking cupcakes.

None of it looks appetizing, and there are already a few guys picking through it with hands that could have been anywhere.

The unmistakable twins are the main culprits, loading up paper plates with chips, cheese, and two cupcakes apiece. They’re big, white guys with baby faces and thick auburn hair. One of them has a traditional short haircut, while the other has let his hair grow out a little. They’re dressed like Deandre—in jeans and clean shirts. One blue, one black.

The football players are all glaringly obvious with their biceps and quads and sculpted asses. Even the twins who border on heavy-set, have enormous muscles under a thicker layer of insulation. I’m six-feet tall, but since moving in here, I’ve felt smaller than I ever have in my life. Deandre is six-four, and most of these guys are taller than I am, too, but not as tall as my roommate. As the common room fills, there’s about a half and half split between the athletes and the guys like me.

Gabe Kent, the type A RA, stands on a chair to introduce himself. He’s a junior, not tall, with an average build. He’s got a full beard, shaggy, dishwater blond hair, and reminds me a little of a teacher in a movie—the kind all the kids think is cool.

The first thing he does is take a head count to make sure we’ve all followed the mandatory part of the instructions, then he thanks us for coming. “Everyone knows how to play UNO, right?”

When no one says they don’t, he goes on. “Eventually we’ll work our way up to team games like Spades because it makes the tournament brackets more interesting, but since we’re all getting to know each other, and I don’t know where you guys came from or how good any of you are at cards, we’ll start here. I won’t make this mandatory again, just strongly encouraged. This is a big ass school, and shit gets busy, but for a lot of you, it’s your first time away from home, and I like to think we can count on each other if we know each other. Good deal?”

“Yeah, man,” Deandre says gamely from my side as a few other guys murmur their assent.

I wouldn’t say I’m nervous. Not the way some of these guys look like they are, but I can think of about ten things I’d rather be doing, from studying the campus map to sleeping.

As Gabe explains how the tournament brackets are going to work, I scan the gathered crowd of about two dozen freshmen. I stop when I find a pair of deep set brown eyes locked on me.

The guy glances away after a second, but then looks at me again, and yeah, I’m still looking at him. He’s clearly a football player, if my height requirements and muscle mass rules are correct. White, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, he’s got a five o’ clock shadow on a classically handsome face. Strong jaw, straight nose, lips on the thinner side.

There’s a heaviness about him that has nothing to do with his weight. It’s something in the way his mouth draws down at the edges. The way his eyelids seem to fight to hold themselves open.