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He doesn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

It is so clearly not fine.

I try again. “So. I’m Daniel. Hockey team. Forward. Openly bisexual, if that’s relevant. My friends are basically a walking pride parade. If you’re⁠—”

“I’m not,” he cuts in, still blotting. “Not gay. I don’t date. I need to focus on my last year.”

“Yeah. Right. Fair. Same.” I rock back on my heels. “And you are…?”

He pauses in his clean up, finally glances up. Hazel eyes, tired, and faintly suspicious as if I’m going to turn him gay just by learning his name. “Quinn.”

“Quinn.” I nod. “Like Quinn Hughes in the NHL.”

“Who?”

“Oh. Uh. Just a player I follow.”

He nods as though what I said makes sense. “I don’t watch sports.”

“Cool. Cool.” Why the fuck am I being so awkward? I can talk to anyone. Except, apparently, my new roommate.

He stands, and I do, too. I nudge my spilled box of gear closer to my side of the room. “I’m, uh, going to grab more of my stuff.”

He nods and starts packing up the surviving pieces of his experiment. Before he can put his headphones back on, I clear my throat, and he looks over at me.

I risk a small grin. “Look, I promise I’m housebroken. I’ll keep my gear on my side, listen to my pre-game playlist on my headphones, and I won’t touch your science altar again without a signed waiver. Scout’s honor.”

“You were a Boy Scout?”

“Nope. But I respect the code.”

He lets out a tiny huff that might be a laugh and slides his tub of science stuff under his bed.

I glance at my empty side. He’s obviously keeping his bed low. His desk is off to the side and the dresser next to that. “You’re keeping your bed down, huh?”

“Less chance of falling out when I pass out reading at three a.m.”

“Smart. I’m lofting mine. It gives me more floor space for pads and other stuff.”

He nods and puts his headphones back on, tugging his hoodie back up, and pulls out a book before sitting back on his bed. Welp, I guess this conversation is over.

Awkwardly, I turn back toward the door to go grab more of my stuff. This year is going to be so long.

TWO

DANIEL

Three days later

I stare at the test. Less than fifty percent.

Around me, chairs scrape. Someone laughs and chats with a neighbor, clearly not bothered by their score. Glancing around at my fellow students, I sink further into my seat and fold the Scantron so I don’t have to look at the little galaxy of wrong answers.

This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a benchmark for the professor. And I had already heard that Rogers gave a Scantron test the first day of class. I just expected to do better.

I am good at science.

I mean. I know what a beaker is, I passed biology, and I’ve dissected a pig. It was disgusting, and I still have opinions about the smell, but I did it, and I passed.