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Chapter Four
Darren
Late! Darren was going to be late.
He hurried through the front door of the frat house, not bothering to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Coach had given him permission to leave soccer practice early, but he’d lost track of time on the field and early wasn’t early enough.
Coach hadn’t been happy that he needed to skip out, and Darren knew next time he’d be sprinting suicides to go with the extra laps.
But he had to get to the first Gage Scholar meeting. Make a good first impression. Play nice with the mentors assigned to him.
First, though, he absolutely needed to pound down a glass of water and take a thirty-second shower.
He halted outside the common kitchen.
His old “mate” Greg was jerking around in there with one of the newbies. Greg was being mildly idiotic, but even that was enough to make Darren wince. Painful that he ever thought the guy made a friend.
They hadn’t hung out since the showdown at the Phi Kappa formal before summer. Greg had made it clear he sided with Harper, and Darren found a new roommate for this year. Now, being in the same room with him was awkward.
His throat might be dry and his mouth chapped from exertion, but bottled water wasn’t worth twenty seconds reliving all the crap Darren and Greg had done. He had enough disappointment to contend with.
He’d cup water from the bathroom tap.
He slunk backward, not wanting Greg to jerk his gaze over to him.
A foot out of sight from the kitchen, half pressed against the hallway wall, someone cleared their throat. He spun around to find Pi Kappa Phi’s archon, Jackson “Jack” Murphy, paused in the hallway, watching him with a raised brow.
Greg chose that moment to bowl out of the kitchen, and Darren wasn’t smooth enough to hide a wince as he passed.
Understanding flickered in Jack’s gaze.
For a moment, they stared at each other, the events of the last school year replaying between them. He wished the wall would swallow him.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Darren blurted. “For everything, okay?”
The air-conditioned house was cooling him down, and his embarrassment brought on a shiver.
He wasn’t sure what Jack was going to say, and he didn’t think he could handle it. Besides that, he needed to be across campus five minutes ago. “I gotta . . .”
Darren pushed off the wall and passed Jack, head bowed.
“Hey, wait up.” Jack snagged his arm. Darren stilled and looked back. “You and me, we’re good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jack smiled and rubbed his nape. “You had my back when I needed it. You came through for Seth. Actions talk. That’s what brothers do for each other.”
Darren swallowed the tight ball in his throat, and it gave way to relief. He hitched a thumb toward the staircase at the end of the hall. “I really have to get to the Gage Scholar meeting. So . . .”
Jack nodded and Darren hoofed down the hall.
“One sec,” Jack called after him.
Darren turned at the ornate newel post.
“A friend of mine’s trying for that program. Isaiah.”
Darren had been informed he’d be running against an Isaiah Nettles—the only other student in the competition. The student who’d had the balls to file a complaint against the university.
As much as it frustrated Darren to compete for the position, he couldn’t help having a decent dose of respect for the guy. He was curious to meet him in person tonight.
And . . . well . . . he wondered if this Isaiah had been the guy he’d bumped into outside Jenkins’s office. The guy who had adorkably knocked his great-great-grandfather askew.
He kinda wished it was.
Except, maybe not.
That guy would be his competition, and how fucking uncomfortable would it be to find his competition hot as all fuck? Especially considering how much they’d have to work together this year.
Yeah, awkward.
Darren stepped backward up the first stair. “Your friend, eh?” he said to Jack. “Guess you’ll be rooting for him then.”
“Nah, man. I’m not on anyone’s side.”
“Right.”
“I mean it. He’s my friend. You’re my fraternity . . . friend, too. Consider me Switzerland.”
“Okay,” Darren said, a slow grin eating his face. “I’m banking on that.”
Darren was the last to arrive.
Everyone else was in the paneled conference room when the assistant led him inside and shut the door.
Soft conversations ended abruptly, adding to the nausea building in his guts. Sucked living up to the expectations of being the namesake and heir to an American dynasty. Sucked that he’d fucked up already by arriving five minutes late.
He schlepped over thick carpet toward the “U” of couches and a long, low table. Dusk poured through the six-foot gridded windows on one side of the plush room, stretching over Jenkins, the Gage Scholar mentors, and—
His step hitched.
Isaiah.
Isaiah regarded him from his position at the edge of the couch. He wore a suit, pale blue shirt, and dark blue tie. The shirt clung against a lean chest, the color soft against his tan skin. His hair was tied back into a ponytail. Not especially long, just long enough to gather with an elastic, judging by the strands that escaped it.
