But the number one reason we don’t like 1C is because they complain all of the time, and they regularly canvas the apartment complex to get others to sign on to their complaints. They’ve complained about everything from noise (it’s a goddamned college apartment complex) to garbage (too many pizza boxes stuffed down the trash chute) to non-resident visitors after ten (again, we’re goddamned college students).
“They got enough people to sign their maintenance petition, so an exterminator crew is coming next Tuesday. You can keep your stuff here, but you’ll have to find a place to stay.”
I do a quick calculation in my head. Five days. I’m not even convinced that they saw a cockroach. I don’t like changes in my routine. I can already feel my anxiety ratcheting up. Change is not my favorite thing in the world. I live by my routine. Hell, my health depends on it. “That’s bullshit.”
“I know,” Charity says glumly. “I’m staying at the house. I asked if you could come, but they’re so strict. We’re still in pledge mode, so only full sisters can stay.” Charity belongs to the Alpha Phi sorority whereas Sutton and I are those Goddamned Independents or GDIs as Charity calls us affectionately. I’d have pledged a house if it didn’t cost an arm and a leg. I have to save those limbs to pay for graduate school.
“Where are you staying?” I ask Sutton.
“I’ve decided that Luke is worth a second night,” she admits. “Basically I’m sexing him up so I have a place to stay. Let’s hope he doesn’t expect a third time around because if tomorrow is anything like Saturday night, I’m going to have to diddle myself to have an orgasm once he falls asleep.”
“I think I’d rather stay here and be exterminated.” I grimace. “I suppose I can stay with JR. He’ll be back by then and there’s so many bedrooms in his house that at least one will be free.”
“Speaking of our vaunted Western State Warriors, guess who finally showed up in my Public Safety class.” Charity waggles her eyebrows.
Apparently someone hot and sexy. “Dunno. Coach Lowe?” I tease.
“No! Matt Iverson.”
“Who’s that?” Sutton doesn’t know a thing about football. She fell asleep during the one game we watched together here in our apartment. And the live games? Forget about it. She left after the first quarter. Charity sometimes attends with her sorority sisters if it’s part of some fraternity exchange party but otherwise, they have zero interest in the game. The players, on the other hand? They are interesting but JR—or “Ace,” as everyone here at Western calls him—and I made a pact. No pissing in the other’s pool. I don’t date football players and he doesn’t mess with my roommates.
“He’s on the defense,” I explain. “Linebacker. Will be a pro after his senior year.” I look at my spoon and then down into the half-empty carton of frozen yogurt. I should probably stop.
“He’s this huge mountain of sweet male meat,” Charity shares with Sutton. “He’s got this longish black hair that stops around here.” She waves her hands under her chin. “And the bluest eyes. I swear they’re fake. Are they?” The question is directed at me.
I drag my attention away from the icy treat and to my two roommates who are looking at me with intense interest. “I have no idea. I’ve never talked to him. Ace hangs out with the offense, mostly Ahmed and Jack Cameron, more recently.” Ahmed’s the running back, and Jack Cameron is a new guy—a tight end with magic hands that never seem to drop a pass and with sticky feet that somehow always manage to stay inbounds. “I think Iverson is best friends with Hammer Wright and Knox Masters. According to Ace, anyway. I don’t hang out with his teammates.”
Well, I did once. Operative word being once. The one time I went to the Gas Station, the preferred hangout place for the football team, Ace was swallowed up by well-wishers. He forgot I was there, and I had little interest in being shoved around by the mass of people trying to slap his back.
He’d apologized the next day, but I didn’t go out with him again. When we do hang out, it’s usually here although I’ve been over to his house a few times. I try to avoid that because nine times out of ten, someone is having sex in the living room or the kitchen. JR—I mean Ace—says it’s because sex is an athletic activity, no different than lifting or running.
“Ohhhhh,” Sutton breathes out. “I had Intro to Communications with Hammer Wright first semester sophomore year.”
“Sutton, are you blushing?” Charity exclaims. Sutton is not a blusher. She can rip off the bawdiest statement as if she’s standing in church reciting the Lord’s Prayer, so this slight reddening of her cheeks is highly unusual. “You are! What did you and Hammer get up to?”
“Nothing.” Sutton grins ruefully. “Unfortunately. I threw myself at him several times, but he never noticed.”
“He’s a dog. You are better off,” I offer comfortingly. I don’t know the defense well, but most of the single guys, Ace included, freely partake of what their elevated social status provides—a never-ending line of college girls wanting to know what it’s like to sleep with a star. It’s one reason I’d never date a football player. They don’t know how to hit the “off” button once they’re not on the field anymore. Life’s a big fat game to them, and girls are just objects they move around on the board.