"Again?" Ellie sighs. "Didn't we refresh the paint a few months ago? Vaughn said they've never had to mess with theirs!"
"We get the worst of the sun. The other doors don't get hit with direct light like ours does." He nods towards the surrounding homes.
Even though six of us live here, the good thing is we're not all piled into one place. There are a grand total of three houses on the acre lot.
Liam and I (and Ellie) live in the Redhouse—so dubbed for its needs-a-paint-job crimson colored door. Forty yards across from us is the Greenhouse. Not a place for vegetation, contrary to the name. The aforementioned Diego Mendoza and the only other sophomore on the property, Parker Fitz, live there.
The two homes might look identical barring door color, but there's a damn good reason the youngest guys are always stuck behind the olive door. The Redhouse is at least 500 square feet bigger, and it has waaay better air conditioning—a perk that cannot be overstated when it comes to Texas summers.
I always thought the Greenhouse felt humid as fuck when Liam and I bunked there last year...
Shit. Maybe it was initially designed to house plants.
We make our way past my favorite part of the front yard—the salt water pool and adjacent hot tub—and up to the final residence on the property: The Main House.
The Main House is the shit. It's reserved for the current co-captains of the team: our beast of a goalie, Cameron Collins, and our star forward, Vaughn Steel. Those lucky bastards have been captains for the past two years, so they've been reaping the benefits for a while now.
Not only is the structure absolutely massive, it's also up in the trees.
Yeah.
You heard that right.
Up in the trees as in you legit have to climb a freaking staircase to get to the entrance. It's the reason everyone on campus refers to this entire property as "The Treehouse".
I didn't think it was even possible to build a functioning home up in a bunch of oak trees, but the architects proved me wrong.
Just don't ask me how their plumbing works.
I have no fucking clue.
We jog up the wooden stairs, Ellie enthusiastically leading the way. Immediately upon opening the door, the mouthwatering scent of breakfast has us making a beeline straight for the kitchen.
Before we make it there, Diego calls out to us. "Food's on the dining table. Don't touch anything yet; I'm almost done."
"It smells fantastic!" Ellie exclaims cheerily.
"Gracias, chica!" Diego's words are barely audible over the clanging of pans and the popping of hot oil on the stove.
We head into the enclosed dining space to observe the brunch he's prepared, and holy shit is it a freaking feast. A basket of blueberry muffins, numerous plates of crispy bacon, and an unstable stack of chocolate-chip pancakes are just a sampling of the food set up buffet-style on the table.
Dude must've invited the whole team over for breakfast.
Diego's the only one of us who has any skill whatsoever when it comes to cooking, but we don't get to experience it often. School work and soccer schedules keep this a once-in-a-blue-moon type of deal, but whenever that blue moon comes around and he breaks out the pots and pans, we know we're in for a treat.
"Fuck, mate. Did you wake up at dawn to prepare all this?" Liam questions, reaching for a piece of link sausage.
"Nah, bro. My grandma made some of the pastries yesterday before she left." Multiple timers go off in the background. "And don't touch anything, dude," he repeats. "I want a pic of the whole thing before it's devoured."
"I'm not," Liam lies, quickly shoving the sausage into his mouth with a sly grin.
A minute later, we hear Diego turn off the stove.
"Brunch is served."
When he walks through the butler's pantry and enters the room, I immediately lose my shit.
I thought the huge array of food was something to behold, but Diego's attire is even more of a spectacle.
"What the fuck, Mendoza?" I manage to get out between bursts of laughter. "What the hell do you have on?"
Atop his head is a floppy white chef's hat so oversized it looks like it belongs in a Saturday-morning cartoon. Pulled tight across his body is an apron obviously designed for an eight year old girl—full on frilly lace, covered in delicate bows, and dainty as shit. Add that in with the blush-colored oven mitts clutching the pans in his hands, and dude is looking straight-up 50's housewife.
"What?" He raises a dark brow in confusion.
"You look like you belong on a fucking syrup bottle. Or a box of pancake mix. Take your pick."
"Yeah?" His lips rise into a pleased grin. "Sweet."
"Not a compliment," I insist with a shake of my head.
"'Besa al Cocinero'?" Liam clumsily reads the words stretched across Diego's chest. "Translation, please."
"Kiss the cook," Ellie answers.
Liam turns to her in surprise. "You speak Spanish? Since when?"
"I know a little bit, but right now I'm speaking context clues." She gestures to the tiny red lipstick images scattered around the words. "Not that hard to figure out."
"Didn't notice that. Too distracted by the whole ghastly get-up." He grimaces as he gives the outfit another once-over. "That bloody apron is—"
"Ay, man. My abuelita sewed this for me," Diego interrupts defensively. "When your grandma makes you something with her frail, wrinkled hands, you friggin' wear it."
Liam takes a seat at the table and shrugs, unconvinced. "My nan knitted me a jumper once. I told her I loved it. A couple of hours later, I sold it online for fifty quid."
"Liam!" Ellie scolds, looking equal parts horrified and amused at his confession.
"You're sick," Diego mutters.
"Yeah, dude," I chime in. "You're doing it wrong. Keep the gift buried in your closet and whenever she comes to visit, break that bad boy out and pretend you always wear it. Common knowledge."
"Not a bad idea..." Liam taps a finger to his chin as he contemplates the suggestion. "But I'm missing the part where I make some bank."
"No respect for your elders," Diego mumbles as he scoops the migas onto a serving platter. He moves a few plates around before pulling out his phone to snap a pic. When he's finished, he waves a hand across the spread. "Eat up, you ungrateful bastards."
Conversation is sparse over the next twenty minutes as we use our mouths to stuff our faces instead of chat.
Diego sends one final warning text to the guys who aren't here yet. Cam texts back that he's at goalkeeper training and to save him a plate or three while Vaughn sends one saying he already ate with Rayne—big shocker there.
I'm about to ask what Parker's excuse is when I hear the familiar creak of the front door opening. Moments later, he shuffles into the room.
He looks about as worse for wear as Liam. His normally warm-toned skin is ghostly pale, strands of his blonde hair are sticking in about fifty different directions, and the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses are dirty and smudged.
"Last night was rough," he grumbles as he collapses into the seat at the head of the table.
"Gatorade?" Ellie offers as she stands.
He nods and reaches for an empty plate. "Please."
A party animal Parker Fitz is definitely not, so seeing him hungover is a rare sighting. It's usually damn near impossible to convince him to come downtown with us, but it's obvious he got trashed yesterday.
"You come out with us last night?" I question, trying to remember if he was part of the group. He wasn't there as far as I can recall, but I bailed pretty early so I might've just missed him.
Liam narrows his eyes. "How much did you drink, Fitz? Forget you're a lightweight, did you?"
"Drink?" He pauses loading bacon onto his plate, confusion in his tone. "No, I didn't drink. I was up all night going over PowerPoints for the first week of class. It took me ten hours to finish everything. I don't ever want to look at a computer screen again."
He sets his food down and remov
es his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes with his knuckles.
I shake my head and bite back a laugh.
Of.
Fucking.
Course.
Only Parker would have a hangover from binge studying. The guy loves school more than anyone I know.
Damn nerd.
"I'm surprised you showed up," Diego says. "When I came into your room this morning, I sorta thought you were dead."
Ellie returns, tossing a red sports drink in Parker's direction. He thanks her and takes a long sip before scowling at Diego. "Yeah, thanks for opening my blinds, by the way. I appreciate the unwanted wake-up call."
"Just making sure you were alive, bro. It's a roommate's job."
"I need to remember to lock my door," Parker mumbles to himself. He takes a bite of a muffin before his gaze catches mine. "And speaking of locking things up, I saw Sticky Fingers leaving when I went to shut my curtains. Her bag looked emptier than usual."
"No shit? She didn't take anything?" Liam looks downright shocked at the prospect. "Turned over a new leaf and gave up her life of crime? Are her fingers no longer sticky?"
"That would be a negative," Diego says with a shake of his head. "She was up here earlier pretending to get some water. I caught her red-handed trying to steal my champagne."
He nudges his chin towards the bar cart where two identical bottles sit between fluted glasses and a carafe of orange juice. "I told her to fuck right off. That's the good stuff my grandma brings me from home. No way she was walking out of here with those."
"Jesus, mate," Liam comments. "Your grandma gives you a lot of shit."
"Yeah, she spoils me. That's 'cause I love her, bro. Appreciate her." He shoots Liam a death glare. "Wear her gifts instead of selling them to strangers on the freaking internet."
Ellie grabs one of the bottles and gasps. "Oh my gosh, Kylie opened this one and drank some!"
Diego gives her a brash grin. "Nah, that was me in Mass this morning. Popped this baby open and the cork barely missed the Priest."
Ellie chuckles. "Um, I don't think you're supposed to be downing bubbly in the middle of church."
"I was thirsty, El. What was I supposed to do? Die of dehydration during the service?"
"You're crazy," she mutters, grabbing the orange juice as she begins to pour a round of mimosas.
"No, chica. Sticky Fingers is the crazy one." He turns to me and shakes his head in disapproval. "Rule Numero Uno: Don't stick your dick in crazy."
"Agreed," Parker says before polishing off the rest of his Gatorade. "Why are you still hooking up with her? She's a thief."
"Dunno." I raise both shoulders. "'Cause she's really fucking hot?"
That gets me a laugh from the guys and a mumbled "typical" from Ellie.
Liam levels me with a perplexed stare. "Okay, but when does the fact that she's a legitimate kleptomaniac overtake her looks?"
"For real." Diego stabs his fork into a stack of pancakes, piling five onto his plate as he lectures me. "There's got to be a point where the crazy outweighs the sexy. I'm considering installing a damn airport security system to keep her from swiping our shit—TSA and detection dogs included. I think that means the scale's tipped to the loca side."
"Chill with the dramatics. Damn." I lean back in my chair and stretch my arms over my head with a yawn. "You guys can rest easy 'cause she's not gonna be around for a while. She got all clingy, asking me to be her date to some sorority shit next week. Probably gonna keep my distance for the next few weeks."
Liam lets out a sharp laugh. "Let me get this straight. Stealing from us is fair game, but she asks you to take her somewhere other than the bedroom and that's the deal breaker?"
"I'm really excited to see who you replace her with," Parker pipes up. "A murderer?"
"Not just a murderer, bro. He'd go for the serial killer," Diego remarks with a head shake.
"My bet's on an arsonist," Liam adds. "Hope I'm wrong, though. The Treehouse is quite flammable."
"Ha ha. You guys are fucking hilarious," I say dryly, grabbing one of the mimosas Ellie poured and downing half of it in one gulp. "I'm tired of talking about her. New topic of discussion. Preferably one that doesn't involve my freakin' sex life, thanks."
"I need to hit up the campus bookstore later. Anybody want to join?" Parker questions.
I emit a low groan. School's not exactly the topic I had in mind, but I guess it's better than the alternative.
"Me!" Ellie lifts her hand in the air and sighs. "Not ready to drop five hundred bucks on textbooks, but I don't really have a choice, do I?"
The two of them start gabbing about the new semester while the rest of us continue eating.
"What's your schedule like, West?" Ellie asks after a few minutes, bringing me to the forefront of the discussion.
"Fuck if I know." I shove a forkful of migas into my mouth. "You know my advisor handles that crap."
Student athletes have to deal with games and travel and shit like that, so we receive special advising to help us plan around those circumstances. Most of the guys register themselves, but I'm lazy AF, so I let my advisor sign me up for whatever fits my degree plan.
Ellie elbows me in the ribs. "School starts tomorrow. Check it!"
I reluctantly grab my phone and pull up my schedule, glancing over it for the first time.
Looks like a bunch of the usual for my Exercise Science degree—Sports Nutrition, a Kinesiology class, and a few easy electives thrown in.
But the last course on the list catches my eye and I let out a confused grunt.
"Advanced Biology Lab? Why the hell would my advisor signed me up for that sh—"
My words screech to a halt when I spot something even worse. I squint at the tiny screen, seriously wondering if I forgot to put in my fucking contacts this morning because there's no way I'm reading this correctly.
I shove my cell in front of Ellie's startled face. "What does that say? For the time and day?"
She leans forward, reading the small print as a devilish smile lifts her lips. "Monday. 8 a.m."
Liam lets out a hearty laugh as Diego whacks me on the back. "That's gonna suck. Mondays are the only days we don't have morning conditioning this semester."
"Shit. Don't remind me." I release a frustrated breath as my one weekday of sleeping in vanishes before my eyes. It doesn't take long for the very obvious solution to hit me. "Wait. I'll just drop the damn class. Problem solved."
"Eh, I wouldn't count on it," Parker butts in. "For Advanced Labs, you need the professor's signature to drop. And they want a legit reason or they'll basically refuse to sign the slip. You better prepare a sob story or something if you want a shot at it."
Liam looks over at me. "I thought you were going to take PPE lab?"
"I am. Well, I was," I correct myself. "That's the class my advisor was supposed to enroll me in. I don't know what the hell happened."
Liam's an Exercise Science major, too, and the degree plan includes one upper-division lab requirement. Everybody knows PPE Lab is by far the best choice. Although the actual name sounds like some rocket scientist shit—The Physics and Physiology of Exercise—the course is supposedly easy as freaking pie. All of the "experiments" are the same: design a workout plan and write up a page or two describing the muscles used. The type of stuff any guy or girl who frequents the gym is already familiar with.
"You taking it this semester?" I ask Liam as I quickly type the course number into my phone.
"Waitlisted. Damn seniors took all the spots."
I press confirm for the waitlist. "You think we'll both get in if I sign-up today?"
"Not likely, mate. I'm number 34, and I got on it months ago."
I frown and look down at my screen.
Congratulations! You've been added to the waitlist for BIOL 255. Your waitlist number is—
"204?!" I read out loud. "What's the fucking point of having a waitlist if there's no chance in hell of getting in the course?"
"Maybe
203 students will drop the lab?" Diego offers.
"Sure, man. I bet 200 people will drop by tomorrow," I mutter sarcastically.
"You never know."
I roll my eyes. If he's attempting to joke about the situation, I'm not laughing over here. And if he's being serious, well, the guy is officially a dumbass.
I chug the rest of my drink before letting my head lull back in agony. "This is bullshit."
Ellie grabs the orange juice and champagne, holding both over my empty glass. "Another mimosa to ease the pain?"
"Nah." I shake my head and snatch Grandma Mendoza's bubbly from her right hand. "Give me the whole damn bottle."
4
It is freaking cold this morning.
I know, I know.
It's mid-January—the peak of the winter season—so I really have no room to complain about the frigid temperatures, but this is Texas we're talking about here. Our tolerance for cold is low. Embarrassingly low. Anything under fifty degrees is like the beginning of another Ice Age to us.
Today, it's an ungodly thirty-one outside which means all the native Texans are breaking out their hardly-worn down jackets and barely-scuffed winter boots.
Well...all of them except me.
I gaze down at the thin material of my quarter-sleeved, scoop-neck shirt and sigh in frustration. I can picture my fluffy winter coat hanging on the hook right next to the front door, plain as day. I can also picture myself racing directly past it as I zoomed out of my apartment in a frazzled rush seven minutes ago.
Although I'm a Junior, I made a very freshman-esque mistake last night when I set my 7:00 alarm for p.m. instead of a.m.
If it wasn't for my friend Jessica's "Happy Spring Semester!" text around 7:45, I'd still be snoozing under the warm covers right now. I jumped out of bed, threw on whatever clothes I could find, and poured myself a thermos of the emergency iced coffee Rayne brews every Sunday night for situations just like this.
And though I'm beyond grateful she shares her 9-1-1 coffee with me, our tastes in cups of joe couldn't be more different. Rayne likes hers sweet and sugary; I prefer mine black and bitter to have that "wake-the-hell-up-and-seize-the-day" effect I'm after.
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