—12 years ago—

  Barrett was late.

  The campus seemed determined to make that fact worse. Every building blurred into the next, each one stamped with acronyms that meant nothing to him. Glass, concrete, everything looked the same. He checked his phone again, then cursed under his breath and picked up the pace.

  First day. He wasn’t about to blow it over something as stupid as bad signage. Well—his first day, anyway. The semester was already one week in. Family drama had seen to that.

  Barrett shook his head, pushing the thought aside. Not now. This wasn’t the time. Focus.

  He blamed himself for taking too long that morning, until he caught his reflection in one of the darkened windows lining the path.

  Boots planted firm. Camo pants sitting just right. Sleeveless beater stretched tight across his shoulders, arms bare and solid. Sunglasses in place. Blond hair pulled back into a clean ponytail.

  He paused, turned slightly, adjusted his stance.

  “Not bad,” he murmured, a grin tugging at his mouth.

  As he admired himself, his eyes finally drifted up to the lettering above the door.

  That’s it.

  He straightened, pushed inside, and walked directly into silence.

  The classroom was already full. Rows of students sat facing forward, heads turning in unison as the door swung shut behind him. At the front of the room, a middle-aged professor lowered his marker and looked over his glasses with thin amusement.

  “Well,” the professor said, “glad you could take a break from checking yourself out to join us.”

  Barrett blinked, then glanced back at the window beside the door.

  Only then did he realize the tint worked one way. He’d been admiring himself in a perfect mirror while an entire classroom watched the show.

  Heat crept up his neck.

  “Nothing to say, Rambo?” the professor added lightly. “Take a seat. Please.”

  A few students snorted. Barrett said nothing, jaw tight, and headed for the back row. He dropped into a chair with more force than necessary and crossed his arms.

  The professor turned back to the board, unfazed. “As I was saying—our first text for the semester will be Don Quixote. We’ll be spending the entire first month with it.”

  Barrett barely heard him.

  His attention drifted across the room instead. A surprising number of cuties, he noted with mild approval. Still, he couldn’t help thinking how impossible it was to tell who actually lifted anymore—everything was oversized hoodies, loose pants, shapeless layers. A tragedy, really.

  “—write a short paper after the first week on any themes that stand out—”

  His gaze snagged on one girl near the window. Long black hair, straight posture. Broad shoulders beneath her jacket. She was a lifter, his instincts whispered. He stared a second too long.

  She looked back.

  Barrett immediately turned away, pretending to study the leaves outside. Autumn had just begun to creep in, reds and golds bleeding into the green. He gave it his full attention until he was sure she wasn’t looking anymore.

  “Rambo.”

  He ignored it.

  “Rambo.”

  Barrett froze. Slowly, he looked up.

  Every eye in the room was on him again.

  “Yes?” he said.

  The professor sighed. “Did you catch even a single word of what I just said?”

  Barrett felt something harden in his chest. He didn’t like the tone. Didn’t like the look either.

  “Didn’t think so,” the professor continued. “Do yourself a favor and read the book. You, especially, might find it enlightening.”

  That did it.

  Barrett leaned back in his chair, muscles tight, sunglasses reflecting the fluorescent lights. “Books are paper,” he said evenly. “The two plates I lifted before class were steel.” His stare locked onto the professor. “You wanna write me an essay on that, ya pencil-neck dweeb?”

  For a heartbeat, the room was silent.

  Then the professor laughed—genuinely—and shook his head. “Son,” he said, gesturing broadly at the room, “you’re at a university. Look around you.”

  The laughter came all at once, rolling through the class.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Kid thinks he’s in the damn Thunderdome!” the professor added, still laughing.

  Barrett stayed silent, face burning, fists clenched at his sides. This wasn’t how he’d pictured his first day, not even close.

  —

  As Barrett stuffed his notebook into his bag, the echoes of the classroom still clung to him like static. Chairs scraped. Laughter lingered. Voices followed him down the aisle, low but sharp enough to cut.

  What an idiot.

  So cringe.

  He kept his head down, jaw set, pretending he didn’t hear any of it. Pretending it didn’t matter.

  It mattered.

  Barrett exhaled slowly through his nose and slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder. Worst first day in the history of first days. He could already imagine the story spreading about some meathead with sunglasses who thought he was the main character.

  Get it together, he told himself. He’d survived worse than a room full of strangers laughing.

  “Yo!”

  The voice came from behind him, casual, friendly. Barrett turned.

  A guy about his age jogged up, brown hair pushed back, easy smile on his face. He wore a fitted T-shirt with Greek letters across the chest. Frat guy, no question about it. The type Barrett usually dismissed without a second thought. Groups like that always felt like armor for people afraid to stand alone.

  Still, the guy didn’t look smug. Just…open.

  “Hey,” Barrett said cautiously.

  “Man,” the guy said, grinning, “that was hilarious. The way you absolutely laid the smackdown on the professor?” He laughed, shaking his head. “Total weenie, right?”

  Barrett paused, then let out a short laugh despite himself. “Damn right.”

  Something loosened in his chest.

  The guy’s smile widened. It wasn’t mocking or performative, but genuine. Warm, even. It caught Barrett off guard.

  “I’m Jesse,” he said, sticking out a hand. “What’s your name?”

  Barrett took it automatically. “Barrett. Barrett Donovan.”

  Jesse’s eyebrows shot up as their hands clasped. “Holy hell—what a grip!” He laughed. “And that name? Straight-up action hero stuff.”

  A grin crept across Barrett’s face. “Thanks, man.” After a beat, he added—just a little too eagerly—“You got some forearms yourself. You deadlift with straps or raw?”

  Jesse laughed. “Raw, of course.”

  Barrett’s grin widened. “Hell yeah. Real men don’t use straps.”

  “Totally,” Jesse said, a hint of awkwardness slipping into the laugh.

  For a second they just stood there as students streamed past, backpacks brushing shoulders, the hallway buzzing with noise and motion. Then Jesse pulled out his phone, casual as anything.

  “Hey, give me your number,” he said. “Guys like us gotta stick together.” He shot Barrett a conspiratorial wink.

  Barrett hesitated for half a second, then shrugged and rattled it off. Jesse typed it in, nodded approvingly.

  As they parted ways, Barrett slung his bag higher on his shoulder and headed down the hall feeling lighter than he had a minute ago.

  Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  —5 days later—

  Barrett walked down Greek Row. Though “walked” wasn’t quite right. It was more of a fast, purposeful stride, the kind that came from equal parts anticipation and nerves.

  A few days earlier, Jesse had texted him about a party at his fraternity house. Cool guys, drinks, and most importantly, girls. Lots of them. Jesse had been very clear on that last point. Barrett had been grinning ever since.

  He wore his usual outfit. He’d asked Jesse if he should dress up, maybe tone it down a little, but Jesse had waved the idea off immediately. Nah, man. Just be you. Barrett hadn’t argued. After all, this was his style.

  As the houses grew closer together, the noise thickened. Barrett could hear music bleeding into the street, and laughter spilling out of open windows. He picked up his pace. He’d knocked out a quick set of push-ups at home to get a pump going and didn’t want it fading before he even made it inside.

  When he spotted the matching Greek letters mounted above a wide porch, his heart kicked up a notch. He jogged the last few steps and rang the bell.

  The door swung open to reveal a tall football player with shoulders like a brick wall. The guy looked Barrett up and down, unreadable.

  “I, uh—Jesse invited me,” Barrett said quickly.

  The guy’s face split into a grin. “Oh! Yeah, man. Come on in.”

  Relief washed through him as he stepped inside.

  The house was already packed. Music thumped through the floors, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, and the air was thick with heat, perfume, and alcohol. Frat brothers drifted through shirtless or half-dressed, cups in hand. Sorority girls clustered in laughing knots. Everywhere he looked, people seemed effortlessly comfortable, like they belonged.

  “Barrett Donovan?” a voice called out.

  He turned just in time to see Jesse bounding down the stairs.

  “Jesse, my man!” Barrett called back, raising a hand.

  Jesse laughed as he reached him, one arm slung around another frat brother’s shoulder. “Dude—he even kept the shades!” He shook his head, grinning. “You’re lookin’ sick, Barrett.”

  “Thanks,” Barrett said, straightening a little.

  “Let’s get you a drink!” Jesse said, already pulling him toward a table crowded with cups and a massive punch bowl.

  Jesse poured himself something neon-colored and sloshing. “Beer? Jungle juice?”

  Barrett hesitated, then sheepishly raised a hand and pulled a shaker bottle from his bag. A protein powder concoction swirled inside.

  “Brooo!” Jesse shouted. “That is awesome!”

  Barrett chuckled. “Can’t miss my anabolic window, right?”

  “So right,” Jesse laughed.

  Then, someone across the room shouted Jesse’s name. He turned, pointing. “I’ll be right back!”

  And just like that, he was gone.

  Barrett’s stomach sank.

  Worst-case scenario. Absolutely worst-case scenario. His one lifeline had vanished, leaving him standing alone in a house full of strangers, gripping a protein shaker like a social life preserver.

  He took a sip and scanned the room. Everyone seemed to have someone. Groups overlapped and reformed effortlessly, laughter bouncing from wall to wall. He noticed a table off to the side where a few guys were playing a card game—Magic, maybe.

  He chuckled. Freakin’ nerds. Who even invited them?

  “Well, if it isn’t Lit 101’s biggest badass.”

  The voice was female.

  Barrett turned, and his heart stopped.

  It was her. The girl from class. Long black hair, confident posture, eyes sharp and amused.

  “Uh—hey,” he said. “Who…are you?”

  She laughed. “Nice try. I saw you staring in class.”

  He scratched the back of his neck, then shrugged. “I was just wondering if you lift. You’ve got a wider back than most girls.”

  She raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Damn right it is,” Barrett said, grinning.

  She laughed again. “You rushing this frat?”

  “Nah,” he said quickly. “I’m here with Jesse.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh.”

  Before Barrett could ask what that meant, Jesse reappeared and slung an arm around her shoulders.

  “I see you’ve met my girlfriend, Becky!” Jesse said cheerfully. Then, with a laugh, he added, “Careful, Becks. Guy like this could pull you right from under me.”

  Becky’s smile tightened, just a little.

  Barrett’s chest sank.

  Before the moment could stretch any further, a frat brother shouted from the hallway, “Alright everyone! Main room!”

  Cheers erupted. Jesse pumped a fist. “Let’s go!”

  They were swept along with the crowd, bodies pressing in as they moved toward the largest room in the house. The card players grumbled as brothers shooed them into the room, forcing them to give up their game.

  Someone climbed onto a chair and shouted over the music.

  “Let’s hear it for Rush Week’s annual Freaks and Greeks Contest!”

  The room exploded in cheers.

  Barrett’s stomach dropped as the realization hit him.

  Shit.