I'm an asshole. A fucking asshole. I've been avoiding Ethan all week, waiting for the perfect moment to talk to him. I wanted to sit him down, lay out everything eating at my head, be straight with him. I knew he wouldn't go for it—he's not stupid. His pride, the way he stiffened up at the party, during the hazing, says more about him than words ever could. The guy doesn't bend, and I respect that, even if it pisses me off to admit it.
Still, the only thing I could think to do was hit him with the unfiltered truth. And it went about as well as I expected: a fucking disaster. Time's running out, I couldn't keep dodging, so I went for it. I sank so low I even thought if he wanted sex in exchange for helping me, I'd do it. Terrible idea. I knew it the second his fist smashed into my face.
Now I've got a split lip, a bruise that won't quit, and I had to talk Chris down from tearing Ethan's head off. I had to explain everything to avoid a bigger mess. It was exhausting, damn it. Ethan was my best shot, and I fucked it up.
I'm not mad at him for the punch. I'm pissed at myself. The sex thing was a stupid, impulsive move. I'd sworn there'd be no physical stuff in this plan, but desperation made me blurt out that shit. When I looked up at him from the floor, his face red with rage, I knew I'd hurt him. Not just with what I said, but how I said it. I'm trash. Maybe I always have been.
The rumors about me are spreading like wildfire across campus. My phone won't stop buzzing with notifications, and I'm sure my dad won't back down. His texts keep saying he wants to "talk" about me going back to his plan for my studies, like that's an option. I'm not playing his game again. I've got my own goals, and I'm not giving up, even if I inherited his damn ego. Great, even what I thought was my best trait is his worst.
For now, the smart move is to leave Ethan alone. His fist made it clear he's not helping me, and pushing him would be a dick move. I feel like shit for what I did to him, for the words I let slip without thinking. But I don't have time to wallow. I've gotta focus on me. I started this mess, and now it's my responsibility to see it through, even if it's straight to disaster.
In Ethan's first few days at the frat, we've crossed paths a couple times in the Alpha Centauri house. Always with my head down, I slip past. I can't look him in the eye. I'm ashamed, honestly. He seems like a good guy, getting along with everyone… except me and Chris, obviously. Though he's cool with Joe. Maybe I could use Joe as a bridge to apologize, clear the air. Joe's also been weirdly tight with Jackson, Ethan's friend. Guess they're forming their own little trio. Wouldn't hurt to join something like that, get a few more brains in my corner besides Chris and Joe.
Because Chris, with all the Sarah drama, isn't much help right now. He's a wreck, always pissed, and I get it. Seeing with his own eyes that Sarah isn't the saint he thought crushed him. His anger's justified, but it's useless to me.
Lately, I've been getting back to the frat house late to avoid Ethan. I spend my nights at the campus tennis courts, working off my frustration. I'm usually decent, but now I'm playing like shit. I'm slamming the ball too hard, sending it out of bounds or crashing it into the net. The ball machine fires at me, and I'm running side to side, trying to connect. But my forehand's sloppy, my backhand's a disaster, and the ball ends up in the net or flying who knows where. I try to adjust: hip turn, step forward, firm wrist. Nothing works.
I'm running, sweating, the echo of each shot ringing in the empty court. Every miss feels like a reminder of my own fuck-ups. I grip the racket, take a deep breath, get in position—knees bent, waiting for the next ball. But I'm still trash.
No matter how hard I try, I can't get Ethan out of my head. The guilt, the anger, it all mixes with every shitty swing.
"That was a terrible shot," a voice says behind me.
I turn and see Chris walking onto the court, racket in hand, looking worn out.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, wiping sweat off my face. "Thought you'd be with Sarah."
"Things didn't go as planned," he says with a sigh. "We're done. I tried to understand her, help her, but she decided she's not ready for a relationship. I said we could try, but… nothing."
"Sorry, man," I say, meaning it.
"A year and a half, you know?" he says, his voice breaking. "All those days making her laugh, treating her like a queen… it wasn't enough. But at least I gave it everything."
"I get it," I say, not knowing what else to add.
"Whatever, it's over. Gotta move on," he says, shrugging. "What about you, Noah? You've been out here every night."
"Trying to avoid Ethan," I admit. "I feel like shit for what happened. I didn't mean to hurt him, but I did."
"You're right, words cut deep," he says, looking at me with empathy. "Look at me, I'm fucked up over Sarah."
Chris grabs his racket and steps to the other side of the court. "Let's see what you've got," he challenges.
The court's empty, lit only by the floodlights. It's late, the cool air sticking to my skin, the stands shrouded in shadows. Chris serves first, the ball slicing through the air with a whistle. I return with a messy backhand, and he fires back with a precise forehand. We move, sneakers squeaking on the pavement. Chris plays with control, opening the court, making me run. I respond as best I can: a cross-court shot that nearly hits the line, a desperate lob that forces him back. But I also fuck up, sending balls into the net or out of bounds.
The rally drags on, the sound of our shots echoing in the night. My breathing picks up, but for a moment, I'm not thinking about anything but the ball. Finally, exhausted, we drop our rackets and meet at the net. We shake hands, panting. Chris gives me that half-smirk, half-supportive grin.
"You're fucked, but marketable," he jokes.
I nod, feeling like, for a few minutes at least, I cleared my head.
Panting, he asks, "You giving up on the scholarship?"
"No fucking way," I say. "If I drop it, I'm out of Stanford. I'm not quitting."
"But you don't have Ethan anymore."
"Never had him," I admit, bitter. "Gotta find someone else, but it's a fucking mess."
"Hey, what about a dating app?" he suggests. "Like, a gay one."
"I'm not putting my face on some app," I snap.
"Just use a partial photo, something that doesn't show your face. Get some attention, you know? You might find someone useful."
He's got a point. I can't go around campus asking who wants to fake being my boyfriend for a scholarship. An app might be more discreet. It's a crazy idea, but it's all I've got left.
"Guess I'll try it," I say, shrugging.
Chris nods, and we stand in silence, staring at the empty court. For the first time in days, I feel a flicker of clarity. I don't know if this'll work, but I'm not giving up. Not after everything I've done. It's weird that he's the one suggesting it, considering how he is, but I guess breaking up with Sarah's got him a little off his game.
****
I've been tossing around the idea of downloading a dating app all morning. Is it a good idea or complete bullshit? No clue. But after overthinking it to death, I decided to take the plunge. I downloaded one, set up a profile, and uploaded a photo of myself in a shirt I never wear, showing just from the chin down. Discreet, I thought. No one will know it's me.
But the second I opened the app, I wanted to delete it. Profiles in little squares, some with no photo, others with emojis covering asses, and a bunch with bulges in underwear I didn't ask to see. What the fuck is this? What kind of shit did I get myself into?
Messages started flooding in. I opened a couple and nearly gagged. Pixelated butts, each uglier than the last. Then some guy sent me a pic of his dick, hairy as a fucking forest. The rest of the messages were more of the same: asses and more asses. The profile names were the worst: "420," "TopSpot," "Crushing." What the hell is "Crushing"? This is a circus.
I thought listening to Chris was the worst mistake of my life. What does he know about gay dating apps? And, between all the hideous asses, I couldn't help but think about Ethan's. Is that weird? His ass is actually nice, nothing like the horrors I'm seeing here. I don't know why the fuck I'm thinking about that, but it's true.
Every time a new message came in, my phone nearly flew out of my hands. The guys around me in the library noticed my panicked face, and I couldn't let them see my screen. There are already enough rumors about me on campus; this would make it worse.
I was about to delete the app when a normal message came through. Just a simple "hey," polite, no shitty photos. I breathe a sigh of relief and respond. We start chatting, and it flows surprisingly well. The guy's an Economics major on campus, seems decent. My dad would love him, for sure. I tell him the truth about why I'm on the app, and he asks for a photo. I say no, I'm not about that. So he suggests meeting in person.
His profile's not bad: shirtless, defined muscles, a gym-bro pose. Not too different from mine, I guess. With the right face, it could work… or so I want to believe.
We agree to meet at a bar off campus. I get ready, keeping it low-key: a navy linen shirt, subtle but sharp, light pants, polished loafers, and the watch my dad gave me, though I wear it grudgingly. Nothing over-the-top, just enough to not look like a mess.
As I head down the stairs of the Alpha Centauri house, I run into Ethan, who looks like he's coming from The Coffee House at Tresidder. Our eyes meet, and for the first time, I can't dodge him. My heart races, and I don't know if it's shame or the damn punch he landed. I want to say something, apologize, but he ignores me and walks past. No yelling, no dirty look, nothing. Just silence. That fucks me up more than I expected. What the hell does it mean? Ethan's a fucking enigma.
I shake it off, leave the house, and drive to the bar. The place is half-full, with soft music and the smell of beer and old wood. I sit near the bar, nervous, checking the guy's photo again: muscles, confident pose. I brace myself for some cocky but hot dude.
The door opens, someone waves at me, and my smile freezes. It's not a ripped student. It's a guy in his seventies, gray hair, beer belly, wearing a Hawaiian shirt covered in pineapples and pink flamingos. He walks toward me with a grin that screams "jackpot!"
"Noah?" he says, raising his hand.
I swallow hard, nearly choking. "Are you…?" I stammer.
"The guy from the app!" he says, his raspy voice bursting with enthusiasm. "How you doing, champ?"
A couple of tables glance over. I want to vanish. I try to stay calm, but the Hawaiian shirt and socks with sandals are killing me. "I… think there's been a mistake," I say, standing up awkwardly. "Gotta hit the bathroom, alright?"
"Perfect! I'll grab us some beers, kid," he says, throwing up a thumbs-up.
I speed-walk, dodging tables, pretending to head for the bathroom, and slip out the door. In the car, I slump in the seat and let out a hysterical laugh. What the fuck was that? The worst date of my life, hands down. I've got a story for Chris, but I'm not sure I'll ever tell him.
Back on campus, I drive by The Coffee House. It's closed, with a sign on the door looking for a new worker. I hope Ethan didn't lose his job because of me. That'd be one more thing to feel like shit about.
When I get to the Alpha Centauri house, I see Ethan's room light on. It's late, again. It's always on when I get back. What's he doing? Studying? Plotting how to hate me more? No idea.
I crash onto my bed, letting out a sigh that feels like it unloads the whole day. What the fuck happened? I'm officially traumatized. Dating apps are bullshit, and falling for that trap was stupid. It's not gonna work, not without Ethan.
Maybe I should try again with him. I don't know. All I know is I need to apologize. Get close, talk, fix this mess. If I can get him to trust me, maybe be friends, he might understand my situation and help me out. For now, I just want to sleep and forget this fucking day. Another one for the disaster list.
****
I'm still reeling from the stupidity of that bar date. That old guy in his pink flamingo shirt and socks with sandals has me fucking traumatized. The dating app was a colossal mistake, and listening to Chris was even worse. But what's really eating at me is Ethan. I can't shake the way he ignored me yesterday when we crossed paths in the house. His eyes slid over me like I was furniture, and I don't know why the fuck it bothers me so much. I want to apologize, fix things, even if it's just so he doesn't hate me. I don't know if it's about the scholarship or because, deep down, I feel like an asshole for how I treated him.
I'm in my room, still haunted by that disastrous date, when I hear Morgan yell from the living room: "Gentlemen, gather up!"
Morgan's back at Alpha Centauri after dealing with the dean over the hazing fiasco. It's a relief to have him here. The house feels more under control with him around, even if we all know he's bringing heavy news.
"Hey, Morgan, about time you showed up," Ryker says, the first to reach the room where we're all called.
"Yeah, you guys didn't make it easy," Morgan replies, his voice a mix of exhaustion and authority as we all pile in.
It's the first time I'm in a closed space with Ethan since he clocked me in his room. I glance at him from my corner, but he's hell-bent on ignoring me, like I'm invisible. I don't blame him, but fuck, it stings. His pride's like a brick wall, and I don't know how to break through.
"After everything that went down at the hazing, with half the campus running around covering their balls, the dean lost his shit," Morgan says, his tone serious. "He wanted to make an example out of the frat. I've spent these past few days negotiating with Dave to save our asses."
"Hold up," Nichols interrupts. "Hazing's normal on campus. People have done worse."
"The problem," Morgan snaps back, "is we did it out of season. Hazing's supposed to happen at the start of the semester, not halfway through. The window for dumb shit closed, but you guys reopened it."
"Don't act innocent, Morgan. You greenlit the hazing," Nichols shoots back, crossing his arms.
"Exactly why I was the one facing the dean," Morgan says firmly. "He wanted harsh penalties: suspensions, fines, a mark on the house's record."
He pauses, sighs, and we all go quiet, bracing for the worst.
"With Dave, we cut a deal," he continues. "No penalties if we do a public community service act."
The room erupts in murmurs. Great, now we're stuck with community service. Just what I needed.
"What do we have to do?" I ask, raising my voice.
"Great question, Whitman!" Morgan says, his eyes glinting with sarcasm. "The dean's exemplary punishment is… washing cars for the community."
"What?!" Joe yells, incredulous. "Since when is washing cars community service?"
The room fills with complaints and grumbling. Everyone's talking over each other until Morgan raises his voice: "Shut the hell up, guys!"
Silence hits like a hammer.
"Thank you," he says, with a sharp gesture. "It's community service because it saves people time and money. Especially those who can't afford a car wash."
"This is bullshit," Chris mutters, arms crossed.
"It's what we've got, deal with it," Morgan says flatly. "No more whining. We're all part of this house. We all signed off on the hazing. We all joined in that fucking madness. And we're all taking the consequences."
He pauses, scanning the room with a look that dares anyone to challenge him.
"Now, go to your rooms, put on your best swim trunks, and get back here. We're doing this."
He raises a hand before we move. "Oh, and one more thing: pick your partners. You're working in pairs to make this quick."
"I call Bennett!" I blurt out without thinking.
The room goes dead silent. All eyes are on me, and I feel the weight of their stares like at the party. Ethan, across the room, looks stunned, but not the good kind. His eyes narrow, and I can see the anger on his face. He didn't expect this. If I want to fix things, if I want any shot at him helping with the scholarship, I've got to start somewhere. Even if it's washing cars with him.
"Alright, Whitman, you're with Bennett," Morgan says. "The rest of you, pick your partners and get ready. Meet back here in an hour."
The room clears out, and Ethan shoots me a look that could melt steel before storming off. He doesn't say a word, but his silence screams louder than any insult. I'm left standing there, wondering if I just dug my own grave or if this is the first step to fixing the shit I caused.
I head to my room, grab some swim trunks, and change. As I do, I can't stop thinking about Ethan. It's not like I'm into him, not like that. It's just… fuck, I don't know. There's something about him, the way he moves, the way he glares at me with that disdain that makes me want to explain myself. I want him to see I'm not the asshole he thinks I am, even if I might be. But it's not just the scholarship. It's like I want him to see me as more than the idiot who pitched him a stupid deal.