The carpet in the hallway on the 2nd floor of Hadley Hall was probably a crisp, royal navy at some point. But after years under the wear and tear and debauchery of the 19-20 year old boys that were relegated here, it was reduced to a frayed, faded grey.

Fall athletes got to move in early (even though I wasn't officially a fall athlete yet, a mere technicality), but I seemed to be the only one that lived on this floor, the silence eerie despite the warm early afternoon light that filtered through the windows that flanked each end of the hallway.

Because I was still resolving my beef with the universe, my dorm room was the last one at the end of the hallway, and there were questionable burn marks that scorched the spot where the carpet met the bottom of the door. I groaned as I shifted my duffle bags off my shoulder and fumbled around my Nike shorts for my keys. My dad was driving up the rest of my stuff over the weekend, but being the stubborn little shit that I had been and probably always would be, I insisted on taking most of it to Vermont myself. Maybe in my own weird twisted form of self-preservation, I wanted to prove I could handle it alone. I just wasn't sure who needed more convincing - my parents, or me.

With shaking hands I retrieved the keys, only to drop them to the dirty carpet with a clang.

"Fuck me," I grumbled, bending over to pick them up and feeling my knee pop and crack with even the slightest bits of awkward movement. Even though it had been two years since my injury, my doctor said it would probably do that for the rest of my life. My knee never fully healed - my body had simply adjusted to it, and I was forced to follow suit.

I stood up with a groan, and as I moved to slot the key into the door, it flung open itself, revealing a shorter, albeit fit guy with dark hair even more unruly than mine. He pushed the frames of his round glasses up the bridge of his nose and studied me with intensely dark eyes.

"Uh..." I glanced over at the numbers printed on the wall beside the door. 234. "Do I have the wrong room?" I asked, even though I knew I didn't.

"Dallas Gunther," he nodded. It wasn't a question - it was an affirmation, and it made me squirm in my sneakers. I wished on every god damn star and every 11:11 I'd catch on the clock that my reputation wouldn't precede me. The universe was obviously very adamant against settling that aforementioned beef.

"Fairfield Connecticut, transfer from New Haven Community College, 3.9 GPA, finance major, preferred walk-on for the Middlebury Panthers football team."

I scoffed, trying to hide my shock. He eyed me again, but not in a way that was malicious or judgmental. The way I was used to people looking at me. Instead, it was almost like he was just curious to see how I'd react. The problem was I didn't have much energy to react at all.

I sighed and shook my head. "If I confirm this information, will you let me into my god damn room?"

He stepped aside immediately, allowing me to pass. I squeezed through the doorway with my bags precariously balanced on my shoulder and ambled over to the one empty bed on the right side of the room, dropping them onto the slippery plastic mattress with a huff.

He retreated back to the desk on his side of the room, which seemed to house the overflow of books that he had stacked neatly on his already made bed.

"I take it you're my roommate Quinn then," I said as I started to unpack some of my workout clothes I'd thrown into my duffle. "Sorry if I didn't like, memorize your transcript or whatever."

I kept my back to him, but I heard him swivel around in his desk chair with a creak.

"Quinn Ramierez, Burlington public school education, 4.0 GPA, chem major." He recited his own information to me the same way he'd said my own, bored and monotone like a computer just spitting out data.

I finally whirled around to face him, where he had fully turned his body in the chair and hung his arms over the back of it, perched like a gargoyle overlooking Notre Dame.

"So are you a student-athlete then or...?" I led with an obvious question - anything to get him to stop blankly staring at me.

"No, I'm pre-med," he replied, still bored and still perched. "I need access to the chem lab for my summer classes."

"Right," I nodded and turned away, but I still felt his stare sear through the back of my t-shirt. My mom had insisted she fold my clothes when she helped me pack, but most of them ended up getting tossed in haphazardly anyway. I had a system of organized chaos like I always did, but god I just fucking hated folding clothes.

"Do you like eggs?"

Holding back a groan, I turned again to face him, even if it was just to confirm I hadn't been hearing all the ridiculous things that had come out of his mouth this entire time. From the way he blankly stared at me again, waiting for an answer, I unfortunately was not experiencing a complete lapse in mental clarity, and this was in fact the person I was about to live with for the next nine months.

"Sure," I sighed out. "I guess so."

"Do you want to go get eggs?" he asked. "The campus diner is 24/7."

"Uh...no I'm good," I replied. I tried to offer him some semblance of a smile to show him I wasn't entirely indecent, just fucking tired. "I just need to get settled, unpack and shit."

Quinn nodded as he finally rose from his perch, swiping his hoodie off of the corner of his bed and walking out without another word.

When I heard the door click shut behind me, I reached for my phone and typed up a text to the only person who had the ability to rescue me from this. However, having the ability to rescue me and actually doing it were completely separate concepts - one that I wasn't sure she'd entertain. In fact, watching me suffer was probably more entertaining to her, but I sent the text anyway.

DALLAS GUNTHER: my roommate is weird. he's already here, pre-med major. asked me about eggs.

DALLAS GUNTHER: get help

I should have considered making my bed since all I wanted to do was collapse into it, but I settled for sitting on the mattress and reading through Middlebury's playbook one more time, as if I wasn't going to run circles around these NESCAC hooligans, even with my reconstructed knee.

CHANDLER ENGLAND: we're not doing get help.

✗ ✗ ✗

did you miss dallas? bc i did. like...every damn day.

i will neither confirm nor deny anything, other than *lads lads lads*