The Plight Before Christmas(115)

Troy is a wide receiver for the Rangers and was the first to answer my ad for a roommate. In the beginning, I considered myself lucky because he secured the invites to said parties and attracted attention of the female sort. The decision to let him have a room has turned out to be both a blessing and a curse. My other roommate, Lance, rarely comes out of his room, and we can never tell if he’s home because he doesn’t drive. As if reading my mind, Troy speaks up.

“Is Lance asleep in there?”

I lift a shoulder. “No clue. He’s on your team, not mine. You don’t talk to him?”

“Not really,” Troy says. “He hangs with a different crowd.”

Kevin speaks up next. “He’s always hanging out at that coffee shop with Dorman, but at home, he’s like the dude in…what’s that movie?”

“No idea,” I say, knowing damn well what movie he’s referring to.

“Half Baked,” Troy supplies.

“Yep, that’s the one,” Kevin says with a toothy grin. “Guy’s either eating or asleep.”

“So far he’s quiet and pays his rent on time,” I say, tossing a look at Troy, who drops the side of his mouth in a frown. “I don’t give a shit what he does in that room.”

“I told you I’d get you next week,” Troy mumbles clicking his fob to unlock his truck before tossing his backpack onto the seat behind him. “I did spot a blonde creeping out of his room last Saturday.”

Once inside Troy’s king cab, we collectively stare up at the dark window in curious silence.

Troy’s the first to break it. “It is kind of creepy how he’s always sleeping.”

Kevin spouts off pensively from behind us. “Maybe he’s got necrophilia.”

Troy and I burst out laughing.

“What?” Kevin leans in from the back seat, his mammoth hands gripping our headrests. “That shit is real. I know someone who has it.”

“He wouldn’t be able to play if he had narcolepsy, dumbass,” Troy corrects for the both of us. “Necrophilia means sleeps with the dead.”

“Wouldn’t that just mean he’s dead too?”

“No dude, as in has sex with dead people,” Troy states with an exaggerated sigh. “Seriously, Kev, how did you get into this school?”

“Eat shit, Jenner. I just mispronounced it, that’s all.”

“Do yourself a favor and read a book, read several,” Troy advises, starting the truck. “Or Google. Just as educational, less time-consuming.”

I groan, in protest. “Yes, because the internet is nothing if not factual.”

“Still more of an education for him,” Troy mutters, hitching a thumb behind him. That’s the thing about Troy, he’s not a typical jock, he doesn’t really fit the stereotype like the company he keeps. He’s a decent guy. We get along. We talk about more than sports and women. On most levels, he can get deep. He has the looks, the king cab, and he’s built like an ax-wielding Viking ancestor. I have a little respect for him, and most days I don’t mind being the guy on the right.

Everyone has a Troy, very few are lucky enough to be Troy. But Troy himself will tell you he doesn’t have it so great. With his status comes a shitload of pressure. I might admire the amount of attention he gets, but I don’t necessarily want it for myself. I’ve seen what that pressure does to him from time to time, and it’s not pretty. At times, he drinks too much and spends the rest of it playing catch up on his studies. He’s not a frat guy either, and he does the work along with the play. But as I study him when he pulls away from the curb, I can’t help but wonder how good it must feel to be king.