Page 5 of Our Secret Moments

“Why not?”

“Because she’s—” I sigh. Really? What reason do I have to defend it? Cat can date who she wants. I don't care. Ishouldn’tcare. Still, I hear myself say, “She’s unavailable.”

“Oh, because she’s only available for you, right?” Wes says, bumping his shoulder into mine. I grumble in response, tearing open a breakfast bar from my pocket.

“I get it,” he says easily, trying to sound serious, but it’s rare anything remotely serious exits this guy's mouth. “You spend ten minutes in a closet together and now you’re exclusive. Girls love it when a guy’s clingy.”

“We’re not– She’s not–” How did I manage to get myself in this situation again? The teasing had stopped for a few months and of course we ended up at the same party last night, making my fantasies press replay in my mind all over again. “Just drop it, okay?”

“Okay,dad,” Wes mumbles.

As one of the only responsible people on the football team, I’ve happily acquired the role as the dad. I’m not usually such a grump. I love to hang out and do any stupid ritual that the boys come up with for a fun night, but I also know where to draw the line.

I just didn’t expect that title to be extended to my dorm life back on campus too. I share one of the best dorms in Drayton, located on the South, right next to the football pitch and the training facilities.

It’s a perfect walking distance to where I need to be as well as to the one class I actually take which is in modern literature studies. Our building's vending machine is stocked at the end of the hall, the cafeteria is a five minute walk away and I get the best view from my window. I keep most of the guys out of trouble, being the designated driver, but sometimes they get themselves into shit even I can't help them with.

What’s not perfect are my two roommates. I’ve known Wes my whole life. His family has lived across the street from my parents' house before my sister and I were born. While Nora and I were born in October, Wes was born the next summer and we spent every summer after that growing up together running under sprinklers, walking back from school with our hands and faces sticky and spending nights in the treehouse that our dads built. He’s a pain in my ass every day, but he’s also my best friend and the best lineman for the Titans.

Archer Elliot is a lot more bearable. Slightly terrifying, but bearable. I didn’t know about Archer’s existence until the day we moved in. He’s completely covered in tats and he’s huge. Since he moved in, he’s been quiet and slightly distant. I can’t complain, though. He cleans up after himself and he never brings girls over, unlike Wes. If we ever need anything, he’s there, but he doesn’t always like to make his presence known.

Which is why it’s pretty easy to ignore him as I work my way around the kitchen. He’s sitting on the couch in the small lounging area reading a newspaper. What college student sits and reads a newspaper on a Friday morning?

The kitchen in our dorm – if you can even call it that – is fucking tiny. It barely holds the basic appliances as well as a sandwich maker that my parents got me for Christmas and a blender. The noise usually disrupts everybody out of their bed and ends up with me sending an email to our dorm adviser. The main thing is, it’s able to handle my often chaotic baking.

Wes emerges from the bathroom after our run, a towel wrapped around his waist, still humming along to some theatre soundtrack. I pull the cookies out of the oven, resting them on top of the stove.

I frown at them, looking at the brunt mess I made. At least the smoke alarm hasn’t gone off yet.Little progress is stillprogress,I remind myself, shrugging off my red mittens and throwing them next to the cooling wrack.

My sister got them for me as a gift for winning last year's football season and they always come in handy. They’ve got little white hearts on them and when she threw them at me she said, “If you can’t bake, you can at least look cute doing it.”

“Jesus, fuck. What is that smell?” Wes asks, scrunching his nose up.

“Connor is cooking,” Archer says, his voice low and gruff from the couch.

“That explains it,” Wes says, nodding.

“Connor is right here, you imbeciles,” I say.

“Connor is also referring to himself in third person,” Archer grumbles.

“And I’m baking, not cooking. There’s a difference,” I say, ignoring him.

“Right, one of them you’re actually slightly better at and the other…” He peers over at the tray of cookies. “...Not so much.”

How in the hell did I fuck up cookies so badly? I needed something to bring with me to my parents house for dinner later and I was sure I could pull them off.

I scrape one off the tray, throwing a chunk into my mouth. It takes like charcoal, but I smile through it, holding the tray out to Wes as he studies them suspiciously. I can’t show him any weakness. I might not be the best baker, but if this was a competition, I’d definitely win a participation award.

I’ve always loved making things from scratch, just to see what I could come up with. It started with mud pies in the backyard of my parents house, to a lemon cake I tried to make my mom for Mother’s Day. Both were as terrible as each other, but it’s the thought that counts.

“I mean, whatarethey supposed to be?” he asks, his voice full of child-like wonder as he prods at one. You’d expect it tobe gooey, that the cookie would almost fold in on itself at the pressure, but it doesn’t move. I pick up a piece and shove it into his mouth as he stumbles a little, gripping onto his towel.

I swallow the edible death eventually as Wes grimaces around a mouthful. “Just eat it, you idiot.”

“I could,” he muffles, “Weally youse some miwlk wif phat.”

His chest is heaving as if chewing it is a workout. I can’t help but smile as I move into the fridge to pull out a carton of milk and pick up a glass from the cabinet. I turn back around, milk in hand as Wes smiles that mischievous grin at me.

---