“I wasn’t going to wait outside in the cold, dick, and it’s not my fault Marv can’t tell us apart,” Nicko replies, rising to my taunt, and I see two girls snicker. Our spats are a well-known play that is on at least once per week.
Shaking my head, I unlock the door to our room with my ID card, stopping in front of my closet to stuff my sweaty clothing into the hamper.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Xander,” Nate huffs right behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know he’s frowning. “You wouldn’t want to wait outside either.”
“It’d suck, but I would,” I argue. “Because that’s the rules,” I insist and flick on the light, holding the door open for my best friend but letting it fall closed on his copy.
Sadly, Hoff is quick enough to squeeze through.
I let my backpack slip from my shoulder to hunker down at the desk pushed under my bunk bed. There was plenty of time to study on the bus, but I slacked off. My own fault for allowing myself to get carried away by all the pre- and post-game hype, so I have to cram now instead of going out if I want to keep up my grades.
Not to mention planning the Bonham College LGBTQIA+ Alliance meeting next week. Now that I’m in my last year, I want to make sure my successor has a good start.
“You’ll see, it’ll be great! They always make the best cocktails,” Nate continues a conversation he must have started with his brother over text. He has stopped in front of his wardrobe to take out fresh clothes.
Nicko apparently doesn’t share the sentiment. He drags his feet around the bookshelves we use as an improvised room divider to Nate’s half, flopping down in his desk chair heavily enough to make the springs creak. “I don’t know,” his voice is a listless huff. “I’m not really in the mood to party.”
“Aw, come on. Next time you’ll turn it around!”
“Howif I’m not even playing?” Nicko hisses, and I roll my eyes, unable to further ignore their conversation.
“Then quit,” I throw over my shoulder, because seriously. Nicko’s dragging down the entire mood with his sour attitude.
I feel both twins looking at me but don’t acknowledge them until I have finished writing a nonsense sentence that I’ll have to delete again in a minute, but at least I’m making my point. Bythe time I’ve turned around, Nicko has rounded the bookshelves and is standing right behind me.
I answer his anger by getting up and adding insult to injury by towering over him. Even if the interview was years ago, I’m glad that I still have a good few inches of height advantage. Although, exactly like back then, it doesn’t intimidate Hoff, and he continues hissing like an angry cat: “What did you just say?”
“Nicko, he means–”
“I meant exactly what I said,” I insist, interrupting Nate. I don’t need him to speak for me. “If you’re not up to it, you should quit. No one’s waiting around for Nicholas van der Hoff to get his shit together.” Even if right now I am more interested in being brutal than honest, I do feel like this is the truth.
“Always the asshole,” Van der Hoff spits back at me then storms from our room. Nate just glares at me then runs after his brother.
I pull up my shoulders, regretting that I upset my best friend, but then turn back to my laptop where my unfinished paper is still waiting. I heave a sigh and try to focus on that instead of the conversation that’s happening right outside our room, where Nate managed to catch up to his brother.
“He didn’t mean that, come on.”
“Yes, I did!” I shout through the open door.
They exchange some more quiet words that I don’t catch and don’t care to. Eventually Nate returns, closing the door behind him. Ever the peace-maker, he stops next to my desk.
I manage to minutely delay his lecture until the end of another sentence. Then I look up, not bothering to feign innocence. I know Nate wants me to go easier on his brother. For us to get along even, although that feels like an impossible ask.
“Was that really necessary?”
I know the answer Nate wants, but I don’t feel like giving it, so I raise a shoulder, ignoring the question.
“What’s his deal anyway? I thought his knee was healed.” An injury like that is a nightmare none of us would admit to being scared of, but as far as I know from Nate, his brother recovered well since he tore his cruciate ligament last winter.
“He’s fine. He just…needs a little more time to fully get back to it,” Nate says, not sounding entirely sure about it himself, so I shrug again.
“If he’s not up to playing anymore he should quit,” I repeat and turn back once more to the work at hand. “Give someone else a chance, you know?”
Three sentences into my next paragraph I notice Nate is still standing there.
“Earth to Nate, didn’t you have plans tonight you wanted to talk me into?”