The Freshman (College Years 1)

“Eighteen.”

“Oh, fucking shit,” I mutter under my breath, turning away from him. I press my hand against my forehead, rubbing it as the words rock through my brain on repeat.

A freshman. A freshman. A freshman.

“You have a problem with that?” he ask

s, sounding amused.

“I’m a junior.” I whirl on him once more. “I’m almost twenty-one.”

“And I’m almost nineteen.” He shrugs, like so?

“Thank God you’re not jailbait,” I fling at him.

He actually laughs, the asshole. “I thought it didn’t matter, since we’re only going to be friends. Sex just complicates things, remember?”

I hate it when people throw your words back at you, like Tony is doing to me now. Tony, the eighteen-year-old. The freshman.

What the actual fuck?

I feel a little betrayed, but I guess I shouldn’t. We never discussed what year we were in college. We just knew we went to the same one. And I’m assuming he didn’t realize I was a junior, just like I didn’t know he was a freshman.

“Does it really bother you that badly—that I’m younger than you?” he asks, his question interrupting my thoughts.

I don’t know how to feel about it. “Did you know I was older?”

“No, but I don’t care. Age is nothing but a number.”

He’s so nonchalant. Like no big deal. While I’m the one over here freaking out, and while I don’t usually freak out about a lot of things, for some reason, this is blowing my mind. Why, I don’t know. There’s only a two-year difference between us, and in the scheme of life, two years isn’t much.

But I can only imagine what Gracie will say to me when she finds out the mystery boy from Saturday night is only eighteen. He’s a baby. Barely out of high school.

I blatantly scan him from head to toe, not really giving a crap how I look doing it. He certainly doesn’t look barely out of high school, that’s for damn sure. Glancing over at his group of friends who have somehow shifted closer to us, I ask, “Did you go to high school with those guys?”

“Some of them,” he answers, appearing completely unruffled by my freak out, which I can reluctantly appreciate.

“And are they all freshmen too?”

“Yeah, actually, they are. Hey, get over here,” he calls to them and they quickly approach us, a bunch of swaggering, testosterone-filled man-boys with big smiles on their faces, their gazes trained on me.

Every single one of them is attractive. It’s distressing how good looking they are. Girls walking past them are openly staring. One of the guys in particular pulls from the group and chases after a girl, stopping her a few feet away so they can chat, and it is obvious he’s flirting with her.

“Guys, this is Hayden,” Tony announces to them. I half expect him to call me his girlfriend—ugh, no—or claim I’m off-limits to them, like some sort of caveman, but thankfully, he says none of that. “Hayden, these are my friends.”

I smile. Wave. “Hi,” I say weakly, overwhelmed in their presence.

They all crowd around us, emanating that male confidence athletes tend to give off. You’ve seen them before, all throughout high school, and they’re the same in college too. They strut around campus as if they own the place, nodding and smiling at everyone as they pass by. These guys are young and cocky and the world just falls at their feet, I’m sure.

“You Tony’s girl?” one of them asks me, shaking back his shaggy blond hair.

“Not my girl. She’s just a friend,” Tony corrects, answering for me.

I glare at him, annoyed he said that. I can speak for myself.

“Well, well, well. That means she’s fair game.” He steps forward, straight toward me, extending his hand. “I’m Jackson.”

“Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand, dazzled by Jackson’s smile. It’s big and white and downright blinding.