Next Door Hater (Love Under Lockdown)

“Not without effort,” Brenda said, taking it in her stride. ‘

Wasn’t that the truth. I’d tried to wear makeup once, and it took nearly two hours to put on even remotely right. Brenda had it down to an art form. She also had an impeccable fashion sense, her outfits sexy while also understated, and seeming to be a natural extension of her personality.

“Heading out?” I asked.

“Absolutely, it’s Friday, we are honor bound to party.”

“I don’t remember that in the student handbook.”

“You need to read between the lines. C’mon, I can give you a makeover.”

“Do we really have time?”

“Hey, don’t put yourself down, Elise, seriously. I won't stand for it. I’ll make time if you want to go.”

“Want yes, but I can’t. I need to -”

“Keep your grades up to stay in school, got it,” I couldn’t help but feel a tiny stab of guilt at the disappointment in her face.

“Have fun, though,” I offered weakly, “And hey, be careful, I heard they actually found a couple of cases of that Covid thing here.”

I hadn’t been too worried about the virus I’d heard whispers about in the news so far, but the last thing either of us needed was to get sick.

“Always.”

After she’d gone, I raided the dorm fridge to see what was left to help keep me awake. Snagging a tiny carton of Ben & Jerry’s and vowing to pay Brenda back later, I devoured the entire thing while watching the entire Cornetto Trilogy as research for my screenwriting project. And tried to ignore the nagging worry about the dreaded “Freshman Fifteen.”

I’d lost a lot of the pudge from high school, but I definitely teetered to a more “plus” size, but fortunately I’d grown into it a little bit and felt a little less ashamed of my curvier figure. But that didn’t mean I was eager to destroy it, either.

But worries about my weight quickly dissipated as I lost myself in the movies, and the cares of the real world fell away as my mind melted into the silver screen.

Chapter Two - Nate

It shook like a paint-mixer. The wagon had been old when my dad bought it and had only gotten more so. He kept it up by himself as best he could, trusting most mechanics about as far as he could throw them. He was no slouch in that way himself, but there was only so far you could go with used parts, both literally and figuratively.

I eased the roaring beast to a state of calm, smack between the yellow lines on the first try. The lot at the field was nearly empty. Only wayward students who couldn’t get spots near the dorm buildings or student bar. Those always went first.

Most of the guys held Saturday mornings as sacred time and would only get out of bed before lunch at gun point. Luckily, games were booked for the afternoon. I should have at least a few hours by a conservative estimate.

The glove box banged open on its loose joint, revealing my bounty. A first edition of Caging Skies I’d managed to find online for a steal. It was an auction site and there was no one else bidding. Probably because they had no idea what it was.

The paperback had stayed in nearly pristine condition despite being nearly as old as most of the freshmen. I was a bit older than most of them, going back to a first-year course, even though I was in second, going straight to college after graduation.

The team were very eager to have me and wanted me in uniform at the first possible opportunity. They were already third in the league, and with me in their jersey, most were agreed, they could finish first. The school was known for its passing game, and my high school team called me The Ghost, because I was seemingly impossible to hit, tackles flying about behind me like modern dancers. It was quite graceful, really, at least if I do say so myself.

I cleared nearly a hundred pages before the other guys showed up. Ditching the book back in the glovebox like I was trying to hide porn from my mom, I leapt from the driver’s seat into the March air and tried to get into character.

It was a tactic I’d learned young. Try to fit in and you’re less likely to get pounded. Even at that point, during my second year of college, I was smaller than most of the guys on the team. But I didn’t have to be big to be a running back. I had to be fast. Another talent, honed in my youth, before the diplomatic approach had occurred to me.

“Hey, Ghost,” Mike Lawson greeted.

If there was anyone who was entitled to call me something like ‘shrimp’ or even ‘short-ass’ it would be him. At seven-foot one, he was one of the biggest guys in the state, and most people looked tiny compared to him. As luck would have it, he was much more amiable than his shaved head and tattoos might let on.