"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Joe blurts, his voice bouncing off my room's walls.
The shock on his face is so clear it's like I just told him I'm jumping off the roof with a bedsheet parachute. His eyes are wide as saucers, and he leans forward in the chair, hands flailing like he's trying to grab the idea out of the air. Chris, slouched on a couch across the coffee table—littered with water glasses and a half-eaten bowl of nachos—freezes, a glass halfway to his mouth, staring at me like I just confessed to planning to steal Leland Stanford's bust.
"So you're gonna pretend to be gay just for the scholarship?" Chris's voice drips with disbelief, like he's watching a heist unfold in real time. He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving a messy strand on his forehead, his eyes drilling into me from the corner.
I'm not joking, I tell myself, jaw tight as I stare at the bourbon in my hand, the amber liquid glinting under the lamp's light. This is serious. It's the only damn move I've got to crawl out of this mess. My dad killed my credit cards, my trust fund's farther away than the moon, and every time I call the bank, I get the same bullshit: "We can't release the funds until the new term extension." Guess who arranged that using my name as a reference? My own father, that son of a bitch. Worst part is, I'm trapped. Suing him would be like cutting off my leg—I'd lose what little I've got left. I've got the right to file a claim, sure, but with what? I don't have a dime for a lawyer. Even if I wanted to—and believe me, I don't—I couldn't. The family lawyer would never take my side against him.
I shake my head to shove those thoughts away, the echo of my last bank call still hammering me. This morning, after storming out of Sterling's office in Montag Hall, I tried every trick to free what's rightfully mine. But it was like talking to a brick wall. My dad's buddies with the bank manager, and that's a hurdle the size of Mount Diablo. We don't live in the most honest country, and without cash for a lawyer, I'm fucked. So I'm banking on this idea I cooked up: pretend to be gay to snag the Diversity and Inclusion scholarship. It's my only shot to outplay my dad. I'm sure if I can cover my expenses this semester, he'll cave and release the funds. It's a risk, but I'm not groveling to let him dictate my future.
"That's right, gentlemen," I say to Joe and Chris, leaning back on the couch, the soft fabric creaking under me as I swirl the bourbon. "It's all I've got, even if I don't have a fucking clue where to start."
"Whoa, for real?" Joe leans forward, nearly knocking the nacho bowl off the table, his hands waving with excitement. "That's insane! And will anyone even buy it? Come on, Noah, you're not exactly the most flamboyant guy on the planet. You hook up with tons of girls—everyone on campus knows it. Who's gonna believe you're suddenly gay? What'll the Delta girls think when they see you with a guy or hear you're claiming you're gay?"
"I'm not gonna be with guys," I say, lowering my voice, leaning in to make it clear. "I've got zero intention of actually getting involved with men, let alone a bunch of them."
"So what's the plan?" Chris asks, taking a sip of water and stretching his legs onto the coffee table, making a couple of empty glasses wobble.
"Well, I'm not sure yet, still figuring it out," I admit, running a hand through my hair, feeling the messy strands I haven't bothered to comb today.
"You've gotta have some idea," Chris presses, raising an eyebrow, his tone a mix of curiosity and skepticism as he sinks deeper into the couch.
"I was thinking I could find someone to go along with it," I say after a moment, staring at the bourbon glass like it's etched with answers. "Someone willing to play the part."
"In other words, you need a boyfriend," Joe says, thoughtful, with a smile I can't tell is mocking or supportive, leaning against the wall where an indie band poster hangs perfectly aligned. "Guess it won't be too hard. I mean, you're not bad-looking."
"You don't say?" I shoot him a look, raising an eyebrow, letting a bit of my usual arrogance slip out, because, fuck, I'm gorgeous.
"Nope. You're Noah Whitman, man. Blond, blue eyes, gym body," Joe says, laughing, pointing at me. "Bet there's guys who'd date you, even if it's a lie."
He's right, and I know it. With my track record, finding someone to play along shouldn't be hard. But it's not that simple. It's not just about grabbing any guy and calling it a day. It's gotta be perfect, or this'll crumble like a house of cards.
"Hang on," Chris cuts in, sitting up, the couch creaking. "To get the scholarship, you'd have to come out publicly… from a closet you're not even in. That's messed up on its own, Noah. And what about the rest of campus? Everyone's gotta buy that you're gay for this to work. You ready for that? The looks, the rumors, the digs?"
"Yeah, I know," I say firmly, though my stomach twists in a knot I won't admit. "I know it's crazy, but I don't have a choice. I'm not crawling back to my dad to let him do whatever he wants with me. No way. I'm not letting him control my life."
"Think about it," Chris says, more serious now, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at me like he's trying to burn the words into my skull. "You'll look gay to all the girls you've had fun with. What'll they think? That you're suddenly with a guy after hooking up with them last week." He lowers his voice, like mentioning his girlfriend's a minefield. "You know how Delta is. Those girls talk, Noah. This'll be a circus."
I sigh, gripping the glass till the cold bites my fingers. He's right, and it pisses me off. But there's no turning back. "It's my only shot," I say, looking at both of them, my voice steadier than I feel. "It's all I can do."
"Man, this is like a shitty Hollywood movie," Joe says, laughing as he scratches the back of his neck, lightening the mood. "But, hey, if you're doing this, do it right. You need a solid plan. Got anyone in mind?"
"Not yet," I admit, shrugging. "But I'll find someone. Someone openly gay, who doesn't clash with me and gets that this is pure theater, not trying to suck my dick."
"Gonna be tough finding someone who doesn't take it seriously," Chris says, shaking his head. "This isn't like borrowing notes. You're asking a guy to pretend to be your boyfriend. That's… weird."
"Weird is being broke and begging my dad," I snap, my voice sharp. "I'll take weird over giving up."
Joe cracks up, nearly spilling the nachos. "Fuck, Noah, that was poetic. Put it on a T-shirt."
"Or your tombstone when this blows up," Chris adds, a hint of a smile breaking through, like he can't help admiring my balls despite everything.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket, slicing through the conversation like a knife. I signal Joe and Chris to hold on as I answer. It's my mom. "Hey, Mom," I say, letting out a sigh, the day's weight settling back into my chest.
"Hey, honey," she replies, her voice soft but heavy with worry, a tone I haven't heard in a while. "Noah, I heard about what happened with your dad this morning. I also saw him talking to his bank friend, the one handling your trust fund. What are you going to do? How could you lie to him for a year and a half? What happened to you?"
"Mom, listen," I say, trying to keep my cool as I run a hand through my hair, strands sticking to my sweaty fingers. "Dad's obsessed with me studying what he wants, and no, I'm not doing it. I didn't lie, I just… didn't tell him. You've known how I am since I was a kid: I love exploring, being outside, researching. Remember when they couldn't drag me out of the garden because I was hunting bugs? Being stuck in an office, running his company, isn't me, and you know it. I don't know if you're siding with him or me."
"Noah, please," she cuts in, her sigh a mix of exhaustion and love. "I don't agree with what your dad's doing, but I don't know if I can support you on this either. I get that you have your own goals, and that's fine. But you lied to him for a year and a half, honey. That's serious. And you know you can't do much against him, right? He can't take your trust fund, but he'll sure as hell put up roadblocks so you can't touch it for a while, at least until next semester. So tell me: how are you paying tuition?"
"I don't know yet," I admit, a knot tightening in my gut, staring out my room's window where the afternoon sun paints the campus trees gold. "But I'll figure it out. Actually, I've got an idea, but I can't tell you now."
"Listen, Noah," she says, lowering her voice like she's worried someone's eavesdropping. "I can't give you money for tuition. Your dad's watching all the accounts. If he sees a big transfer to yours, he'll know it was me, and things will get worse. But I can send you something to keep you going on campus. Nothing more, nothing less."
Hearing Marta Stoneheard's words, I feel a strange relief, like someone just lifted a rock off my chest. Despite the distance we've had since the mess with my dad, she still cares. It's been a while since I heard her sound so worried about something that matters to me. I've always been independent… well, independent with a steady flow of family cash. Now that I've got nothing, her offer to help, even just to keep my car running, feels a little weird. But I'm not in a position to say no.
"Thanks, Mom," I say, my tone softer, leaning against the wall, the cool plaster against my back. "I'll sort this out, I promise. You know I will."
"You better, son," she says, a hint of humor breaking through that pulls a half-smile from me. "Because I know you and your ego won't handle being broke for long. Good luck with that… and with your dad."
"Love you, Mom." I hang up.
I stare at the phone for a second, a mix of relief and pressure settling in. Talking to her was a breather, but also a reminder of how fucked I am. I'm not letting my dad win this game.
"Hey, Noah!" Joe's voice booms from the hallway, a shout that rattles the doorframe. "What're you doing? Get down here!"
I sigh, pocket my phone, and stand, the couch creaking with me. Without overthinking, I follow Joe, my mind spinning with my crazy plan: find a guy to fake being my boyfriend, someone openly gay, hot, and who won't get too clever. This is gonna be a disaster, but I'm not giving up.
****
I head downstairs to the main room of the Alpha Centauri house and walk into organized chaos: a big crowd of students circling a line of pledges standing like soldiers at a parade. The room smells of polished wood and a hint of citrus air freshener someone must've sprayed to keep up appearances. The walls are decked with photos of brothers at past events, a couple of frat flags, and a massive TV nobody uses because we're always too busy. Then it hits me: shit, the hazing. I'm on the damn pledge committee, so I hustle to join Joe and the others, dodging a couple of brothers joking and shoulder-checking like it's a football game.
"Alright, pledges, listen up," Jake, the vice president, says, planting himself at the front with an authority straight out of a movie. The chatter dies instantly, only the creak of the wooden floor under restless feet breaking the silence.
"As you know, we're mid-semester," Jake goes on, arms crossed, his voice booming through the room. "This recruitment ceremony's unusual, but after the shitshow two months ago, here we are. Any questions?"
Dead silence. The pledges glance at each other, tense, like they're waiting for a lifeline. Some are pale, others try to look brave, but their stiff shoulders give away their nerves.
"Perfect, let's move on," Jake says with a smile I can't tell is encouraging or sadistic. "With midterms and no time, we're cutting selection to one challenge."
He pauses, letting the murmurs build. The pledges look relieved, like they think this'll be a cakewalk. They're so wrong.
"One challenge," Miles, another committee guy, cuts in, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leans against a table with water glasses and a bowl of chips. "Only the top six make it into the brotherhood."
"Easy, don't get too nervous," I jump in, stepping forward with my best grin. "I'll break it down for you."
"Nothing illegal," Morgan, the president, interrupts, arms crossed with that smug smile that says, "I know you're gonna do something dumb."
"Obviously, nothing illegal," I shoot back, winking to piss him off, though inside I'm calculating how not to screw this up. "The challenge is simple: you run around campus, from White Plaza to the Dish and back to the house. First six to make it are Alpha Centauri brothers."
The murmurs grow, but the pledges sigh, like they think it's too easy. Big mistake.
"Hold up!" Joe cuts in, raising a hand with a flair that almost makes me laugh, his silhouette sharp against the window overlooking the pristine front lawn. "Don't get ahead of yourselves, boys, we're not done."
Every eye locks on him, the air thick with anticipation.
"The challenge is one full lap around campus and back here," Joe says, savoring each word, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "But… you'll do it naked."
Laughter erupts from the brothers. I cover my mouth to keep from cracking up, the sound echoing through the room. The pledges stare at each other, stunned, some pale, others a mix of disbelief and panic.
"Technically, free expression's sacred at Stanford," I add, putting on my best serious face, though it's hard to keep it together. "And physical expression counts. So, to keep us out of trouble, we'll write messages on your backs, like a protest. Stuff like 'Freedom for All' or 'Stanford Without Prejudice.' That way, if the dean catches wind, we've got a cover. And because we care about you, we'll let you wear one thing… your shoes, so you don't wreck your feet."
The murmurs swell, some pledges laughing nervously, others looking ready to bolt. Morgan nods, pleased with the idea, his arms crossed like a general's.
"Listen up," I say, raising my voice to cut through the noise. "No one's forcing you to be here. You came on your own. If you wanna leave, now's the time. Before, during, or after the race, you can walk. No one'll judge you… well, maybe a little, but it's your call."
I pause, letting it sink in, then give the order: "Now, strip."
The room explodes in shouts and cheers from the brothers and the girls hanging with us. The pledges, tense, start undressing. Some do it with confidence, others try to cover themselves, clumsy, like that'll save them. And honestly, a few are in damn good shape. Ripped abs, defined arms. Not a bad show, especially for the girls.
Then one guy catches my eye. He's in the right corner, clearly uncomfortable, shoulders stiff, staring at the floor. But he pulls off his shirt, revealing a chiseled torso I didn't expect. Dark hair, a bit long, and green eyes that shine even under the room's lights. I think his name's Ethan. I recognize him from that campus collision when he yelled at me like I was the asshole. Pretty sure we've got a class together, though I'm not certain. He's hot, I won't lie. He's got that vibe of a guy who doesn't quit, even if he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
"Nice ass," I say, strolling over with a cocky grin as he drops his pants. It's not a lie he's in great shape for a guy.
He tenses instantly, cheeks flaring red, and shoots me a look that's pure venom. I wink, just to mess with him more, and for a second, I swear he's about to deck me. But there's something in that intensity, the way he clenches his jaw, that cracks me up. I'm not sure he'll survive the race—he looks more nervous than a deer in headlights. But if he does, screwing with him might be my new hobby.
"Come on, relax," I say, clapping a hand on another pledge's shoulder, feeling the tension under his skin. "It's not a big deal. Just run and don't look back."