It was a Thursday night. Which meant exactly one thing on the third floor of Highland’s oldest, thinnest-walled residential building:
Game Night.
Tyler, Diego, and Sam — my three favorite disasters — had claimed Room 216 every Thursday since September. The rules were simple: no girls, no studying, no feelings. Just FIFA, pizza, and enough beer to make Diego emotional about his abuela.
I was not invited.
This was, in my professional opinion, a mistake.
I knew it was Game Night because I could hear them. The bass from the TV vibrated through the floor. Someone — probably Tyler — was trash-talking in a volume that suggested he believed he was in a stadium. Diego was laughing in that way that means he was losing. Sam was making the concentrated “I am calculating” noises he always made when he was one goal away from victory.
It was 10:47 PM. Quiet hours started at 11.
I had approximately thirteen minutes.
I was in my room, having just come back from practice, still in my soccer kit — jersey, shorts, socks, the full uniform. My hair was damp. My skin still smelled like the locker room. I looked in the mirror and thought: this is the look.
Not the “I’m going to seduce three guys” look. Just the “I exist confidently and it’s everyone else’s problem” look. There’s a difference. The first is try-hard. The second is art.
I walked to Room 216.
The door was open. Of course it was open. It was always open during Game Night because Tyler believed that closing doors was “energy-blocking” and Diego believed that fresh air was “good for the vibes” and Sam didn’t have an opinion because Sam never had opinions until after the fact.
I stopped in the doorway.
Inside: Tyler was sprawled on the couch in nothing but basketball shorts, controller in hand, twists tied back, entirely focused on the screen. Diego was on the floor against the couch, also shirtless, also in shorts, holding a slice of pizza in one hand and a controller in the other, cheese dangling precariously. Sam was in the gaming chair, glasses on, Naruto t-shirt — wait, no, he’d taken the shirt off at some point, because Sam had a rule that shirts were “restrictive during competitive play” — and he was leaning forward with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.
Three shirtless guys. One pizza. Three controllers. Zero awareness.
I leaned against the doorframe.
“Hey boys,” I said.
Three heads turned. Three pairs of eyes went wide. Three brains, in three different skulls, simultaneously short-circuited.
Tyler’s character on screen got scored on. He didn’t notice.
Diego’s pizza slice fell. He didn’t notice.
Sam’s controller slipped from his hand and hit the floor. He didn’t notice.
“Hey,” Tyler said. His voice was approximately two octaves higher than normal.
“Hey,” Diego said. He was staring at my midriff. Not in a creepy way. In a my brain has stopped processing language way.
“Hey,” Sam said. He pushed his glasses up his nose. They were fogged. He pushed them up again. They were still fogged. He gave up.
“You guys don’t mind if I hang out, do you?” I asked, walking in without waiting for an answer.
“No,” Tyler said.
“We don’t,” Diego said.
“Please,” Sam said.
I paused. Looked at Sam. He was blushing so hard his ears were glowing.
“Please what, Sam.”
“Please hang out.” He swallowed. “With us.”
I smiled. The kind of smile that says I know exactly what I’m doing and I’m going to do it and you’re all going to let me because you can’t help it.
“Cool,” I said.
I walked over to the couch. Tyler scooted over without being asked. I sat between Tyler and the armrest, close enough that my shoulder touched his. I could feel him tense up. I could feel the exact moment he realized that my shoulder was touching his bare shoulder and that he was not going to move away.
Diego was watching me from the floor. I looked down at him. He looked up at me. We made eye contact. He looked away first.
Score: me.
Sam was still in the gaming chair, frozen, controller forgotten on the floor. I looked at him. He looked at me. I tilted my head.
“You gonna play, Sam?”
“I—uh—I was—I—”
“Pause the game,” Tyler said suddenly.
“What?”
“Pause the game, Diego.”
Diego fumbled for the controller. Hit pause. The TV screen froze mid-play, a FIFA player trapped mid-kick.
“Why did we pause the game,” Sam asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Tyler looked at me. I looked at Tyler. Tyler looked back at the TV.
“Because,” Tyler said carefully, “we have a guest.”
I leaned back on the couch. Stretched. My jersey rode up just a little. All three pairs of eyes tracked the movement like they were watching a tennis match.
“So,” I said. “What were we talking about?”
“We weren’t talking about anything,” Tyler said.
“We were playing FIFA,” Diego said.
“We were having a good time,” Sam said, and there was something almost sad in his voice, like he was mourning the FIFA game that would never be completed.
“You can still have a good time,” I said.
Silence.
Three guys. One couch. Zero good ideas.
I reached over and picked up Diego’s abandoned pizza slice from the coffee table. Took a bite. Diego watched me eat his pizza like I had just committed a crime against humanity and he was the arresting officer.
“This is good,” I said.
“It’s—yeah—it’s—”
“Diego, you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look flushed.”
“I’m fine.”
Tyler cleared his throat. “You want a beer?”
“I’d love a beer.”
Tyler stood up. Too fast. He wobbled. He caught himself on the coffee table. He went to the mini-fridge. He came back with a beer. He handed it to me. Our fingers touched. He pulled his hand back like he’d been shocked.
I popped the tab. Took a sip. Looked at all three of them.
“What,” I said.
“Nothing,” Tyler said.
“Nothing,” Diego said.
“Nothing,” Sam said.
They were all staring at me. Not in a creepy way. In a we are three grown men who have never been this close to a pretty boy in a soccer jersey and we don’t know what to do with our hands way.
I took another sip of beer. Set it on the table. Stood up.
Three pairs of eyes tracked me like I was a sunset.
“I’m gonna use your bathroom,” I said.
“Okay,” Tyler said.
“The—yeah—go ahead—” Diego said.
“It’s down the hall on the left,” Sam said helpfully, as if I didn’t live thirty feet away.
“Thanks, Sam.”
I walked past them. Close enough that my arm brushed Tyler’s shoulder. Close enough that Diego had to tilt his head back to follow me. Close enough that Sam’s glasses fogged up again and he had to take them off and clean them on his shorts and put them back on and they were still fogged.
I made it to the bathroom. Closed the door.
Leaned against it.
Laughed.
I gave them exactly four minutes.
Four minutes to recover. To breathe. To say what just happened to each other. To try and restart the FIFA game and fail because none of them could focus.
Then I came out.
I didn’t go back to my room. I went back to 216.
The door was still open. Of course it was still open.
They were in the same positions. Tyler on the couch. Diego on the floor. Sam in the chair. But something had shifted. The energy was different. Tighter. Like a rubber band pulled back.
They all looked at me.
“Back so soon,” Tyler said.
“I missed you guys,” I said.
Nobody moved.
I walked in again. Sat in the same spot. Close to Tyler. Close enough that the couch cushion dipped toward him and he had to brace himself against the armrest to keep from sliding into me.
Diego was watching. Sam was watching. Tyler was pretending not to watch and failing spectacularly.
“You know what,” I said.
“What,” Tyler said.
“This is fun.”
Silence.
“Hanging out with you guys.”
More silence.
“We should do this more often.”
Tyler’s Adam’s apple moved. Diego’s hand tightened on his controller. Sam took off his glasses and didn’t put them back on.
“Yeah,” Tyler said. His voice was rough. “We should.”
I smiled.
Then I stood up.
“I should go,” I said.
Three faces fell simultaneously. It was like watching three puppies realize they weren’t getting a treat.
“Already?” Diego asked.
“Quiet hours,” I said.
“It’s only 10:58.”
“Two minutes, Diego.”
I walked to the door. Stopped. Turned back.
They were all watching me. All three of them. Tyler with his hands gripping the couch cushions. Diego sitting up straighter than he had all night. Sam holding his glasses in one hand like he’d forgotten what they were for.
“Goodnight, boys,” I said.
“Night,” Tyler said.
“Night,” Diego said.
“Night,” Sam said.
I stepped into the hallway.
I pulled the door closed.
I did it slowly. So they could see me through the narrowing gap. So Tyler could see my smile. So Diego could see my eyes. So Sam could see — without his glasses — the shape of me one last time before the door shut completely.
Click.
The lock engaged.
In the hallway, I leaned against the wall.
Through the door, I could hear them.
“Dude,” Tyler said.
“I know,” Diego said.
“What just happened,” Sam said.
“I don’t know,” Tyler said.
“She just—she was just—”
“I know what she was.”
Silence.
Then, very quietly, Diego said: “Can we invite her to Game Night next week.”
Tyler laughed. A breathless, overwhelmed, I-can’t-believe-this-is-my-life laugh.
“Yeah, Diego. We can invite her to Game Night next week.”
“She’s not gonna come,” Sam said.
“She’ll come,” Tyler said. “She always comes.”
I walked down the hallway, smiling to myself.
At my door, I paused. Looked back at Room 216.
The door was still closed. But I could see the light under it. And if I listened very carefully — and I did — I could hear three voices, low and urgent, having the kind of conversation that only happens after a pretty boy in a soccer jersey shuts your door on you.
I smiled wider.
Then I went to my room.
And I did NOT go back.
(Okay, I went back. But only to “borrow sugar.” And the door was open again. And Tyler scooted over. And Diego moved his pizza. And Sam said “stay as long as you want.” And I did.)
The next morning, I’m making coffee. Tyler’s phone is on his bed. Screen lit up.
I shouldn’t look.
I look.
It’s a group chat. Not our main one. A new one. Just four people. Tyler. Diego. Sam. And —
Marcus.
My stomach drops.
The last message is from Sam, sent at 3 AM: “same time next thursday?”
Tyler: “she’s not gonna come.”
Diego: “she’ll come.”
Sam: “what if she brings marcus.”
Tyler: “…”
Diego: “oh.”
Sam: “oh.”
Tyler: “we need to talk about this.”
And below that, seventeen more messages. All from 3 AM. All in a group chat I wasn’t supposed to see. All planning something.
Marcus’s last message — sent at 3:42 AM, long after I fell asleep — said:
“he knows about us. all three of them. and he’s okay with it. more than okay.”
Tyler’s response: “i figured.”
I put the phone down. My hands are shaking. Not from fear. From something else.
Marcus knew. Marcus knew they knew. Marcus told them. Marcus — my sweet, glasses-wearing, chair-squeaking Marcus — sat in a group chat with three shirtless guys at 3 AM and told them about me.
The front door opens. Tyler walks in. Sees me. Sees his phone on the bed. Sees my face.
He doesn’t say anything for a long time.
“You saw it,” he says finally.
“I saw it.”
“I was gonna tell you.”
“I know.”
“Was I?”
I look at Tyler. At the careful way he’s standing. At the way he’s holding himself like he’s bracing for something.
“I don’t know, Tyler. Were you.”
He doesn’t answer.
My phone buzzes. Marcus: “hey :) breakfast?”
I look at Tyler.
Tyler looks at the floor.
And I realize — I don’t know what I’m walking into.
But I’m walking into it.
Caption: “I shut their door. They didn’t open it for an hour.”