I really need to have a talk with myself about expectations.

Then he adds, “I’d rather hang one-on-one,” and I’m right back to daydreaming.

On the walk back to Jack’s dorm before grabbing food, we joke about my lack of swimming skills, which is wild because I’m actually pretty decent, but I can’t exactly tell him why I was so flustered. As we’re walking, a Frisbee whizzes toward me, and Jack dips quickly in front of me to catch it. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he sends it sailing back toward the girl who threw it.

I stare in awe.

“What?” he asks.

“That was quick.”

“I love Frisbee. You ever play?”

“My people don’t friz.”

He laughs as he waves his key card and unlocks the front door of his dorm building. “I can teach you.”

“Yeah, sure, that’d be cool.”

“I’m gonna use the bathroom real quick and then change, and we’ll go.” He lets me into his dorm, which is your standard-issue two-person, one-room dorm, like the room Benny and I share in our suite, just without the common room and semiprivate suite bathroom.

One side of the room is immaculate, and the other is a damn war zone. There’s a very visible invisible line drawn down the center. And it’s only the first day.

Pointing to the pristine side, he says, “That’s Rhett’s side. He’s pretty particular. Don’t sit on his bed. Or his desk chair. Or touch his stuff. He’ll know.”

“He runs a tight ship.”

“We’ve been here for a week already,” Jack says. “Summer upstart program for extra credits.”

That explains a lot.

Jack tosses me a pair of mesh shorts. “If you wanna be dry, have at ’em. You’re a bit thicker—” He involuntarily bites his bottom lip. “I mean, you’ll fill them out more than I do.”

Something about the way he says thicker makes my dick chub up a bit, which is weird because, usually, that’d be enough to send me over the edge and back to therapy. But with Jack, something’s different.

The thought of wearing Jack’s shorts without underwear makes me all sorts of flushed. But my wet boxer briefs rubbing against my jean shorts, now with very obvious dark-blue spots like I wet myself, are obscenely uncomfortable.

Once he slips out to the hall, I strip down my lower half and hop into his shorts, which feel so warm and loose against my skin.

In his absence, I snoop. His room smells like Febreze. Dirty jeans and boxers are strewn on his side of the floor. Nike and Under Armour workout shirts poke out from underneath his unmade bed, which is decked out in Red Sox logos: his fitted sheet is bloodred, and a solid navy-blue comforter with the team’s symbol stitched in the center is crumpled in a ball. He has one pillow. One! He’s definitely straight. Next to his bed is a bottle of lotion and an opened box of tissues and a bar of artisanal dark chocolate, which, okay. Now I’m picturing him jerking off, and dear god, I have to stop because I’m getting a boner in Jack’s shorts. Must. Distract. Myself.