“Is it weird to pack dirty laundry? I was going to do it, but then that just seemed like a waste of time,” she shrugs.

“No, moms love it when we bring home dirty laundry,” I say.

“My dad does the laundry, you sexist pig.” She’s feisty again, and I love the way she’s now standing with her hand on her hip and her head tilted to one side like she just put me in my place. I also love the way her posture stretches her T-shirt across both of her br**sts. I no longer need to imagine what they look like because in the ever-so brief glances my eyes make, I am committing every curve to memory. She bends down to pick up her small bag of shampoo and conditioner, and somehow when she stands, the fabric clings to her even more, and I’m no longer able to hide my reaction.

I stare, and I stare long and hard at the perfect roundness and the small pink tips that are poking through the cotton, almost as if they’re trying to reach me. I swallow, and start to lick my lips when I realize how obvious I’m being. I catch my breath, and quickly move my eyes to hers. She doesn’t look upset, but she does look embarrassed, and within a fraction of a second, she looks down and notices her wet shirt and everything it’s revealing. She pulls her towel up in a clump in front of her and squeezes it to her chest, almost ashamed, and I feel like a dick for making her feel so insecure.

“Don’t worry. I…I didn’t really see anything,” I lie, gritting my back teeth together and forcing an apologetic smile. Fuck, I’m making this worse, and she’s starting to look upset.

“Oh my god, I’m pretty sure you did. Oh man…” She’s starting to breathe heavier, like she might pass out. “I…I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize my shirt was that wet. And you must have…uhg!”

Now she’s hiding her face in her towel too, and she holds up her other hand, the one clutching the bag, and does her best to wave. “I’m going to go put in my strip-club applications now. Nice talking to you. See you when I get back,” she says, walking away quickly.

I stand there for a few seconds and try to figure out my next move, but all I can focus on is how damned embarrassed she was, and how unbelievably beautiful her body is. “You really shouldn’t be embarrassed. I mean, I liked it…what I saw? Or, what I think I saw…”

“Not helping!” she yells from the safety of her door. She opens and shuts it quickly, and I slap my forehead wondering when the hell I turned into a junior-high boy.

Ty is watching ESPN when I get back to the room, and he waves me out of his way with his arm when I stop in front of the TV. “Well, how’d the grand master plan go?” he says, only half interested in me. Clearly more focused on the highlights from last week’s Saints game.

“Oh, you know…I pretty much blatantly stared at her tits for about ten minutes until she realized what a perv I am and ran away,” I say, flinging myself backward on my bed and covering my eyes with my pillow.

“That sounds like progress to me, bro. Nice tits?” Ty asks. I stare at him for a few seconds, at first wanting to throw something at him for his dumb-ass question, but eventually I realize I’m no better than he is.

“Yeah. They’re pretty fantastic tits,” I say, laying my head back again and burying it deep under my pillow.

The sounds of Sports Center lull me in and out of a sleepy state for the next half hour, and I’m almost ready to give in completely and just let this shitty day come to an end when my phone buzzes next to me with an alert.

When I pull the pillow from my eyes, the light in the room is almost blinding, and it takes me a few seconds to focus on my phone screen. When I realize I have a Facebook message from Rowe, I find my bearings quickly and scoot up to sit with my back against the wall and open the message section.

Hi Josh.

Shit! This isn’t for me. I set the phone back down and click the screen off. I sit up all the way at the back of my bed, out of Ty’s view, and I run my hand through my hair about a thousand times hoping some sort of sign comes to me. She writes to him. This…this isn’t good. Rowe sends messages to her ex-boyfriend who, from what I understand, is damned near brain-dead. I just called him her ex-boyfriend, but that’s not even true. He’s her boyfriend, or at least that’s the last thing he remembers them as—if he even remembers.

Fuck!

“I’ll be back, dude.” I grab my phone and slip my feet back into my shoes and head out the door. Ty says something when I leave, but I can’t even focus on his voice. I head to the stairs and just keep going, my feet gaining speed until I hit the front doors of the dorm. I start a slow jog, and I get faster and faster, until I’m actually sprinting all the way to the baseball field.