Page 13 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

FLORIS

Rule number one of being gay is that you don’t look at other guys in the locker room or shower.

Or in your dorm room, when you accidentally walk in on your roommate getting changed, as fate would have it.

Orson immediately turned his back to me, treating me to a view of his rather spectacular ass.

Look away , I told myself firmly. Dammit, Floris, look away.

Only when Orson pulled up his tight boxer briefs—not really much of an improvement on his previous state since they perfectly outlined said ass—did I manage to drag my eyes off him.

Jesus, if he saw me staring at him like this, he’d immediately ask for another roommate.

He might be gay, but that didn’t mean I could stare. That I should stare.

I forced myself to turn around, fumbling with my own clothes as I tried to ignore the rustling sounds behind me. My face felt hot, and not from the humid September air seeping through our ancient windows.

“Sorry,” I managed, proud that my voice sounded almost normal. “I should’ve knocked. ”

“It’s your room too,” Orson said, his voice muffled like he was pulling on a shirt. Thank god. Or maybe not thank god, because now I had the image of his lean back seared into my brain, all smooth skin and subtle muscle that spoke of someone who took care of himself without being showy about it.

To distract myself, I started changing too, though my hands felt clumsy on my buttons.

The fact that I could feel his presence behind me made everything ten times more complicated.

Not that he would watch. Orson was too proper, too focused on his studies to notice things like his disaster of a roommate trying not to spontaneously combust from attraction.

“I’m heading to the Eagles game,” I said, desperate to fill the charged silence. “Want to come?”

“Can’t. Need to study.”

Of course he did. I pulled my newly purchased Vernon Eagles jersey over my head, then risked a glance over my shoulder.

Orson was fully dressed now, though those jeans really weren’t much better than the boxer briefs had been.

They still showed every line of his body. His very, very attractive body.

I swallowed. “You sure? It might be fun.”

“I have a problem set due Monday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“Exactly. I need the whole weekend to get it perfect.”

I bit back a sigh. “Right. Well, if you change your mind…”

But he was already settling at his desk, effectively ending the conversation.

I grabbed my phone and wallet, trying not to feel disappointed.

This attraction was dangerous anyway. The last thing I needed was to develop feelings for my roommate, especially one who viewed anything fun as a distraction from his studies.

Still, as I headed out the door, I couldn’t shake the image of lean muscle and smooth skin, or the way my heart had practically stopped when I’d walked in on him.

I needed to stop this. Nip this in the bud.

Force myself to quit entertaining even the slightest hope for something more because nothing could come from this.

We were oil and water, as opposite as two people could possibly be. The only things we had in common were our studies and being gay. And maybe our sense of humor. And we did seem to like the same kind of documentaries, but that was not enough to build anything serious on.

Not that I was looking for anything serious.

I was way too young for that. A hookup would be awesome, but not with Orson.

He wasn’t the type, as he’d said so himself, and besides, he was my roommate.

It would muddy the waters and lead to complications I didn’t want.

Like losing him as a roommate. As a friend.

And I couldn’t bear that thought so no, I just had to get my shit together and learn to share a space with someone I… liked. Was attracted to. Whatever.

The game should be a good distraction. I knew little about American football other than what a touchdown was, but that was fine, I’d been assured.

“We’re not going for the game,” Brett, the guy who had invited me to join him and his friends, had assured me. “The team sucks anyway. It’s just a fun atmosphere.”

And he wasn’t wrong. Throngs of people dressed in Vernon colors headed toward the football stadium.

The energy was infectious—students decked out in blue and gold, faces painted, carrying signs and foam fingers.

Music blasted from somewhere ahead, mixing with laughter and excited chatter.

This was exactly what I needed: noise, chaos, anything to drown out thoughts of my half-naked roommate .

“Floris!” Brett waved from a group near the stadium entrance. “Over here!”

I threaded my way through the crowd, grateful for the distraction. Brett was part of my calculus study group, and he seemed genuinely friendly.

“Nice jersey,” he said as I approached. “Though fair warning: wearing Eagles merch means you’re committed to disappointment.”

“I’m Dutch. We’re used to our teams letting us down in crucial moments.” When they looked confused, I added, “Soccer. Or football, as the civilized world calls it.”

That earned me some laughs. Brett introduced me to his friends—names I immediately forgot because my brain was still stuck on Orson’s back muscles. Get it together, van Oranje.

“ So,” a girl whose name might have been Ashley said, “you’ve never seen American football before?”

“Only in movies.” I followed them toward the stands. “Though I’m pretty sure Remember the Titans wasn’t an accurate representation of typical game strategy.”

“God, I wish,” Brett laughed. “Our team’s more like Forget the Score .”

The stadium was smaller than I had expected, but the atmosphere was electric.

Students packed the stands, the air thick with excitement and the smell of popcorn and hot dogs.

We found spots near the middle, and I tried to focus on Brett’s explanation of basic rules instead of wondering what Orson was doing.

Was he really studying, or was he just avoiding social situations? And why did I care so much?

I wanted to spend more time with him, but every time I asked him to do something, he turned me down.

Even after our outing to Worcester, which had been so nice.

Was there nothing I could think of that he’d be willing to do with me?

Maybe I needed to try a little harder… without ever venturing into the territory of not taking no for an answer.

“Earth to Floris?” Brett waved a hand in front of my face. “You zoned out there.”

“Sorry.” I forced a smile. “Just trying to understand why you call it football when you barely use your feet.”

That launched a heated debate about sports terminology that carried us through the pre-game warm-up.

The game itself was… interesting. By halftime, I understood why Brett had said we weren’t here for the actual football.

The Eagles were living up to their reputation for creative ways to lose, currently down by four touchdowns.

But the crowd’s energy remained high, fueled by what I suspected was more than just school spirit, if the subtle passing of flasks was any indication.

“See?” Brett nudged my arm, gesturing at our flailing quarterback. “What did I tell you? Pure comedy gold.”

I laughed, but my mind drifted to Orson again. He would probably have something fascinating to say about the physics of a badly thrown football, complete with calculations of trajectory and force. The thought made me smile despite myself.

“Okay, spill.” Ashley dropped into the seat next to me. “Who are you thinking about?”

“What? No one.” I said it too quickly, and she grinned.

“Please. You’ve had that dreamy look all night. So who is he?”

“There’s no he .” I focused on the field, where our team was finding new and creative ways to fumble. “I’m trying to figure out how many ways one can drop the ball in a game, literally and figuratively.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced. “That’s why you keep checking your phone every five minutes? ”

Had I been doing that? Shit. I forced my hands to stay still in my lap. “I’m checking the time.”

“Right. Because watching paint dry—I mean, Eagles football—is so riveting, you need constant time updates.”

I couldn’t help grinning. “You’re kind of terrifying, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.” She bumped my shoulder. “Come on, who’s the guy? Promise I won’t tell.”

I sighed, debating how much to say. “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Her voice softened. “Let me guess. He’s straight?”

“No, actually. But he’s…” I searched for words that wouldn’t give too much away. “He’s very focused on his studies. Not interested in dating or anything else that might distract him.”

“Ah.” She nodded sagely. “One of those. We get a lot of them here.”

“He’s not just one of anything,” I said before I could stop myself. “He’s…” Brilliant. Fascinating. Frustrating. Gorgeous when he gets excited about something he loves. None of which I could say out loud. “Complicated,” I finished lamely.

She grinned. “Sounds… complicated.” When I rolled my eyes at her, she chuckled. “I’ll get off your ass now, I promise.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, though I couldn’t help smiling. Ashley reminded me a bit of my cousin Juliana—too perceptive for my own good.

The marching band took the field for halftime, their formations about as coordinated as our team’s offense had been. But there was something charming about their enthusiasm, even as they nearly collided during what I assumed was supposed to be an arrow formation.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I tried not to look too eager as I pulled it out, but my heart did a stupid little skip when I saw Orson’s name.

Orson

Did they score yet?

Me

Define “they”

Because if you mean the other team, then yes. Multiple times.

If you mean us… well…

Orson

That bad?

Me

Let’s just say I’ve seen more coordination in a kindergarten football game. Though the crowd’s still having fun. You could still come join us…