Page 1 of The Roommate Game

CHAPTER 1

RAFE

“Winners never quitand quitters never win.”—Vince Lombardi

Rain battered the coffee shop window, rattling the casing and streaking the glass. The forecast called for thunder too, but if there was any, it couldn’t have been heard above the hiss of steamed milk, grinding beans, and general chatter in Coffee Cave. The group in the corner was in the midst of a boisterous debate regarding the hottest video-game heroes, and there was definitely an “it’s not you, it’s me” breakup happening at the next table over.

My woes ranked somewhere in between. More serious than cartoon cuties, but certainly nothing to cry about. Well…okay, I had felt a little weepy when I’d realized my chicken parmesan had gone MIA from the fridge.

“He ate my leftovers. Again,” I groused. “Even the green beans, and Gus doesn’t even like green beans.”

Celine scowled. “Monster.”

“He’s a human vacuum.”

“He can’t get away with that.”

“Oh, really? ’Cause he’s been getting away with it for five freaking months.”

My friend reached across the table to give my hand a supportive squeeze. “Poor Rafey. Did you yell at him?”

“We had words,” I hedged.

“What did he say?”

“Same as always.” I rolled my eyes before lowering my voice to mimic my giant hockey roommate’s stoner dude affectation. “ ‘Oh, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was yours. I got you, though. Double the chicken parm tomorrow, and I’ll do you an extra solid…no green beans. They kinda sucked.’ ”

Celine’s lips twisted with humor. I could tell she was trying hard not to laugh at my plight. “You’re getting too good at imitating him.”

I shook my head mournfully. “I must have done something truly terrible in a past life, like poisoning a well that fed a village or stealing my neighbor’s cows on the regular. Karma might be seeking judgment in arears by saddling me with a roommate who drinksmymilk straight from the carton and helps himself tomyeggs. And stealing food is the least of Gus’s sins. If I come home to yet another party, I may have to call you for bail money.”

Celine didn’t bother hiding her amusement this time. Her long, golden locks cascaded over her shoulders as she threw her head back and guffawed, capturing a few admiring glances.

Listen, I wasn’t attracted to women in the slightest, but one would’ve had to be blind not to notice that Celine was drop-dead gorgeous. She was a petite blond with big blue eyes and a generous smile, who also just happened to be able to out-axel the competition in women’s figure skating at Smithton…hands down.

We’d been best friends since the day we’d recognized each other as schoolmates at the winter skate camp her parents ranin Pittsburgh. We’d been ten years old, and other than the fifth-grade classroom at Hollister Elementary and an abiding love for figure skating, we hadn’t had much in common. I was and always had been a bit of a dork, and Celine was the epitome of social grace.

Somehow, we’d clicked and become devoted amigos, battling all the ugliest aspects of adolescence like every other pimply-faced junior high and high school teen, then kicking butt in regional competitions on weekends. While our classmates had dabbled in sex, drugs, and partying, we’d perfected spins, worked on choreography, and learned how to navigate the complex mid echelons of the world we’d hoped to make a lasting mark in one day.

Fun fact: we’d both medaled in several prestigious regional competitions and had made second team for the US Collegiate Championships twice.

Okay, fine…neither of us had seen ice time at the championships, and last year had been a total bust for me, but so what? We’d been on the rink with some of the greatest in our sport—real Olympians. And yes, we had high hopes to join their ranks someday. It was a wild dream at this point, at least for me, but never say never.

Our season at Smithton had just ended, and I was pleased to report that I was highly ranked in collegiate circles and was in a good position to garner an invitation to the US Collegiate Figure Skating Championships this July in Illinois. Cue scream.

Could this possibly lead to a spot on the Olympic team one day? No clue. But being sidelined with an injury last year had given me a dose of perspective and taught me that there was a kind of peace in learning the art of patience. I was twenty-two. Not as young as some of the elite athletes competing, but I still had time.

Thankfully, I loved every bit of the ride. I’d made lifelong friends, like Celine, and had traveled all over the world.

Transferring to Smithton last fall had been a risk, but I’d needed a change of scenery after a season and a summer spent in physical therapy, coddling my busted right ankle. I’d fallen in love with my new home right away.

First of all, Celine was here. Secondly, the town was adorable, and the private college nestled lakeside on a tiny smidge of land in Upstate New York was a true hidden gem.Andthe ice skating program was one of the best in the region. Not as good as Dartmouth, but still amazing.

I liked my coaches and my teammates. I even liked my classes and had taken a renewed interest in being a Biology major. Bonus: the campus was truly stunning—even on a rainy day when spring couldn’t decide if it was ready to make an appearance.

I was happy here.

Happy enough, anyway.