I applied to Alpha Zeta Rho during Rush Week as a joke.
I mean, seriously. An all-jock frat? Me? A twink like me?
That's hilarious.
I used to love fucking with hot straight jocks in high school. Flirting too much. Lingering a little longer in locker rooms just to watch them get uncomfortable. Sometimes they'd get angry. Sometimes they'd get curious. I liked both.
So the idea of pledging their sacred little frat felt like the ultimate dare. I filled out the application online, tossed in a half-shirtless mirror selfie, and submitted it with zero expectations. Just vibes.
Surprisingly, I was invited for an interview.
A couple of days later, I get the text.
"You're in, pledge" -- Brother Chase
Chase. The frat president. The one who was the lacrosse-playing jock with a voice like black coffee and a smile that meant trouble. He didn't say "congrats" or "welcome." Just that. You're in. Like it had already been decided.
I don't know how it happened. Maybe I was their diversity pick. Maybe it was my selfie. Maybe it was something worse. But somehow I got selected. And not just as a pledge.
They invited me to move into the frat house.
Apparently, that's not normal. Most pledges don't live inside. Especially not freshmen. But Alpha Zeta Rho said it was tradition. Said I'd be living there through Hell Week. I should've asked more questions.
So yeah. Here I was. Outside the house. Two duffel bags, one pounding heart, and way too many assumptions about what would happen once I stepped inside.
Being around jocks was a dream. Living with them? I didn't know if it would be heaven, hell, or something in between.
The door opened before I could even knock.
A tall guy with dark hair and a sleeveless tee leaned in the doorway. Tan, broad, smug as hell.
"First floor. Toward your left. The very far end," he said. "Welcome, pledge."
He smirked and stepped aside, not even offering to help with my bags.
I dragged them inside. The house smelled like sweat and body spray and pizza. Somewhere upstairs someone was blasting EDM. I passed three shirtless guys on the way to my room, all of them nodding with the same quiet, cocky look that said, We already own you.
The room was basic. Bed, drawers, tiny desk. One window. Nothing on the walls.
It was mine.
For now.
I dropped my bags and closed the door behind me. A weird wave of relief hit me. Like I could finally breathe. Like I was still just a regular guy who hadn't yet been broken in.
My room was right next to Brother Jace.
Yeah. Jace.
The one who had interviewed me during Rush Week. The one with the dirty blond hair and the arms that barely fit into sleeves. I remembered stammering through my answers while he leaned back, legs spread, looking at me like he already knew I'd say yes to anything.
I unpacked fast, needing something to do. Shirts in the top drawer. Pants in the middle. Underwear in the bottom one. Just basics. Briefs. A few boxers. Nothing too crazy.
I didn't want to give them ideas. Not yet.
Eventually I collapsed on my bed, fully dressed, phone slipping from my hand, the sound of my own nervous thoughts lulling me into a nap.
When I woke up, the room was darker. Outside my window, the sun had completely vanished. My phone buzzed in my lap. 8:57pm.
Shit.
Movie night. The introductory meeting. I was supposed to be downstairs by nine.
I rolled out of bed, yawning, stretching, feeling groggy and out of place. I walked over to my drawers to grab something clean to wear and froze.
My bottom drawer was open.
The underwear drawer.
I hadn't left it that way.
On top, sitting dead center, was a note. Folded in half. My stomach dropped as I picked it up and read the ink in bold, cocky handwriting:
Rule #1: Never keep your door closed, pledge.
I've replaced your boring underwear with something more appropriate.
Wear one and come downstairs.
- Brother Lucas
My breath caught in my throat.