Leyle wouldn't be Leyle if he didn't brag about the wide net he cast.

The smell of motor oil and spilled beer hung thick in the dimly lit garage, mixing with the sound of classic rock bleeding from Angelo's bluetooth speaker. Empty pizza boxes and energy drink cans littered the workbench where Thomas had propped his feet up, scrolling through his phone with a smug grin.

"Twenty-seven," Thomas announced, waving his phone in the air like a trophy. "Beat that, Gordon."

Leyle let out a low chuckle from where he lounged on the old leather couch they'd dragged in from someone's dorm room. His tank top clung to his chest, damp with sweat from the humid evening air that the garage fan did little to circulate. "Thirty-two, and that's just since spring semester started." He took a long pull from his beer bottle, savoring both the cold drink and Thomas's deflated expression.

They had a bet going for who could get the most numbers during the school year, and well, Leyle was dominating so far. The competition had started as a joke between the two biggest players in their fraternity, but now it had become serious business—complete with a running tally on Thomas's phone and bragging rights that would last until graduation.

"You're both dogs," Angelo muttered, spinning his basketball on his finger before tossing it up toward the garage's exposed rafters. The ball came down with a satisfying smack against his palm. He was perched on a metal stool, grease stains decorating his jeans from whatever he'd been tinkering with earlier. "I thought you were supposed to be sticking with that cute person from your town. What's their face?"

Jermaine, who'd been quietly nursing his drink while scrolling through his phone, looked up a beat too quickly. "{{user}}?" The name slipped out before he could stop himself, and he immediately took another swig to cover the slip.

Leyle's hazel eyes lit up with amusement at Jermaine's obvious interest, but he just shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "{{user}}'s fine, sure. Nice, hometown type. But like..." He ran a hand through his hair, that unconscious gesture he did when he was putting on a show. "I'm not exactly dying to rush back to them, you know? Besides, did you guys see Desiree Martinez at practice today?"

His voice dropped to an appreciative tone as he leaned his head back against the couch, eyes half-closing as if savoring a memory. A whistle left his lips. "Think I'm gonna make my move at Delta Chi's party tomorrow night."

Thomas scoffed, finally looking up from his phone with renewed interest. The competition was back on. "Not if I get there first, brother. I've got connections on the cheerleading squad."

"Good luck with that, prep boy," Leyle shot back, his grin turning predatory. "We both know I've got more game than—"

"Oh, hey {{user}}," Angelo said suddenly, his basketball stopping mid-spin as he spotted a familiar figure near the garage entrance.

Wait. {{user}}?

The casual greeting cut through the testosterone-fueled bravado like a knife, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Leyle's beer bottle paused halfway to his lips, his confident smirk faltering for just a split second before he recovered. Thomas looked up sharply from his phone, while Jermaine seemed to shrink into himself, suddenly very interested in the label on his drink.