I drive out of the student lot and back to Hastings, where I speed past my residential street to another one a couple of blocks away.

I wasn’t kidding when I told Demi I wish that someone had consulted me about the girls moving into the townhouse. I have nothing against them, but I’m in college, dammit. I want to hang out with the guys. I’m not in the market for a girlfriend this year and there’s no reason why I should know so much about eucalyptus facemasks and what kind of tampons everyone in my house uses. Also, Rupi’s and Brenna’s cycles somehow synced up so now they get their periods at the same time. They’re really mean when that happens.

I park in the driveway behind the beat-up Jeep that Matt shares with Conor. They’re housemates, along with our teammate Foster and two seniors named Gavin and Alec.

When Matty answers the door, I welcome the familiar sounds of guys insulting each other and video game controllers clicking, and the aroma of pizza and stale beer when it’s barely noon. This is college.

“Hey,” I greet everyone in the living room.

Foster is sprawled in the armchair, balancing a beer can on his knee. Gavin and Alec are battling it out in a shooter game. The only notable absence is Conor, who’s probably in class.

I’m not sure whose turn it is with Pablo Eggscobar, but he’s on the coffee table in the drink-cozy harness that Bucky made for him, and he’s rocking a new look. Someone used a black Sharpie to draw eyes and a snout right above Coach Jensen’s scrawl, and voila—Pablo now has a pig face with Jensen’s signature serving as his mouth.

Truthfully, I’m surprised he’s still in one piece. Drunken college guys aren’t exactly conducive to egg rearing.

“What’s up, Pablo?” I greet the egg. He doesn’t answer, because he’s not real, but hey, at least I’m trying to make an effort.

Captain handbook rule number a thousand: pick your battles.

“Who’s playing egg mom today?” I ask.

“Con. But he just went upstairs with some chick, so we’re waiting for the right moment.” Matt settles on the couch.

I flop down on the other end. “The right moment for what?”

Matt and Foster exchange evil grins. “For feeding time. Pablo is about to be hungry as fuck.”

Gavin snorts without looking away from the TV screen.

I stifle a sigh. According to my sources, things have escalated since last week. Jesse Wilkes texted me yesterday bitching about how the other guys wouldn’t stop calling him when he was out with Katie. It’s officially become a game to inconvenience the egg carrier as much as possible.

“How long’s it been?” Alec asks, his fingers moving like lightning over the game controller.

“Only about ten minutes,” Foster replies. “They’re probably still on foreplay.”

“Hers,” Gavin guesses.

“Or he’s getting blown,” Matt counters.

They all go quiet for a moment.

“Nah,” Foster finally says, raising his beer to his lips. “He goes down on her first, then she blows him, then they fuck. That’s the order of sex.”

I start to laugh. “Oh really? Is that what the manual says?”

Matt snickers.

“That’s the order I do it in,” Alec chimes in. “Why? What do you do?”

“I don’t fucking know. I don’t chart out my sexual encounters like I’m exploring undiscovered islands in the Maldives.” I roll my eyes. “There’s no set order. You just see how it plays out.”

“It always plays out the same way,” Alec says stubbornly.

“It’s true,” Foster agrees. “Usually goes that way for me, too.”

“Huh. Weird.” When I think back on past hook-ups, they’re honestly different every time.

Sometimes we stumble into my room and she’s on her knees with my dick in her mouth before I can blink. Once I was with a girl who wanted to kiss for all of three seconds before she turned around and offered me her ass, ordering me to screw her from behind. Longer sessions have begun with me kissing every inch of their bodies, or vice versa. Sometimes we even start with sex and end with foreplay.

“I don’t know what you guys are doing, but I can’t find a pattern in my hook-ups,” I admit.

“Maybe it’s a girlfriend thing,” Foster suggests. “I dated the same chick all throughout high schools and I’m using her as my point of reference.”

“Three years with Sasha for me,” Alec says with a nod, referring to his current girlfriend.

“Oh, it’s definitely a girlfriend thing,” Matt confirms. “Like, with Jesse. He and Katie have the most predictable sex life ever. When we were rooming together in the dorms last year, every time they put that stupid sock on the door I knew they’d need exactly forty-seven minutes to bang. I could probably plot out the exact time of orgasm.”

“Sounds kinda boring.” Although maybe having sex with someone you’re madly in love with feels different somehow? I have no idea. I had a few girlfriends in high school, but none of them were ever the one.

“Okay. It’s been twenty-one minutes,” Foster announces. “He’s either balls deep right now or she’s got her mouth full. Either way, the dick is in play. I repeat, the dick is in play.”

“You jackasses are the worst. As team captain, I should stop this,” I warn.

They all wait expectantly.

A slow grin stretches my mouth. On the other hand, Conor gets so much action his ego could probably use some coitus interruptus. “But I won’t. Go ahead. Do it.”

Foster and Alec sprint up the narrow staircase. A moment later their heavy footsteps thud on the ceiling. Incessant pounding reverberates through the house as their fists attack Conor’s bedroom door. It sounds like a SWAT team breaking into a crack den.

“Pablo’s hungry!” Foster shouts.

“Feed me,” Alec hollers.

On the other end of the sofa, Matt is shuddering from laughter.

An even louder commotion ensues. Angry cursing rings in the air, followed by the frantic footsteps of two huge hockey players racing down the stairs. Conor is on their tail, bare-chested, barefoot, with a pair of plaid boxers haphazardly sagging off one hip. His blond hair sticks up and his lips are a bit swollen.

“You fucking assholes,” he growls.

“What?” Foster blinks innocently. He gestures to the coffee table. “Our pig needs his lunch. We have a pet, bro. Pet comes before pussy.”

“Pet before pussy,” Matt echoes.

Gavin tears his eyes off the video game and nods gravely. “The wise words of Thomas Jefferson.”

“I fed him this morning,” Conor protests.

Foster glares. “He eats three meals a day, you selfish jackass. Look at him—he’s starving.”

I glance at the egg and his stupid face, then bury my own face in my hands and quiver in silent laughter.

“Davenport!” Conor barks. “You’re team captain. I’m filing a complaint against them.”

I lift my head, lips still twitching. “What’s the complaint?”

He jabs the air with his index finger. “I was fucking.”

“That’s not a complaint. It’s a statement of fact.”