"You've got to be kidding me."
Joe's face is pure shock, eyes wide like I just told him I'm jumping off a bridge. No, I'm not kidding, I tell myself. This is serious. It's the only way I've figured out to snag that damn scholarship.
"So, you're going to pretend to be gay just to get it?" Chris's voice is thick with disbelief, like I've just confessed to a crime.
Truth is, I don't have a choice. My dad cut off all my cards, and my trust fund is further out of reach than ever. I tried calling the bank, but they keep telling me it's locked until some new extension period is up. And guess who arranged that extension using my name as a reference? My own father, that son of a bitch. The worst part? There's nothing I can do about it. Suing him would be like shooting myself in the foot—I'd lose what little I've got left. The option to file a complaint is there, sure, but doing it would leave me with nothing.
I tried everything this morning after leaving Sterling's office in Montag Hall to unlock what's rightfully mine, but it was like talking to a brick wall. My dad's buddies with the bank manager, and that's a mountain-sized roadblock. We don't exactly live in the most honest country, and I don't have a dime to hire a lawyer. Even if I wanted to—and trust me, I don't—no family lawyer would touch a case against him.
I shake my head to clear the frustration and focus on my plan: pretending to be gay to score the Diversity and Inclusion Department's scholarship. It's my only move to outsmart my dad. I'm betting that if I can prove I can cover my expenses this semester, he'll cave and release the funds. It's risky, but I'm not about to grovel and let him dictate my future.
"That's right, gentlemen," I say to Joe and Chris, leaning back on the couch in my Alpha Centauri room, beer in hand. "It's all I've got, though I haven't got a clue where to start."
"Whoa, seriously?" Joe's eyes go wide, nearly spilling his drink. "That's insane! Are they even gonna buy it? Come on, Noah, you're not exactly the most flamboyant guy on the planet. You've dated half the girls on campus—everyone knows it. Who's gonna believe you're suddenly gay? You're gonna tank your reputation! What are the girls gonna think when they see you with a guy or hear you're claiming to be gay?"
"I'm not gonna be with guys," I say, lowering my voice. "I have zero intention of getting involved with men, let alone a bunch of them."
"So what's the plan?" Chris asks, taking a swig of his beer and stretching his legs across the coffee table, sending a couple of empty cans rolling.
"Well, I'm still figuring it out," I admit, running a hand through my hair.
"You've gotta have some idea," Chris presses, raising an eyebrow.
"I was thinking I could find someone to help me pull this off," I say after a moment, staring at the can in my hand like it holds the answers.
"In other words, you need a boyfriend," Joe says, thoughtful, with a grin that's either mocking or supportive—I can't tell. "I mean, it shouldn't be that hard. You're not exactly bad-looking."
"Oh, you think so?" I shoot him a look, raising an eyebrow with my usual cocky flair.
"Duh. You're Noah Whitman, man. Blond, blue eyes, gym bod. I bet there's a line of guys who'd play along, even for a lie."
He's right, and I know it. With my track record, finding someone to play the part shouldn't be tough. But it's not that simple.
"Hang on," Chris cuts in, sitting up straighter on the couch. "To get the scholarship, you'd have to come out publicly… from a closet you're not even in. That's already kinda messed up, Noah. And what about the rest of campus? Everyone's gotta buy that you're gay for this to work. You ready for that?"
"Yeah, I know," I say firmly, though my stomach's twisting. "I get that it's crazy, but I'm out of options. I'm not crawling back to my dad to let him control my life."
"Think about it," Chris says, his tone more serious. "You'll be out there as the guy who's suddenly gay, after hooking up with girls left and right. What are they gonna think? That you're randomly dating a dude after rolling around with them last week?"
I sigh, squeezing the can until I feel the aluminum give under my fingers. He's right, and it pisses me off. But there's no turning back.
"It's my only shot," I say, looking at them both. "It's all I've got."
I don't know how I ended up with Joe and Chris as my best friends. We met when we started at Stanford, and joining Alpha Centauri made us tight. The hazing to get into the frat was brutal: a week of ridiculous challenges, from drinking until you're half-dead to running across campus in your underwear at midnight. I felt humiliated, but it was worth it. We became brothers, and through epic parties, disasters, and nights of wild hookups when things got out of hand, we bonded. I'm not always proud of what we do, but it is what it is.
Joe's the laid-back type. Nothing fazes him, and if something does, he handles it with a chill I envy. Talking to him is easy—he doesn't overcomplicate things. He's bi, which I find interesting. He doesn't care about gender, just vibes, and he owns it with a confidence I kinda admire. He's been with guys and girls without batting an eye, and he never makes a big deal out of it.
Chris is different. He's more grounded, monogamous, been with Sarah from Delta Kappa Delta for years. He's loyal as hell, though campus rumors say she might not be. We don't say anything, and he pretends not to notice. Between Joe's chill and Chris's seriousness, I've got this weird balance that somehow keeps me grounded.
"So how're you gonna pull this off?" Joe asks, leaning toward me with curiosity.
"I think I've got an idea," I say, a spark of clarity hitting me. "You're right, I could probably convince a guy, but it can't be just anyone. I'm not gonna hop from guy to guy pretending to be something I'm not. I need one guy, just one, to make the act believable. But there are rules. First: he's gotta be openly gay, that's non-negotiable. Second: he's gotta be on my level, you know? I can't be seen with just anybody—nobody'd buy it. He's gotta be hot, charismatic, someone who doesn't look out of place next to me. And third: he's gotta know this is all fake. I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea or thinking there's more to it. I'm not here to experiment—I just need a cover."
"This is a bad idea," Chris says, looking at me seriously. "Like, really bad, Noah. You're getting yourself into a mess you might not get out of."
Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I hold up a hand to Joe and Chris to wait a sec while I answer. It's my mom.
"Hey, Mom," I say, letting out a sigh.
"Hi, sweetheart," she replies, her voice soft but heavy with worry, a tone I haven't heard in a while. "Noah, I heard about what happened with your dad this morning. I also saw him talking to his bank buddy about your trust fund. What are you going to do? How could you lie to him for a year and a half? What happened to you?"
"Mom, listen," I say, trying to stay calm as I run a hand through my hair. "Dad's obsessed with me studying what he wants, and no, I'm not doing it. I didn't lie to him, I just… didn't tell him. You know how I am—you've known since I was a kid. I love exploring, being outside, investigating. Remember when they couldn't drag me out of the garden because I was chasing bugs? Sitting in an office running the family business isn't me, and you know it. I don't know if you're on his side or mine."
"Noah, please," she cuts in, her sigh a mix of exhaustion and affection. "I don't agree with what your dad's doing, but I'm not sure I can back you on this either. I get that you have your own goals, and that's fine. But you hid the truth from him for a year and a half, honey. That's serious. And you know you can't do much against him, right? He can't take your trust fund away, but he'll definitely put up roadblocks to keep you from touching it, at least until next semester. So tell me: how are you going to pay tuition?"
"I don't know yet," I admit, my stomach tightening. "But I'll figure it out. Actually, I've got an idea, but I can't tell you about it right now."
"Listen, Noah," she says, her voice dropping. "I can't give you money for tuition. Your dad's watching all the accounts. If he sees a big transfer to yours, he'll know it was me, and things will get worse. But I can send you something to keep you going on campus. Nothing big, just enough."
Hearing Marta Stoneheard's words, I feel a strange relief, like someone just lifted a rock off my chest. Despite the distance since this mess with my dad, she still cares. It's been a while since I heard her sound this worried about something that matters to me. I've always been independent… well, independent with a steady flow of family money. Now that I'm broke, her offer to help, even just to keep my car running, feels weirdly humbling. But I'm not in a position to say no.
"Thanks, Mom," I say, my tone softer. "I'll figure this out, I promise. You know I will."
"You better, honey," she replies with a hint of humor. "Because I know you and your ego won't last long without a dime. Good luck with that… and with your dad."
"Love you, Mom." I hang up.
I stare at the phone for a second, feeling a mix of relief and pressure. Talking to her was a breath of fresh air, but also a reminder of how screwed I am. I'm not letting my dad win this one.
"Hey, Noah!" Joe's voice echoes from the hallway of the Alpha Centauri house. "What're you doing? Get down here!"
I sigh, shove my phone in my pocket, and get up from the couch. Without overthinking it, I follow Joe, my mind spinning with my crazy plan: find a guy to pretend to be my boyfriend—someone openly gay, hot, and who won't get any ideas. This is gonna be a disaster, but I'm not backing down.
****
I head down to the main room of the Alpha Centauri house and walk into organized chaos: a big group of students forming a circle around a line of pledges standing like soldiers at a parade. Then it hits me: shit, the hazing. I'm on the damn recruitment committee, so I hustle to join Joe and the others, dodging beer cans and brothers who are already half-drunk.
"Alright, pledges, listen up," Jake, the vice president, says, stepping forward with an authority straight out of a movie. The noise dies down instantly.
"As you know, we're mid-semester," he continues. "This recruitment ceremony is unconventional, but after the disaster two months ago, here we are. Any questions?"
Dead silence. The pledges glance at each other, tense, like they're hoping someone will swoop in and save them.
"Perfect, let's move on," Jake says with a grin that's either encouraging or downright sadistic—I can't tell. "Because of midterms and the tight schedule, we're cutting the selection down to one single challenge."
He pauses, letting the murmurs build. The pledges look relieved, like they think this'll be a piece of cake.
"One challenge," Miles, another committee member, cuts in, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Only the top six will make it into the brotherhood."
"Relax, don't get too nervous," I chime in, stepping forward with my best charming smile. "Let me break it down for you."
"Nothing illegal," Morgan, the president, interrupts, arms crossed with that smug grin that says, I know you're about to do something dumb.
"Obviously, nothing illegal," I shoot back, winking at him just to mess with him. "The challenge is simple: you've gotta run around campus, from White Plaza to the Dish and back to the house. The first six to make it back are in."
The murmurs grow, but the pledges let out sighs, like they think it's too easy. They're wrong.
"Hold up!" Joe interjects, raising a hand with a flair that makes me bite back a laugh. "Don't get ahead of yourselves, boys. We're not done yet."
All eyes lock on him, waiting.
"The challenge is to do a full lap around campus and get back here," Joe explains, savoring every word. "But… you'll be doing it naked."
Laughter erupts among the brothers. I cover my mouth to keep from cracking up. The pledges stare at each other, stunned—some pale, others a mix of disbelief and panic.
"Technically, free expression is sacred at Stanford," I add, putting on my most serious face. "And that includes physical expression. So, to keep us out of trouble, we'll write messages on your backs, like it's a protest. Stuff like 'Freedom for All' or 'Stanford Without Prejudice.' That way, if the dean catches wind, we've got a cover story. And because we care about your safety, we'll let you keep one item… your shoes, so you don't wreck your feet."
The murmurs get louder. Some pledges laugh nervously; others look ready to bolt. Morgan nods, clearly pleased with the plan.
"Listen up," I continue, raising my voice. "Nobody's forcing you to be here. You came willingly. If anyone wants to bail, now's the time—before, during, or after the run. No one's gonna judge you… well, maybe a little, but it's your call."
I pause and give the order: "Now, strip."
The room explodes with cheers and shouts from the brothers. The pledges, tense, start undressing. Some do it with confidence; others fumble, trying to cover themselves with their hands like that'll save them. And, honestly, a few of them are in pretty good shape—chiseled abs, defined arms. Not a bad show for the ladies.
Then one guy catches my eye. He's in the far right corner, clearly uncomfortable, shoulders stiff, staring at the floor. But he pulls off his shirt, revealing a sculpted torso I didn't expect. Dark hair, a little long, and green eyes that shine even under the dim room lights. I think his name's Ethan. I recognize him from that run-in on campus when he yelled at me like I was the asshole. Pretty sure we've got a class together too. He's hot, I won't lie. He's got that vibe of a guy who doesn't give up, even though right now he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Nice ass," I say, sauntering over with a provocative grin as he drops his pants. It's not a lie—he's got a great one for a guy.
He tenses up instantly, his cheeks flushing, and shoots me a glare that's pure venom. I wink at him, just to screw with him a bit more, and for a split second, I swear he's about to deck me. But there's something about that intensity, the way he clenches his jaw, that cracks me up.
I'm not sure he'll make it through the run—he looks more nervous than a deer staring down a truck. But if he does, messing with him might just become my new favorite hobby.