I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I can't wrap my head around how I ended up here, buck naked, standing in front of a bunch of idiots chanting "Alpha Centauri" like it's a damn national anthem. I'm trying to cover my junk with both hands, but the embarrassment is unbearable. I keep asking myself when my life went so off the rails that I ended up here.
For a split second, I consider bolting, but then I remember what's at stake: free 24/7 tutoring, a private room in the frat house at no cost, meals covered, all in exchange for showing up to their events. With my Tresidder café paycheck barely covering my books and my parents stretched to the limit with tuition, I don't have room to complain. Moving into the Alpha Centauri house doesn't sound half bad, even if it means swallowing my pride. But standing here, exposed, in front of these arrogant assholes? It makes me want to vanish.
I shuffle among the pledges, watching some try to cover themselves awkwardly while the frat brothers hoot and laugh. Then Noah Whitman, that damn blond with his king-of-the-world attitude, struts over. His blue eyes scan me up and down, and with that infuriatingly sexy smirk—much as I hate to admit it—he says, "Nice ass."
The comment hits me like a punch. A jolt shoots through me, a traitorous heat I can't control, and I grip my hands tighter to avoid total humiliation. Damn it, why does he have to be so in-your-face? His wink only makes it worse, sending my face burning and my pulse racing. I shoot him a death glare, hoping my anger hides how much he's rattled me. That jerk has no idea who he's messing with.
"Alright, ladies, care to lend a hand?" Noah's voice booms through the main room of the house, a flashy mansion on Old Campus with polished wood walls and a beer stench that's practically part of the furniture.
A group of Delta Kappa Delta girls steps out from behind us. There's one for each pledge, rocking tight shorts that hug every curve and white Greek-letter tees that barely cover the essentials. The vibe in the room heats up, with the brothers cheering like they're at a dive bar.
I turn slightly to see who's behind me. It's a stunning blonde with a smile that's either flirty or just polite—I can't tell. She winks at me, and I'm not sure how to take it. Is she hitting on me, or is this part of the show? My face heats up again. Being gay doesn't make me blind to female beauty. I've been with women before, and it was fine, but it's nothing like being with a guy. I'm strictly into men, but a wink like that… damn, it's hard not to feel flattered.
The brothers' cheers and the girls' laughter snap me out of it. I hear the hiss of spray paint cans in their hands. A cold blast hits my back, making me flinch. The icy paint sends shivers across my skin, and I pray this crap washes off. I glance at the other pledges: some look more lost than I am, probably freshmen who have no clue what they've signed up for. Me, with a year under my belt at Stanford, I feel like an idiot for being here. This is more humiliating than I expected.
The girls finish up and saunter off, giggling, leaving a trail of perfume and paint fumes. Morgan, the Alpha Centauri president, steps forward, striking a leader pose that feels rehearsed in front of a mirror.
"Alright, pledges," he says, his voice slicing through the air. "This is an initiation ritual, but if any campus authority stops you, the excuse is simple: you're staging a free speech protest. The messages painted on your backs are your manifesto, so we're not getting in trouble. Got it?"
He pauses, scanning us with a look that leaves no room for argument. Nobody dares speak.
"Without further ado," he declares, "let the race begin."
The room erupts in shouts, and the pledges exchange glances—some terrified, others fueled by a mix of adrenaline and resignation.
****
Oh, shit, shit, shit. I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm running naked through Stanford's campus, the wind smacking my face and body, trying to get back to the Alpha Centauri house like my life depends on it.
When Morgan gave the signal, almost everyone shot off like Olympic sprinters. I hesitated for a second, my heart in my throat, but then I bolted after them. As I barreled down the stairs of the house on Old Campus, I nearly tripped and faceplanted, the brothers' laughter ringing in my ears. Somehow, I kept my balance and kept running, my shoes slapping the pavement, the rest of me fully exposed to the elements.
These guys are fast. Still, after a few desperate strides, I manage to catch up to the front pack. This is absolute insanity. Outside the house, a crowd had gathered at the entrance, like the whole campus knew we were about to make fools of ourselves. People shouting, laughing, recording with their phones. I focus on not crashing into anyone, trying to keep my junk from bouncing too much with every step. It's humiliating, but I don't have a choice.
Then, fuck! One of the pledges ahead of me slams into a bike on the path near Memorial Church. The poor guy hits the ground with a groan, and I'm pretty sure those scrapes won't fade anytime soon. I dodge him by a hair, my heart pounding like crazy, and keep running like a damn maniac.
We hit White Plaza, the heart of campus, with its palm trees and students milling around like nothing's wrong. Then it hits me: Jackson and Julie. I left them here less than an hour ago, before these lunatics dragged me to the frat house. I don't even want to imagine their faces when they see me like this—naked, with some ridiculous slogan painted on my back.
Honestly, I'm way behind. Those seconds of hesitation at the start cost me, and I doubt I've got a shot at making the top six. Probably not even the top ten. But, damn it! A security guard comes out of nowhere and tackles a pledge ahead of me near the Claw Fountain. The guy drops like a sack of potatoes, and suddenly I see more guards sprinting toward us. This is getting ugly.
I veer through White Plaza, dodging students who scatter, laughing or yelling, and then I spot them: Jackson and Julie, standing by a coffee cart. Julie freezes, her milkshake straw falling from her mouth. Jackson, that bastard, bursts into laughter, doubling over like he's watching a stand-up special. They recognize me instantly, and my face burns hotter than ever.
Jackson's seen me naked before. We play soccer together, and crossing paths in the Arrillaga Center showers was never a big deal. He's always been chill about it. Julie's different. We hooked up a while back, more than once, and while I don't regret it, this is a whole new level of mortification. Running naked through campus with them watching is one of the worst things that's ever happened to me at Stanford.
I've done crazy shit with them, but this takes the cake for the most ridiculous moment of my life. Jackson comes from money and has always tried to help me out, though I turn down his cash. He's a great friend, always hyping me up like some damn motivational guru, and I won't lie—he's ridiculously hot, with that easy charm that draws everyone in. But money ruins friendships, and I'm not risking what we've got.
Julie's another story. She's reserved but fierce and loyal. She's always had my back, like when I started at the café and some jerk customer got out of line. She'd show up, with that no-nonsense glare, and shut them down. I don't fully get her, but I trust her completely.
This can't get worse. We keep running toward the Dish, the campus blurring into palm trees, sandstone buildings, and students filming us. More guards appear, blocking the path near Tresidder Memorial Union. I pass the café where I work, and I swear I see Rose, my boss, peering out the window with a raised eyebrow, probably eyeing my "nice ass." I hope she doesn't hold this over me later, because even if I get into Alpha Centauri, keeping that job for extra cash wouldn't hurt. A guard grabs my arm hard, and for a second, I think I'm done for. I wrestle free, slipping out of his grip, but in the process, I let go of one hand and know I flashed more than I meant to. Jackson and Julie definitely saw it all, and Jackson's laughter echoes in my head as I keep running.
I don't know what to do. If I stop, I'm screwed. So I just keep going, running like my life depends on it, my heart ready to burst and the humiliation burning me from the inside out.