The Player Next Door ✓

02 | The Devil Himself

Thank you samlubooks for the poster! All posters and character inspiration are on Instagram @natalieinacorner

Chapter 2: The Devil Himself

I'm 50 inches away from Luke Dawson. From all the hotness dripping off of him, what are the chances some of it will rub off on me?

He's a Michelangelo painting come to life. A temptation in male form to abandon morality and make sin a virtue. If I sound dramatic, it's because I am. I've just been dumped.

"There's been a mistake," Luke said, pointblank. "That can't be my roommate."

"She."

He gave me an irritated glance, "What?"

"I'm a she not a that," I explained.

He ignored me and focused back on Khloe, who was rummaging through a lot of random papers behind the greeter's desk.

"I'm so sorry Luke, I don't understand what happened. We thought you were related."

"This has to be a joke," he said, looking around the room as if there were hidden cameras.

Khloe now had tears in her eyes, "I didn't mean for you to be living with a rando like this. Especially that one. I'll get my boss to fix this."

She ran into the backroom and came out seconds later with Mr Woodhouse, the Camp Director. His sunglasses were perched on his cap and he was eating a Cliff bar. He was the woodsy type for sure.

"Luke!" Mr Woodhouse exclaimed, "Our national basketball champion! We're thrilled you agreed to this. You're raising the bar on our athletic capabilities by just being here."

Luke folded his muscular arms across his chest and nodded in my direction, "Why am I rooming with her?"

He does not beat around the bush.

"It's an honest mistake, son. We thought you two were siblings. You live in the same house."

"We don't."

"We live across the street from each other," I said.

"We do?"

"Yes Luke, we do," I mumbled, embarrassed that I was coming across as a creep.

Or a friendly neighbor. I mean, he should know this! I've lived across his house my whole life. He used to kick his soccer ball into our front yard all the time.

"You both have the same address. Look," Mr Woodhouse showed our applications.

My address was 4 Dupont Avenue and his was... 4 Dupont Avenue.

"You put my house as yours?" I asked him, shocked.

Was this, like, my claim to fame now?

I'm joking.

Sort of.

"No, that's my house," he disagreed, reading aloud, "9 Dupont Avenue."

"That's a nine?" Mr Woodhouse brought the page closer to his face, squinting.

I leant over his shoulder to re-read the address myself. His 9 was written like a 4.

"It's chicken scratch," I commented.

Khloe and Mr Woodhouse glared at me. I guess no one appreciates humor at Luke's expense. Jeez, is he sacred now? They probably capitalize His pronoun.

"So, you're not related," Mr Woodhouse contemplated the ramifications of our rooming situation, "Shit."

"We could trade places," Khloe eagerly jumped in, "I volunteer to share the cabin with Luke."