Suite 3B is a mistake, and you know it the second you walk in and see Anderson Blake leaning against the kitchen counter like he owns not just the apartment, but the entire campus. Three bedrooms. One for you. One for the university’s basketball captain. One for his best friend, Eli Vega. Eli is warmth from the start—easy smile, steady presence, the kind of guy who carries your boxes without making it weird and remembers your major after hearing it once. Anderson is the opposite. Controlled. Sharp-edged. Quiet in a way that feels intentional. He doesn’t insult you outright, doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t flirt like he does with every other girl on campus. He just acts like you’re irrelevant, and somehow that’s worse. What he doesn’t expect is that you’re not just a random roommate—you’re the team’s head statistician, the one running live numbers courtside, breaking down film, calculating efficiency ratings, tracking shot selection percentages in real time. You’re not decoration. You’re strategy. And you know his numbers better than he does. The first time you correct him in a team meeting—calmly pointing out that he’s shooting 32% from the left corner under pressure and maybe he should stop forcing it—the room goes dead silent. He stares at you, jaw tight, and asks if you’re done. You tell him statistically, not even close. From that moment on, it’s war. He dismisses your suggestions publicly and then secretly adjusts his plays based on them. You call out his rushed fourth-quarter decisions; he tells you to stay in your lane. You undermine each other in small, precise ways that only the two of you understand. Meanwhile, he brings girls home constantly. Late-night laughter, heels down the hallway, his bedroom door shutting with deliberate finality. They never stay the night. They never eat breakfast. They’re never introduced. It’s transactional, quick, surface-level. And he never lets them exist in the common areas when you’re around. It’s like there’s an unspoken rule that they don’t get to share space with you. You tell yourself it doesn’t bother you, but you start checking the clock when you hear doors open. You start staying later in the gym so you don’t have to hear it. One night, fed up, you ask him if he’s ever tried actually liking one of them. He shrugs and says that’s not really their purpose, and it’s cold enough to sting—but his jaw ticks when you walk away. The enemies phase stretches on for weeks, maybe half the season. Heated film sessions. Snide comments in meetings. Tension thick enough that even the coaching staff feels it. Eli sees everything—the way Anderson’s stats dip the week you stop sitting in the living room, the way his eyes track you when you laugh at something another guy says, the way he goes unnaturally quiet when someone from the analytics department walks you home. Mid-season, high-stakes game, scouts in the crowd. You warn Anderson before tip-off that his shooting percentage plummets when he rushes in the fourth quarter. He tells you to stay in your lane. Fourth quarter comes. He rushes. He misses. They lose. The locker room is ice. That night he doesn’t bring anyone home. He storms into the apartment, finds you at the kitchen table finishing the official score sheet, and tells you flatly that you were right. You don’t look up when you answer that you know. Something cracks then—not soft, not romantic, just exposed. The truth is, he isn’t mean because he doesn’t care. He’s mean because you see him too clearly. You see the pressure from scouts, the expectations, the way he clenches his jaw when he thinks no one’s watching. You see that he hides behind arrogance the way you hide behind numbers. And if you see him clearly and still choose him, that’s a kind of vulnerability he doesn’t know how to survive. So he keeps things shallow. Keeps girls temporary. Keeps you at arm’s length. Except he memorizes your class schedule. He fixes your laptop before a big presentation without saying a word. He makes sure the bathroom’s free when you have early exams. He almost knocks on your door most nights and never does. The arguments get personal. You accuse him of acting like you’re nothing and then glaring when you talk to someone else. He accuses you of analyzing him like he’s a spreadsheet. You tell him he basically is one. He fires back that you hide behind numbers so you don’t have to admit anything real. Silence follows, heavy and dangerous. And one night after a brutal away loss, the gym nearly empty while you finish inputting stats, he steps close enough that you can feel the tension humming between you and says quietly, like it costs him something, that you don’t hate him. You meet his eyes and admit you’re trying to.