Could I Be? (BxB)

Chapter 1

"We're almost there, sweetie," Mom tells me.

I look up from my iPod and glance out the window, watching the town of Palo Alto pass us by. It's a pretty town and it's nice to watch it go by, even though I'm crammed in the back of Dad's SUV with a lot of my stuff. Stanford is only about five minutes away and I can't wait. I was told my roommate was a football player, so I'm pretty stoked to meet him.

Finally, we drive into the front gate of Stanford, my home for the next four years. The car rolls up to my residence house. We climb out of the car, stretch our arms and legs, and start unloading. There are about two-dozen other cars here, unloading their trucks. A few student volunteers help to unload Dad's car.

Mom, Dad, and I carry a few boxes up to the fourth floor and find room 417, my room. The D.A. (dorm advisor) gets the door open for us and we walk in. Half the room is completely bare. The other half is decorated to perfection.

The bed is neatly made, not a sheet out of place, the bookshelf has a few textbooks in it already, along with several trophies with small figurines of football players on top, some of the wall is covered by posters of football players and action shots of games, free weights and a bench press sit next to the desk, a fair-sized flat screen sits on a small dresser at the foot of the bed, and a beautiful guitar rests on a stand next to the bed.

The only thing that's missing is my roommate. "Your roommate must be a very meticulous person," says Dad, walking into the room with a cardboard box in his hands.

"Sure seems that way," I say.

All three of us set down the boxes on my side of the room, next to my bare bed. My name's Eric Swanson, 18 years old, freshman just starting college. I'm here on a full athletic scholarship for baseball, where I'm a pitcher. My 6 foot 3 height gives me an advantage on the mound.

Along with my height is my 180-pound built body from working out and, of course, baseball. I have light brown hair that I tend to sweep to the right in the front, stayed up by some gel. But I wear my lucky baseball cap most of the time, like I'm wearing right now (backwards of course), along with my dark brown eyes. And thanks to genetics, I'm stunning.

I owe most of my looks to Dad. He may be in his mid-forties, but he has this rugged look to him that makes a lot of girls do double takes whenever he passes. He's the same height as me and has greying light brown hair and dark brown eyes as well. The only thing Mom gave me was her nose, which looks feminine on her, but masculine on me (I broke it when I was in 11th grade, so it's a bit crooked, but it still looks good on me).

Mom may be 5 foot 4, but if you don't listen to her, she'll make you regret it (no, she doesn't hurt me. She just likes to be in an authoritative position). She has strawberry blonde hair that she likes to keep in a ponytail and is the same age as Dad (but doesn't look like it at all).

We keep carry box after box up the stairs, placing them down on the floor, on the bed, the desk, and just about every bit of space there is. We finally get the last box into the room and start unloading my stuff. "You must be my roommate."

I look toward the door and the guy leaning against the doorframe almost makes me drop the box I'm holding. He looks to be about an inch shorter than me, but must have at least ten pounds on me, all of it muscle underneath taught lightly tanned skin. He's wearing a t-shirt that's soaked in sweat, basketball shorts, and some running shoes.

He has an incredibly handsome face with a five o'clock shadow, dark brown hair in the shape of a short fauxhawk and cool grey eyes. He also has a smile that seems to light up the room. "And you must be my roommate," I say. I walk over to him and hold my hand out. "Eric Swanson."