The New Guy
The morning after was a masterpiece of avoidance.
Paul and Luke moved around each other in the small confines of Room 3B with the practiced, silent grace of dancers who knew their choreography was dangerously flawed. They didn’t speak of the night before. They didn’t touch. They didn’t even make eye contact for more than a fleeting, painful second.
By midday, Paul felt like he was suffocating. He needed to escape. He needed to be somewhere that wasn't haunted by the ghost of Luke’s body on top of his, somewhere his own thoughts weren't a roaring, chaotic mess of euphoria and terror. He needed somewhere sane.
He found himself walking to the humanities building, his feet carrying him to the one place on campus that was the absolute antithesis of the beautiful, violent chaos of his life with Luke: the chess club.
He pushed open the heavy oak door to Room 214 and was immediately enveloped by a comforting, sacred quiet. The air inside smelled of old books, dusty chalk, and weak coffee. The only sounds were the soft, deliberate clicks of wooden pieces on checkered boards and the gentle, rhythmic ticking of chess clocks.
“Paul! Good to see you. I was beginning to worry our reigning champion had been poached by the philosophy department.”
Dr. Evelyn Reed, the club’s faculty advisor, looked up from her game, her sharp eyes twinkling with dry amusement. She was an elegant, formidable woman who appreciated Paul’s strategic mind in a way that felt clean and uncomplicated.
“Never, Dr. Reed.” Paul said, flashing a smile that felt surprisingly genuine. “Just had to get my head on straight for the new semester.”
He scanned the room, a familiar collection of focused, thoughtful faces hunched over their games.
He caught, first at a glance, the form of someone sitting at a back table, alone, was someone new. He was looking down, studying a complex endgame problem in a book, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had dark, neatly styled hair and a lean, compact build hidden under a soft grey sweater. When he pushed his thick-rimmed black glasses up the bridge of his nose, the gesture was so quintessentially studious it was almost a cliché. He was cute, in a quiet, unassuming, nerdy sort of way.
“We have a new transfer this semester.” Dr. Reed said, following Paul’s gaze. “Maddison Sears. From Stanford. Don’t let the quiet demeanor fool you, he comes with quite a reputation.”
As if summoned, Maddison looked up, his brown eyes finding theirs across the room. He offered a small, polite smile and a slight nod before his attention returned to the book. There was no jock swagger, no alpha posturing. Just a calm, self-contained confidence that Paul found instantly intriguing.
Paul grabbed a coffee and spent the next hour moving through the room, playing a few speed games, easily dispatching his opponents. He was in his element here. He was the king. The chaos of the last twelve hours faded into the background, replaced by the clean, satisfying logic of the sixty-four squares. He felt in control.
He was setting up the pieces for another game when a shadow fell over the board. He looked up into the intelligent, curious eyes of Maddison. He was standing beside the table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.
“You’re Paul!” Maddison said. It wasn’t a question. His voice was calm and even, with a warmth that was surprising.
“Yeah… that’s me.” Paul said, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed smile. “And you’re the new guy, huh?”
A flicker of amusement danced in Maddison’s eyes. “I’ve heard you’re the best here.” he said, his gaze dropping to the board between them. “I was hoping for a game, you know... so we can get to know each other better.”
The challenge was direct, simple, and utterly devoid of ego. It wasn't a taunt or a boast. It was a request from one serious player to another and Paul felt a spark of genuine excitement, a thrill that had nothing to do with sex or secrets or the beautiful, complicated mess waiting for him back in his dorm room.
“Pull up a chair, my friend.” Paul said, gesturing to the empty seat opposite him. “But I should warn you, I don’t go easy with anyone, much less the newbies.”
“I wouldn’t want you to.” Maddison replied, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face. He sat down and placed his hands on the table, and Paul noticed they were strong, with long, capable fingers.
They set the clock and chose their colors. Paul drew white. As he pushed his king’s pawn forward two squares, he felt Maddison’s eyes on him. He wasn't just looking at the board: he was studying him. Analyzing him. It was an intense, unnerving, and deeply flattering level of focus. For the first time since Luke had walked back into his life the day before, Paul felt a thrill that was clean, sharp, and entirely his own. And it felt dangerously good.
Paul began with his usual aggressive opening, the Queen's Gambit. It was a power play, a statement of intent. He was seizing control of the center, dictating the terms of engagement from the very first move. It was how he played everything, from soccer to his own chaotic life: with a forward, driving momentum, forcing the world to react to him. He expected Maddison to respond with one of the standard, solid defenses.
But Maddison didn’t.
Instead of meeting Paul’s aggression with a wall of defense, he responded with a fluid, almost passive series of moves that seemed to cede the center entirely. It was unorthodox, unsettling. He wasn't fighting back, he was yielding, redirecting, flowing around Paul’s attack like water around a stone.
“Not a fan of the classics?” Paul asked, a hint of a smirk in his voice as he developed his knight, reinforcing his central dominance.
Maddison looked up from the board, and for the first time, Paul saw a genuine, brilliant gleam in his brown eyes from behind his glasses. “I think the classics are a great way to learn the rules.” he said, his voice a calm, even murmur. “But the most interesting games are the ones that invent their own.” He slid his bishop to a strange, seemingly inactive square on the edge of the board.
The move made no immediate sense. It was a quiet, subtle repositioning that felt like a line from a poem Paul didn't understand. A jolt of unease, mingled with a sharp, thrilling curiosity, went through him. Luke was a physical puzzle, a beautiful, complex machine of muscle and instinct. Maddison was something else entirely. He was a locked room, a cipher, and Paul was suddenly desperate to find the key.
The game deepened. Paul pressed his advantage, his pieces swarming the center like a blitzkrieg. He felt the familiar, intoxicating rush of control. He was the aggressor, the predator. Maddison’s pieces, in contrast, were a scattered, quiet constellation. He seemed to be playing a different game entirely, one of patience and subtle influence.
Twenty minutes in, Paul saw his opening. He could give up his rook, a major piece, to shatter Maddison’s defensive pawn structure and expose his king to a devastating, unstoppable attack. It was a jock’s move—a hard tackle, a powerful shot on goal. All flash and dominance. It was the kind of move that made your opponent’s shoulders slump in defeat.
He picked up the heavy, polished rook, his heart thrumming with the thrill of the imminent kill. He held it for a moment, savoring the victory.
“That’s a tempting move...” Maddison said softly, his voice cutting through Paul’s triumphant haze. He hadn’t looked up. His eyes were still on the board. “It’s what the board wants you to think it wants you to do.”
Paul froze, the rook hovering over the board. He looked at Maddison, then back at the pieces. He re-examined the position, his mind racing, trying to see what Maddison saw. And then, a cold dread washed over him.
It was a trap. A deep, subtle, and absolutely brilliant trap. His sacrifice wouldn’t lead to a checkmate. It would lead to a forced exchange that would pull his queen, his most powerful piece, to the other side of the board. And Maddison’s quiet, strangely placed bishop, the one that had made no sense ten moves ago, would suddenly spring to life, becoming a silent, deadly assassin, trapping Paul’s queen with no hope of escape.
He would lose the game in five moves.
Paul slowly placed his rook back on its original square. His palms were sweating. He looked up at Maddison, who finally met his gaze, a quiet, profound understanding. He had seen it all. He had not just predicted Paul’s move: he had predicted Paul’s psychology. He knew Paul would be drawn to the aggressive, flashy sacrifice, and he had built a beautiful, intricate cage around that instinct.
“Holy shit.” Paul breathed, the words coming out before he could stop them.
A slow smile touched Maddison’s lips. “It’s a beautiful trap, isn’t it? I’ve been setting it up since my fourth move.”
Paul leaned back in his chair, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. He was utterly, completely impressed. He had been so focused on his own attack, on his own power, that he had been completely blind to the subtle, intricate web being woven around him.
The power dynamic had flipped completely. Paul was no longer the predator. He was the one being dissected. The rest of the game was a formality. His aggressive position crumbled, his confidence shaken. Maddison methodically, cleanly, and respectfully dismantled his defenses until Paul, seeing the inevitable checkmate, tipped over his own king in surrender.
“Good game.” Maddison said, his voice sincere as he began resetting the pieces.
“That wasn't a good game.” Paul said, still reeling. “That was a fucking masterpiece. You played me, not the board.”
Maddison looked at him, his expression thoughtful. “The person is part of the game. Their fears, their habits, their desires… it’s all there on the board if you know how to look.” He pushed a pawn forward, offering a new game. “You play with a lot of power. You like to control things.”
The observation was so accurate, so deeply perceptive, it felt like Maddison had reached into his chest and felt the frantic, chaotic beating of his heart. He felt seen. Not just as a jock or a popular guy or even a chess player, but as a person, with all his complicated, messy wiring.
The exhilarating sting of a well-earned defeat was a clean, sharp feeling. It was a challenge. It was a conversation. And as Paul pushed his own pawn forward to meet Maddison’s, he was already desperate to hear what Maddison Sears had to say next.
The gym was Luke’s sanctuary.
It was a temple of iron and sweat, a place where every problem could be simplified, broken down, and pressed away by sheer, brute force. And, after the tense, fragile truce of the morning, he needed it.
He cut across the main quad, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, his path taking him along the edge of the campus lake. The late afternoon sun was a warm, golden blanket over the scene. Students were scattered across the manicured grass, enjoying the last vestiges of summer—reading, napping, laughing.
He heard a sound as familiar to him as his own heartbeat: Paul’s laugh, a full, uninhibited bark of genuine amusement that always made the corners of Luke’s own mouth turn up in response.
Luke’s followed the sound and saw him. Paul was sitting in a small circle on the grass, surrounded by a group of people Luke didn’t recognize, but knew they were from his chess group. Paul was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his face animated and alive with an easy, intellectual joy. He looked completely, effortlessly happy.
He watched as Paul gestured at the board, explaining something, and a guy, by his side, listened with a small, knowing smile on his face. He had never seen that guy on campus before.
He plastered on his easygoing grin and changed his course, walking toward the group. “Hey, nerds!” he called out, his voice a booming, friendly intrusion into their quiet circle.
Paul’s head snapped up, his face breaking into a brilliant, genuine smile at the sight of him. “Luke! Hey, man.” The relief and affection in Paul’s voice were a balm on Luke’s frayed nerves.
“I’m just showing these guys what a real beatdown looks like.” Paul said, gesturing to the board. He seemed to vibrate with a kind of intellectual energy Luke hadn't seen in him before. “Oh, hey, you haven’t met Maddison yet. Luke, this is Maddison Sears. He’s a transfer. And a fucking genius, by the way. Wiped the floor with me yesterday like it was nothing.”
Paul’s praise was a physical blow. A fucking genius. He looked at Maddison, really looked at him for the first time. The guy was unassuming—dark hair, glasses, a soft sweater that hid his build. He didn't look like a threat. But the way Paul was looking at him, with that bright, shining admiration in his blue eyes… that was a threat. That was a five-alarm fire.
“Hi.” Maddison said, offering a polite hand. His grip was firm, his brown eyes calm and intelligent behind his glasses.
Luke took the offered hand, his own grip a little too tight. “Luke.” he said, his voice flat. The friendly grin on his face felt like a cheap plastic mask. “Good to meet you.”
“Maddison was just showing me this insane variation on the Sicilian Defense.” Paul continued, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside Luke. “It’s beautiful, man, you should see it…”
Luke tuned him out. He was watching the easy camaraderie between them, the shared spark of understanding. He felt like an outsider, a dumb jock crashing a meeting of the minds. The cold feeling in his stomach sharpened into a hot, unfamiliar pang. It was jealousy. Raw, potent, and undeniable.
“Cool…” Luke cut in, forcing a smile. “Well, I gotta hit the weights. Don’t let my roomie hustle you too bad.” He gave Paul’s shoulder a rough, possessive squeeze. “Later, man.”
He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply, the sound of Paul’s cheerful “See ya!” following him like an accusation. He didn’t look back. The peaceful scene by the lake now felt mocking, a paradise he’d been exiled from.
By the time he slammed through the doors of the university gym, the jealousy had curdled into a raw, directionless rage. The familiar, comforting smell did little to soothe him. He bypassed the cardio machines, ignored the stretching area, and went straight for the heavy weights, the one place where pain could be a release.
He loaded the bar on the bench press with a reckless amount of weight, more than he’d usually start with. He lay back on the bench, the cool vinyl a stark contrast to the fire in his veins. He gripped the cold, knurled steel of the bar, his knuckles white.
He pushed the weight up. The first rep was easy, a pure explosion of power. But as he lowered the bar to his chest, the image of Paul’s face, lit up with admiration for someone else, flashed in his mind.
A guttural grunt ripped from his throat as he drove the weight back up, the sound more animal than human. He wasn't just lifting iron. He was trying to press away that image, to crush the feeling of being replaced.
He saw Tank and a few other teammates working out nearby. They gave him a nod. He ignored them. He was in his own world of hurt.
“A fucking genius.”
He lowered the bar again, the muscles in his chest and arms screaming. He pictured Paul’s easy, happy smile, the one that Luke had always thought belonged exclusively to him, now being given away for free to some quiet, nerdy transfer.
“RRRAGH!” The sound was torn from his lungs as he forced the bar up, his whole body shaking with the strain.
“Dude, you okay?” Tank’s voice cut through the haze. He was standing over the bench now, his broad face etched with concern. “You’re gonna pop a blood vessel, man. What’s the weight on that?”
“Just working, man.” Luke grunted, his teeth clenched. He immediately started another rep, a self-punishing, reckless act. The weight felt impossibly heavy, a physical manifestation of the ugly emotion crushing his chest. It stalled halfway up. For a terrifying second, he thought he was going to be pinned.
With a final, desperate roar, he locked his elbows, the bar wavering precariously above him before he slammed it back onto the rack.
He lay there, panting, his chest heaving, his muscles screaming in agony. Sweat stung his eyes. But the physical pain did nothing to touch the raw, burning fury inside him.
“Jesus, Luke, take it easy.” Tank said, his voice a low rumble of genuine concern. He offered a hand to help Luke sit up. “You’re gonna give yourself a hernia. What’s gotten into you?”
Luke slapped his hand away, sitting up on his own. “Nothing. I’m fine, man.” he growled, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. But he wasn’t fine. He was a live wire, a downed power line sparking in the rain, and he was just waiting for something to touch him.
That’s when Pamela arrived.
She walked into the weight room looking like a fitness ad come to life, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her body sleek and toned in a matching set of grey workout clothes. She spotted him and her face lit up with a bright, easy smile.
“Hey, you!” she said, walking over. “Sorry I’m late. Professor Sharma kept us over.”
Luke’s gut clenched. “Shit!” he muttered, scrubbing the towel over his head. “I totally forgot.”
Pamela’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “You forgot you invited me to work out with you?”
“No, I just… lost track of time.” he lied, forcing a smile that felt brittle and sharp. He leaned in and gave her a quick, perfunctory kiss that was more reflex than affection. He could feel her trying to deepen it, but he pulled back, clapping his hands together. “Alright! What are we hitting? Legs?”
He threw himself into their workout with a manic, performative energy. He was overly enthusiastic, his voice too loud as he corrected her form on the squat rack, his hands firm on her hips as he spotted her. He was playing the part of the attentive, supportive boyfriend.
He was spotting Pamela on the leg press, his hands resting on her knees as she pushed the heavy weight, when he heard it a low murmur of conversation from two guys working out nearby. He couldn’t make out the words, just the tone. Then, one of them laughed. And in the middle of the laugh, Luke heard a single, distinct word: Pamela’s name.
Luke’s head snapped in their direction. They were two lanky guys from the basketball team, both looking over in their direction. As he watched, one of them caught his eye, then quickly looked away, a smirk still playing on his lips.
That was all it took.
The rage that had been simmering in his veins all afternoon flash-boiled into a white-hot, blinding fury. They were talking about her. His girlfriend. Laughing at her, checking out her ass while she was in a vulnerable position. The disrespect was a physical blow.
“I’m done.” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He let go of Pamela’s knees, the weights slamming down with a deafening crash that made her yelp in surprise.
“Luke, what the hell?” she cried, sitting up.
But he was already moving. He stalked toward the two guys, his body a solid, bristling wall of muscle and rage. They saw him coming, their smirks vanishing, replaced by looks of confusion.
“You got something to say about my girlfriend?” Luke snarled, getting right in the face of the one who had been smirking.
The guy, who was a good four inches taller than Luke but fifty pounds lighter, took a step back. “What? Dude, no, we were just…”
“Just what?” Luke jabbed a thick finger into the guy’s chest. “Just laughing? Having a good time looking at her fucking ass while she’s working out?”
“No, man, it wasn’t like that!” the other guy said, holding up his hands.
But Luke wasn’t listening. He was beyond reason. He saw the first guy’s mouth open to make some kind of joke, a nervous, stupid comment, and that was the final spark.
Luke’s fist shot out, a blur of motion. The punch landed with a sickening, wet crack on the guy’s jaw. His head snapped to the side, and he staggered backward, tripping over a dumbbell and crashing to the floor.
“Keep her name out of your fucking mouth!” Luke roared, standing over the fallen student, his chest heaving.
Chaos erupted. People were shouting. Tank was there in a second, his massive arms wrapping around Luke’s chest, hauling him back. “Luke, stop! What the hell are you doing?”
Pamela rushed to his side, her face pale with horror. “Oh my god, Luke, stop it! What is wrong with you?” she screamed, grabbing his arm.
He tried to shake them off, his body still thrumming with violent adrenaline. “They were disrespecting you, Pam!”
“Disrespecting me?” she cried, her voice incredulous. She pointed a trembling finger at the guy on the floor, who was now being helped up by his friend, blood trickling from his lip. “Luke, stop! That's Brian! He’s in my Tuesday lab group! We were just talking about him this morning!”
The words sliced through Luke’s red haze of fury, a sudden, shocking splash of ice water. He stopped struggling, his body going slack in Tank’s grip. He looked at the guy on the floor, at his confused, hurt face. He looked at Pamela’s horrified expression.
And the rage just… evaporated.
It vanished completely, leaving a cold, hollow space in its place. They weren’t leering. They weren’t laughing at her. They were just talking. The guy probably recognized her, said her name, and laughed at some stupid inside joke from their class. Nothing had happened. It was all in his head.
The realization was so absurd, so pathetic, that a strange sound bubbled up in his chest. It started as a low chuckle, then grew into a full, barking laugh. It wasn't a sound of amusement. It was hollow, unhinged, and utterly devoid of humor. It was the sound of a man who had just seen how completely he was losing his goddamn mind.
Pamela and Tank stared at him, their expressions shifting from anger to genuine fear. The laugh was more terrifying than the punch had been.
Luke shrugged out of Tank’s loosened grip and took a step back, looking at the scene he had created. It was a disaster. And it had absolutely nothing to do with any of them.
He wasn’t fighting for Pamela, he knew it, but he had no words, nor courage, to say anything at that exact moment.
Without another word, he just turned and walked out of the gym, his hollow laughter echoing behind him, leaving a trail of chaos and confusion in his wake.
The library was a fortress against the night.
Paul had retreated there, unable to face the thick, charged silence he knew would be waiting for him back in Room 3B. He was supposed to be reading a dense, assigned text on political theory, but the words were just black marks on a page.
A soft sound, the gentle clearing of a throat, pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up, startled, to see Maddison Sears standing at the end of his carrel.
“Sorry...” Maddison whispered, his voice a respectful murmur in the library's hush. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“No, it’s fine.” Paul said, a genuine smile spreading across his face, surprised at how glad he was to see him. “My brain was a million miles away anyway.”
“Thinking about how you’re going to beat me next time?” Maddison asked, a playful glint in his eyes.
Paul laughed. “Something like that. Mostly I was trying to figure out how you saw that queen trap from the beginning of time.”
Maddison leaned against the bookshelf, his posture relaxed and easy. He was wearing a simple dark green hoodie and jeans, but even in the dim light, Paul was acutely aware of the powerful, athletic body hidden beneath the unassuming clothes. The memory of Maddison’s bare, ripped torso from his imagination—or was it from a real moment he couldn't recall?—was a faint, pleasant hum under his skin.
“It’s just pattern recognition.” Maddison said, deflecting the praise with a small shrug. “You see enough games, you start to see the ghosts of other games inside them. What are you working on?” He gestured to the impenetrable textbook on Paul’s desk.
“Trying to make sense of Machiavelli.” Paul sighed. “Feels like trying to read a different language.”
“He’s a nightmare if you try to take him at face value.” Maddison agreed. “You have to read him like a chess player. Every sentence is a move with a hidden purpose.” He paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Actually… I have a bunch of notes on him from a class I took last year. They might help.”
“Really?” Paul asked, sitting up straighter. “Man, that would be a lifesaver.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Maddison said. “Hey, I was going to have a study session tomorrow night to prep for Sharma’s class. My room. If you wanted to… you know. Join. We could trade notes. Machiavelli for Whitman.”
The invitation was simple, direct, and blessedly uncomplicated. It wasn't a challenge or a demand. It was just an offer. A quiet, sane, and incredibly appealing offer. The thought of spending an evening in Maddison’s calm, ordered world instead of navigating the emotional minefield of his dorm room felt like being offered a lifeline.
A surge of warmth and excitement spread through Paul’s chest. It was a feeling of lightness, of possibility. “Yes.” he said, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah, that sounds great. I’d love that.”
Maddison’s face broke into a slow, genuinely warm smile that made his intelligent eyes crinkle at the corners. “Cool...” he said. “It’s a date.” He seemed to catch himself, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “Fuck!… A study date. I mean.”
“A study date.” Paul confirmed, his own smile widening.
“Cool, cool… I-I’ll text you my address...” he said. “See you tomorrow, Paul.”
“See you then, Mads.” Paul replied.
He watched Maddison walk away and he turned back to his book, but he didn’t see the words anymore. He felt a sense of calm settle over him, a feeling of hopeful anticipation that had been absent for months. He was looking forward to tomorrow night, to a few hours of quiet conversation and intellectual sparring. It felt like a step into a different, simpler world.
He had no idea that the quiet game he’d just agreed to had already drawn blood across campus. He had no idea that the man he was running from was, at that very moment, unraveling in a storm of violence and jealousy, a storm that was gathering force and heading directly for him. All he knew was that for the first time in a long time, he felt a flicker of something that wasn't complicated.
He felt a flicker of peace.
