I took a long time in the men’s showers, not straying from underneath the hob until I heard Felicity turn the knob off in the shower opposite me.

  Then I waited as she dried herself off, then I waited some more as she wrapped herself up in her casual clothes once again. Why did the fencing team have to have mixed showers again? It wasn’t like that for any sport that I knew of in existence. Any sport that was extremely popular in America, anyway. Genders were segregated into their own changing rooms, so washing up in a stall opposite the most popular girl in college once seemed ludicrous to me.

  But now, it wasn’t. Maybe this was just a European thing that Felicity had brought over from her tours of conquest over there. Even in changing rooms like this, it still felt like the whole Boston University fencing club had dedicated a shrine to her. Trophies and pictures of her giving a big, delightful smile were on full display.

  There were more footsteps, then once I’d heard the last parts of Felicity’s being shuffle outside the changing room doors, I took a deep breath, then moved out, grabbing a towel to wrap myself up in before reaching for another one to dry my hair with.

  I’d never cleaned myself up so fast in my life before. Even dressed in a towel, I still fretted about Felicity making an innocuous blunder by coming back in and seeing my flabby abdomen on full display. I really needed to get down from twenty percent body fat to fifteen percent. All those hours spent playing Overwatch 2 in the evening weren’t exactly helping me.

  I took a bit longer than I needed to getting dressed. I hoped she was gone when I left. I hoped I didn’t need to have one more strange, grumbling conversation where I was lost in the depths of her red hair and her freckles and the way she had me tightly wrapped around her finger in much the same manner that Benjamin had with Winona.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Irish Navajo was letting itself be pushed around by the same rich kids we ranted about in our songs. Maybe instead of saving face through fundraisers, we should just ask the Cohen and Brigham family foundations to donate on Irish Navajo’s behalf instead.

  But Felicity was outside in the hallway, waiting for me, her mind lost among all the flyers posted on the student notice board. A familiar sight to me, considering how many times I’d sticky-taped Irish Navajo’s latest attempt at a concert on there. Student bands lived or died on how much space they took up, and Irish Navajo always felt like it was in a constant state of life support.

  “I thought you would’ve left by now,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I… wanted to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to be in a music video.”

  “Alright,” I said. “Which wannabe rock band needs Felicity Brigham for much-needed star power?”

  Felicity smirked. Subconsciously, I was beginning to realise it was always a sign that bad news and troubled times lay ahead.

  “No, silly,” Felicity giggled, pressing her fingertips against my chest. “I’m going to be in a music video for Irish Navajo.”

  I looked over at the notice board, and I noticed a poster with Irish Navajo’s logo in the middle. It was by Winona. I knew that. She was the only person who could draw a smiling, anthropomorphic shamrock with a Native American headdress well. Underneath were calls for a male and female actor for Irish Navajo’s first ever music video, and that it was to be directed by Benjamin Cohen in his music video directorial debut.

  I grabbed hold of the poster, then tore it up with my hands. I didn’t even hesitate. I was fucking fuming at Winona at this point. First booking us for O’Briens without asking me, now meandering into making a music video with Benjamin as well.

  “Is everything alright, Nathan?” Felicity asked. The words felt hollow to me. Rehearsed. But I pretended not to hear her. Instead, I just threw the poster upon the ground and stamped on it, then moved down the hallway without her.