Face-Slapping12 min read
My Dorm Supervisor Life: Running Into My Ex at the Sports College
ButterPicks13 views
I still remember the first day I walked into Building 11 as its new dorm supervisor and thought: this was a retirement preview I could get used to.
"You're really the dorm supervisor now?" Nicole gawked on the phone.
"Yes, and don't get jealous," I said, smiling at the boys passing by outside the window.
I lounged in the small office that came with the job, air-conditioner buzzing, seeds between my teeth. I had my uncle to thank—he was in administration and slipped me the position. The pay was small, but the hours were light. More importantly, the campus at S University was full of athletic boys who thought physique was a syllable of their name. I didn't need men in my life; I chose them like a hobby: look, enjoy, move on.
A freshman with suntanned cheeks knocked politely and asked, "Sister, can I add you on WeChat?"
"Of course," I laughed, putting on my warmest matron smile. "I'm the dorm supervisor for this building. Come find me if you need anything."
He left with stunned eyes. My phone started pinging with friend requests. I fed a few handsome profiles to Nicole—she needed material—and went back to my drama.
"Brooke!" Nicole squealed when I sent her the picture-of-the-day. "You actually did it."
Then a friend request popped up: Jackson Fisher. I froze.
"Jackson?" Nicole stared. "Your Jackson?"
"Yes," I said, and then I tapped Accept because curiosity is a kind of comfort food.
We had been young. I had been a top student, specially admitted to college early; he was the junior I had chased like a sprint. He was reckless beautiful, the kind of boy whose profile photo made girls trade advice like currency.
We used to be a little soap opera ourselves.
"Did you really date Jackson Fisher?" the freshman whispered to his friend when he saw me once.
"Yes," I said aloud, because the campus likes facts.
The history with Jackson wasn't long: I worked to win him, he warmed, we kissed in awkward places, and then—he cheated. I saw him hand-in-hand with Kayleigh Dodson near the library, and the world under my feet felt strangely like a stage prop being pulled away. He texted, "Let's break up," as if we were a book he no longer wanted to keep. He left; I deleted him. That was that. I moved on.
Until he turned up at 1101.
The day the roach in Room 1101 caused freshman screams, I ran in my slippers, adrenaline-pumped. The four sports boys clung to chairs while the little roach twitched on the floor.
"Miss, what do we do?" a giant called, voice trembling.
I grabbed a can of spray and ended the insect’s short life in a spray hiss.
When I turned, the door of the neighboring room was open and Jackson was there, hair wet, water shining down his chest. He looked like a postcard: training sweat, wet hair, the kind of boy who could make a heart think in inches.
"Thanks," I said, attempting indifference.
He nodded, dark eyes unreadable. "No problem."
He helped without making a big deal. Simple, efficient. That unsettled me more than any drama.
Days at S University filled with small scenes: me feeding boys, fixing bedsheets, turning off lights, receiving calls from my old friend Nicole, and getting to know Muriel Hu—the retired woman who covered weekends—who in turn had a son in the freshman physics cohort. Muriel's son, Logan Reed, was fast to offer help and even faster to make my coin-run to the cafeteria smooth.
"Let me pay," Logan said once, card sweeping like it had always belonged to him.
"That was sweet," I told him, watching his long fingers.
Muriel had been instrumental. "Brooke, you should have a young man," she said. "My son is around your age gap—three years younger maybe, but that's good. Girl older, arms stronger."
"Muriel," I laughed, "I'm here for a quiet shift, not matchmaking."
But Muriel's matchmaking sense was like a magnet. She nudged, she suggested, she signed me up in the universe.
"He's Logan Reed," Muriel said like a fact. "Physics boy, good blood, plays ball sometimes."
"He's a freshman," I reminded her. "That's like dating a library book."
Yet Logan and I found ourselves close quickly. He was polite, gentle, protective in a boyish way that never felt suffocating. He joked, blushed, and even checked for danger when I jumped down off the stands to hand him a bottle of water during the university basketball pre-finals.
"Don't do that again," Logan scolded, cheeks flushed. "It's dangerous—what if you fall?"
"I climb better than your captain," I teased. "Besides, who would keep you hydrated?"
"Me," he said, eyes soft as if the answer were simple.
The week of the big match between the physics department and the sports college smelled of sweat and victory. S University was a cauldron of fans and flags. I sat with my picnic basket Prepared by Muriel: water, snacks, sunscreen, a folding chair, an umbrella and, inexplicably, pom-poms.
"Muriel!" I called. "You did too much."
She waved. "All for the team. And for your practice cheerleading."
The match was a magnet. The two teams were about hearts—Logan for physics in blue, Jackson for sports in red. Fans split into colors like a river branching.
"Who do you support?" a girl behind me asked.
"Both," I said. "I came to watch the game."
The first quarter ended tight. Tension crawled like a summer mosquito. I was watching Logan's nimble plays when suddenly a trash can dented from somewhere across—Jackson slammed it with a basketball in anger.
"What did he do that for?" Muriel whispered. "Is he upset?"
"He always was dramatic," I said. "Don't let it distract you."
A while later, Kayleigh Dodson slid into the crowd near me and started whispering in my ear with a smile too bright.
"You must be Brooke?" Kayleigh said, a honeyed tone in her voice. "Jackson's told me stories."
"Good stories?" I asked. I kept my face still.
"The kind that make you laugh," she said, and I smelled the world's oldest scent: territorial sweetness.
The game continued, close as a whispered secret. In the last thirty seconds, Logan's team trailed by one. His palms were steady; Logan leaped and put a perfect three-pointer through the net. The whistle blew.
"Yes!" The crowd rose, Logan's teammates lifted him. I clapped until my hands ached.
Kayleigh leaned close, eyes like glass. "You must be thrilled. He's still thinking of you, you know—Jackson. We all know he never stopped."
"Is that so?" I said flatly. "Then why is he here playing if he still thinks of me?"
"You don't understand," Kayleigh began, lowering her voice. "Jackson's father—there was an accident at his construction site. People were hurt. The family needed help clearing things. Jackson's father... he avoided charges because someone had pull. Someone's help required something... personal."
"This is ridiculous," I said. "Why tell me?"
"Because," Kayleigh said softly, "you should know who you're dealing with. He made a choice."
My ears filled with static. The crowd cheered, and I felt strangely distant.
After the match I went looking for Logan. I found him at the lakeside, jacket over his shoulders, gaze empty.
"You did amazing," I said, sitting beside him.
"You were loud," he said, and that was all at first.
"Kayleigh told me something before the final," I said slowly. "She said... she helped the Fishers?"
Logan did not answer immediately. He dropped his voice. "When Jackson's father had trouble, someone arranged a way out. That someone was connected to the Fishers. Jackson chose to be with Kayleigh then, because she was part of the deal—because she could secure his father's safety. Not because he loved her."
"That's awful," I whispered. "If that's true... then what was I?"
He took my hand and squeezed. "You were someone who loved him honestly."
We sat there for a long time. The lake held our reflections, quiet as a secret. Logan's hand was warm, small, reassuring.
Weeks passed. Logan became my small sun—calling, helping, showing up. Muriel's approval came like a warm blanket.
One evening, at a small campus banquet where alumni and some faculty gathered, I never expected to become an instrument of truth. The banquet hall glowed like cut amber, full of professors and students both proud and petty. Jackson and Kayleigh were there too, gliding like celebrities under chandeliers.
"Brooke," Muriel whispered into my ear as she sat me down at a table near the stage. "If you ever want to say what you know, better to say it now. There are people who should know."
I clenched my fork until the prongs bent. Muriel's eyes were steady. Beside her, Logan's presence hummed like music.
The emcee called for a toast, and the hall rose. Glasses tinked. I stood, and the room listened in the way a theater listens when the lead inhales.
"Excuse me," I said, voice steady though my heart thudded. "I have to say something."
Silence folded into the room.
"What you are about to hear involves honesty and choices," I began. "Once, I loved someone who left me for a promise. Today I will say why."
They looked at me like they expected a melodrama. Jackson's jaw tightened. Kayleigh's smile fixed.
"Jackson Fisher's family faced a legal crisis years ago," I said, meeting his eyes. "There was pressure; a way out was offered. That way included—according to someone close to the matter—having Jackson enter a relationship with a person who could influence things. He chose that path. He chose to be comforted by a bargain, not a heart."
A murmur rippled. Jackson's face drained color.
"You knew?" Kayleigh whispered, but loud enough.
"Yes," I answered. "I knew because I met it in pieces: rumors, whispers, and then a direct confession from someone who benefited by staying close to him. You may call this story rumor or slander. But Jackson—"
Jackson sprang up. "Are you accusing me?" he barked, voice loud enough to make forks tremble. "You have no proof, Brooke."
"I have pieces," I said. "I have Kayleigh's own words tonight—"
Kayleigh's mouth opened but no sound came; her smile froze.
"This is slander," Jackson shouted. "You're ruining people!"
"Am I ruining them," I asked softly, "or exposing the choice they made?"
A professor at the head table stood. "We don't tolerate accusations in this setting," he said, attempting official calm. "If there are legal matters—"
"Professor," Muriel cut in, slow and clear. "If the university is to honor truth, we mustn't shield deals that harm others. Jackson, you were my neighbor once, friendly, polite. You left hurt in others' hearts."
Jackson's face had gone from red to white. He looked around and saw no one rallying. The eyes that had cheered for him at matches now measured him like evidence.
Logan stood beside me then, his hand finding mine in a way that spoke more than words. "I believe her," he said, quiet but audible. "I believe that someone made a choice."
"You think you know everything," Jackson snapped at Logan. "You think you're the judge?"
"Maybe not," Logan said. "But I don't think those who profit from pain should be applauded."
The lighting hummed. Cameras flicked in pockets. A few students began to film; in a campus world, a story becomes permanent once screens record it.
Jackson's face shifted through stages I had seen in movies: confusion, anger, denial, then collapse.
"No—you're lying," he stammered at Kayleigh. "You promised—" He faltered.
Kayleigh's composure cracked like ice underfoot. "I did what I had to do," she blurted. "I wanted the security. I didn't expect—"
"You didn't expect what?" Jackson demanded. "You didn't expect people to see us? You didn't expect consequences?"
A cluster of students murmured, some whispering, "So it was a deal." Others, "How could he do that?" Cameras whirred.
Jackson's eyes flicked to his father at the table—an older man flush with wealth who shifted uncomfortably, glancing at faculty and then away. The room watched the tableau: a man who had bought protection now faced the price of exposure.
"You're ruining my family!" Jackson shouted, his earlier arrogance dissolving into pleading. "You're ruining my father's name!"
"You chose your father's name over people's hearts," I said. "You chose a bargain with pain attached. People deserve to know."
Jackson's voice broke. "I loved you—" he said suddenly to me, shockingly raw. "But I couldn't risk—"
"You risked my trust," I answered. "That's not love. That's calculation."
The onlookers shifted: some grimaced, some whispered, some began to clap slowly. People were deciding what side to take. The clapping grew—soft at first, then louder. Some applauded my courage; others looked away.
He fell silent, the bravado gone. Kayleigh sank into her chair, eyes rimmed with sudden tears and confusion. Students took pictures. Someone recorded the exchange and already uploaded it. Within minutes it would be on feeds, in group chats, dismissed or dissected. The punishment wasn't legal. It was public, social, and stark: Jackson's truth was unraveling in front of a crowd that had once cheered his jumps.
"Do you want us to leave?" Jackson whispered finally, voice small.
"Not yet," I said. "Stay and answer. Did you choose me, or did you choose a way out for your family?"
He stared at me, and the denial flickered out. The weight of the room pressed on his shoulders.
"How could you?" Kayleigh whispered, looking betrayed herself now. "I thought—" Her words broke off.
"I thought I was making the right choice," Jackson said, and his face crumpled with pity and shame. He sank into the nearest chair, and the room hummed with the sound of judgment, not harsh but utterly final.
For the crowd, the rest was a slow unspooling: people turned away from him, acquaintances avoided eye contact, some students whispered harshly, some professors offered thin words. The social cost of his action was louder than any official penalty. Jackson tried to stand again, to speak, to explain, but the audience had already decided. He saw his isolation with new eyes; the man who once rode cheers now rode silence.
After that night, the campus changed for Jackson and Kayleigh. The couple that had looked comfortable now found themselves targets of ridicule, of cold shoulders, of whispered replays of the banquet. Friends who had taken selfies with Jackson began untagging photos. Sponsors who had been friendly at matches found reasons to step back. The humiliation wasn't a single moment; it was a slow erosion that matched the scale of their choice.
Logan squeezed my hand. "You did it," he said simply.
"I told a truth," I corrected. "People decided how to receive it."
Days later, rumors clarified into facts. It turned out Jackson's father's project had indeed encountered investigations years earlier; favors had been exchanged, and promises made. The university didn't pursue legal action from a banquet. But students had seen. And that, in our little world, was punishment enough.
I sat in my office one evening, the air conditioner humming, seeds in a jar on my desk. A friend from an alumni association stopped by and said, "You handled that well, Brooke."
"It felt vindictive," I admitted. "But it also felt necessary."
"Did you feel like revenge?" she asked.
"A little," I said. "But mostly I felt like a person reclaiming dignity."
Logan came in then, small and sun-weathered, carrying thermal cups. "Coffee," he offered. "You looked tired."
"I am tired," I admitted. "But in a good way."
He smiled, then sat close. "You made a hard choice," he said. "You spoke up in front of everyone."
"Someone had to," I answered. "If I didn't, someone else might get hurt later."
He kissed my forehead like a promise, and the weight of the banquet night lifted a little.
Weeks turned into ordinary kindnesses: Logan bringing extra socks after I ran in the rain, Muriel knitting me a ridiculous blue scarf, Nicole sending gossip updates I pretended to ignore. I found comfort in small rituals: walking the dorm halls, handing out keys, going down to the cafeteria to test the celeriac soup.
People changed sides quietly. Some apologized; others simply moved away. Jackson kept to himself more. He tried to patch things up in private—messages, calls, and a few awkward apologies that I refused. In time, his attempts looked like a child collecting pebbles to cover a pit: earnest, but inadequate.
"Why won't you see him?" Nicole asked one night over steamed dumplings.
"Because some things don't deserve re-opening," I answered. "They deserve to be closed."
Logan's and my story blossomed like a quiet flower: small, steady, unflashy. He was patient and present. He learned my odd hobbies, like leaving sunflower seeds in my tea cup as a private joke. I learned his small ceremonies: the way he rubbed his thumb over the rim of a mug when nervous, the way he hummed without realizing it.
"Do you ever wonder what if?" he asked me once, lying on the grass after a movie, stars leaking through the campus trees.
"Sometimes," I admitted. "But then I think about how young he was when he chose to bargain and how staying would have meant explaining that bargain for a lifetime."
He turned to me. "Do you regret not staying?"
"No," I said. "I regret the time I wasted on someone who traded me for convenience, but I don't regret growing out of it."
Logan kissed me then, a gentle press, and the world narrowed to that point.
One evening, months after the banquet, a small campus award ceremony named players for "Integrity in Sport." Jackson Fisher's name was absent. Kayleigh's attendance had dwindled. The winter wind carried whispers. The social world had punished them more effectively than any formal protocol could.
I kept my job, my office, the air-conditioner hum. Muriel still brought baskets to matches. Nicole still sent memes. Logan and I kept walking the campus together, pockets full of late-night fries and our hands full of easy conversation.
In the end, what I learned was simple: standing up doesn't always mean creating a spectacle. Sometimes it means telling the truth at a table full of faces and letting the consequence be what it will. People will watch, judge, tweet, clap or boo. The important part is that truth has a voice.
"Do you ever think about Jackson?" Nicole asked weeks after everything had quieted down.
"Sometimes," I said. "Not because I miss him, but because his choices remind me what I won't accept."
"And Logan?" she teased. "You look... lighter."
"I am lighter," I answered. "And happier."
We walked back into the dorm light, past boys lifting weights under dimmers, past laundry machines and the smell of fried snacks. The campus hummed with life, with people making choices. My life as a dorm supervisor wasn't glamorous, but it was mine. I had coffee, students who respected me, and a boy who treated me like an equal.
Outside my office, somebody had scribbled on the noticeboard: "Truth Matters." I smiled and left it be.
The End
— Thank you for reading —