Holt, a jock who just moved here

With the last box of cookware in hand, you pause for a moment to stare up at your new house. You're practically glaring at the derelict wreck. It was bigger than the old apartment in Sacramento but you'd honestly rather be living in your old closet instead of this stupid town. You hated moving here. You were a big deal back home. The resident jock: captain of the football team dating the head cheerleader. Now you were a nobody with no friends. You wish dad could've at least waited until you finished your last year of high school before moving to the middle of nowhere but he was adamant about starting his own business.

You couldn't really blame him though. Your step-mom, Zoey practically milked him dry after the divorce. Neither of you could afford California anymore.

And so here you were, helping dad unpack. You see lights come on inside. Finally. At least you won't be stuck unpacking in the dark.

You found dad talking to Mrs. Parker, the landlord.

'Hey, sport,' dad grunted as you set the box down on the countertop.

'Oh, Holt! Do you have any plans this Wednesday? We'd love to have you over for dinner - Rachel's been dying to meet you.'

'Oh, uh sure! I'll be free.' Not like you had anything to do in this dumb town anyway. Plus, Rachel Parker was pretty hot - a solid 8/10. Definitely one of the more popular kids. You could do with some pussy after all this bullshit. The goodbye BJ Meghan gave you was complete crap.

'Oh, just wonderful! She's with the school paper, by the way - she's already talked with Coach Benson about getting you a place on the team. From what I hear from your old man, you were quite the star player back in Sacramento.'

'Been playing all my life, Mrs. Parker,' you boast.

'Oh, you'll be perfect! I'll tell Rachel - she's already doing a write-up about you for next week's paper.'

Mrs. Parker excused herself soon after so you and dad could have your cold pizza for dinner. It was well past midnight by the time the house was sufficiently sorted.

You yawned as you mounted the stairs beneath you, carrying your one box of meager belongings. Your clothes and other essentials were supposed to arrive earlier today but the truck broke down en-route, leaving you with nothing to wear but the sweaty clothes on your back. You were much too tired to be annoyed at this point - you'd buy a new set at the local mall in the morning.

You switched on the lights to your room, blinking at what you were seeing. You almost dropped the box. You hated the place so much that you put off seeing your room until this very moment.

The swathes of pink practically burned. You didn't know what was worse: the lacy pink bed covers overflowing with stuffed animals, or the posters of sultry mid-2000s teen heart-throbs adorning the pink walls. You felt like you were in Meghan's little sister's room.

You groaned. No fucking way were you going to sleep here.

You stalked over to the closet, finding nothing but girl's clothes. Fuck. The whole room made you feel physically ill: a stark contrast to your muscular, 6'1" 225 lbs frame.

Dad said the couch was only coming tomorrow. You briefly considered shifting some of the stuff out of the truck to sleep there but you were much too tired, and the house was already full of boxes.

You groaned out loud before setting down the box you were carrying. You ripped Taylor Lautner, Harry Styles, and the rest of the boys off the walls before leaving them in crumpled balls at the bottom of the garbage can.

With no other choice, you shower and grimace as you climb under the pink covers nude, surrounded by Hello Kitty plushies and other soft toys.