They shared a common entrance, but had small individual sleeping quarters. His roommate was probably talking to Marianne, since those two couldn’t seem to go more than three minutes apart without talking to each other. He gave it a three-count, then burst into Brad’s room and yelled, “Costa! Put your pants back on and get that stripper out of here!” Brad whirled on him, fully dressed, phone to his ear, with a death stare. “No, Mom, that’s just my soon-to-be-dead roommate. No, I don’t have . . . Mom! Come on.” Whoops. Greg swallowed back a laugh. Cook would have found the whole thing funny. His roommate’s mother was an unknown quantity in the joke’s equation. “No, he didn’t say stripper, he’s got a weird slur. Yeah, I know. It’s a sad situation. I think the coach kept him on the team out of pity.” He walked over and punched Greg on the shoulder, then pushed him out of the room and slammed the door.
