College Rules: - Lucky Fucking Freshman

I met him at the “Welcome Back” house party during syllabus week. I was nursing a truly disgusting hard seltzer, wearing a sundress that was probably too short for September, and trying to remember the name of the girl from my Psych 101 lecture.

And here’s the part I don’t tell my mom: It was good . Not magical. Not the movies. But good in the way that makes you forget why you were scared in the first place. He was careful. Attentive. Kept asking, “You okay?” until I finally laughed and said, “Cole, I’m fine. Just shut up.”

I should have said no. I should have remembered every TikTok about “situationships” and every article about freshman girls being prey.

So here’s my advice to every incoming freshman girl: Be lucky. Be a little stupid. Make out with the wrong guy in a room with a dirty floor. But when he says “keep it low-key”? Walk away. College Rules - Lucky Fucking Freshman

Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t believe the hype.

When a guy with that jawline tells you to find him later, you find him later. The Game We didn’t hook up that night. That’s what made it dangerous. We talked . For three hours on the sticky porch. About his econ major he hated. About my plan to double in English and Comm. About the fact that he’d never read a single Emily Dickinson poem, which I told him was a crime against humanity.

And yeah. I also learned that rugby players smell incredible and lie even better. I met him at the “Welcome Back” house

I nodded along. Took notes in my phone. Packed my pepper spray next to my extra-long twin sheets.

But nobody warned me about him . His name is Cole. Junior. Rugby player. Has that effortless messy hair that looks like he just rolled out of someone else’s bed. He was my RA’s friend—which should have been my first red flag. RAs are supposed to be the fun police, not the pimps of the third floor.

“What’s your biggest fear?” (Spiders. And graduating with no plan.) “What’s a memory you’d relive?” (My dad teaching me to drive stick shift.) “Who broke your heart first?” (A boy named Liam. Sophomore year of high school. Cliché.) Not magical

“So,” he said. “Am I your first college… thing?”

The nickname stuck. Over the next two weeks, Cole became a ghost in my peripheral vision. Coffee shop. Library steps. The dining hall at exactly 7:15 PM. Always with that half-smile. Always with a new question.

I laughed. “I look like I’m trying to find the bathroom.”

And then he texted: “Had fun. Let’s keep this low-key though? You know how it is.”

“No.” He kissed my shoulder. “Just makes me feel special.”