Tristian Belrose pulled a faded blue t-shirt out of the closet and pulled it over his head. He'd already put on jeans and sneakers, so the shirt was all he was lacking to be ready for the day. It wasn't until he tried to pull the shirt down after getting his head and arms through the holes that this must be a leftover shirt from when he first started college: It was at least a size and a half too small. His beefy biceps strained at the sleeves, his pumped shoulders stretched the fabric fairly taught, and the solid, beefy bulge of his gut caused the shirt to ride up enough that he could feel a bit of breeze on his lower belly. He briefly thought about changing, and then glanced at the radio clock on his dresser and decided he didn't have time. Practice started in a couple of hours, and every second counted. He went out his bedroom door and crossed the hall, banging on the door directly across from his.
"Fridge!" He hollered as he pounded on the door, his baritone voice booming loud enough to wake the dead. "Fridge, wake up!"
There was no answer, and Tristian rolled his eyes. Fridge could sleep like the dead. "Fridge!" He yelled again, banging on the door. When there was no answer he turned the knob and strode in.
Fridge's room bore a strong resemblance to Tristian's in decoration; cheap furniture bought from a department store and assembled during a free weekend, a few random posters here and there, the main difference there was the queen size bedframe Fridge had rescued from the curb and outfitted with a mattress that had cost him the better part of a month's pay.
The biggest difference, though, was the abundance of crumpled up fast food bags and the stack of cleaned out styrofoam carry-out plates sitting next to a veritable tower of emptied pizza boxes. Tristian snorted at the sight. "Slob," he said affectionately; Francis "Frank" Belloise had been Tristian's best friend since pre-school, and he'd been messy his whole life. College only meant he didn't have his mom hounding him to clean up after himself more than once every couple of weeks (when she wasn't hounding Fridge's dad, who was the exact same way). He crossed the room and gazed down at the figure asleep on top of the the bed covers contemplatively.
There was a time Fridge and Tristian had looked pretty similar to each other despite Fridge being blonde as opposed to Tristian's
own brown hair; both tall (though Fridge was taller at 6'4 to Tristian's 6'3), and both well-muscled with a tendency towards burly, well-fed huskiness rather than the shredded physiques their high school teammates aspired to.
College had changed them both. With Coach Zhang (and it was still hilarious to Tristian that Thiccton University's head football coach looked and moved like the star of a Chinese martial arts epic but had the personality and mannerisms of every hot-headed football coach in American history) guiding him, Tristian had taken up a bulking regime that had added 20 pounds of muscle and 35 pounds of fat to his already bulky frame to bring him up from his high school weight of 215 to a solid 270: a more than respectable amount of bulk to throw around on the field).
Fridge had also packed on muscle. But unlike Tristian, he hadn't restrained himself to anything resembling a diet plan. Fridge had always had an appetite (another thing he'd inherited from his father, whose large belly that overhung every belt he own gave testament to years of good food and an indulgent appetite), but without his mother there to nag him into showing some restraint (when she wasn't nagging his dad for the same reason, that is) Fridge had revealed himself to have an appetite that would have embarassed a sumo wrestler. The only reason he hadn't ballooned to the size of a house their freshman year was because Coach Zhang had the whole team running wind sprints and suicides till they felt like they'd puke almost every day.
But even the extreme effort demanded by the Coach couldn't outpace Fridge's appetite completely. Over the last 3 years Fridge had taken copious advantage of the campus meal plan, eating until he looked like he'd explode at almost every meal. He also snacked before, during, and after class, and it was common for him to "pre game" for a meal out with the team by having a whole other meal beforehand to "whet his appetite." It was this penchant for gluttony that had earned him the moniker "Fridge," in point of fact (though opposing teams almost certainly felt like they'd been hit by a refrigerator after being tackled by the fat footballer).
Consequently, Fridge was now a whopping 380 pounds instead of the 230 he'd been in high school, and he definitely looked it. His biceps were like whole hams, his thighs thick as tree trunks, and his rump big and beefy. He even had a small double chin on his filled-out face.
But the thing no one could possibly miss was his belly. Fridge had added weight to his entire frame, but his stomach had sucked up the lion's share of fat as eagerly as Fridge's mouth hoovered up food. Tristian couldn't be sure exactly how big it was, but it bulged outward from Fridge's torso like he was shoplifting one of those giant beach balls people throw around at concerts. It wasn't a sagging jello-sack, either. Sure, it hung over his waistband enough that when he wore a belt (which wasn't often: his girth ensured his pants were in little danger of falling) he had to heft it up to buckle or unbucklen and had to do the same when he needed to tie or untie sweat pants, and it had a fair bit of bounce to it when Fridge was charging across the field towards his unfortunate target, but it was still unbelievably round and firm, and a combination of supple and solid that Tristian was secretly fascinated by. Even now, with Fridge flat on his back and snoring away, it jutted up from his torso like a mountainn steadily rising and falling with each deep breath.
"Fridge!" He said loudly, glancing at the digital clock (identical to his own) that sat on Fridge's night stand. "Fridge, wake up!"
Fridge only continued to snore. Tristian rolled his eyes and smirked. So it was gonna be that way, huh? Well, there was one surefire way to wake his best buddy up.
"Hey, Fridge," he said in a jovial voice, resting his hand on the crest of the belly mountain (and amused by the way his hand steadily rose up and down with Fridge's breathing). "Come on, Fatboy, time to wake up." He gave the outsize stomach a few friendly pats. "Come on, buddy. You don't wanna miss breakfast do you?"
As expected, the mere suggestion that he might miss out on food was enough to rouse the fat jock from his slumber. He blinked blearily before stretching and (somehow) arcing his back so that his belly rose up even higher for a moment. 'You gotta admire that core strength if nothing else,' Tristian thought in bemusement.
"Someone say something about breakfast?" Fridge asked after a jaw cracking yawn, scratching at one chubby cheek. His bass voice was still rough with sleep.
"Yeah. Me," Tristian said. "Now get your fat ass off the bed and let's go or you really will miss breakfast, because there's no way I'll let you make us late on the first day of practice. And if that means you go hungry, so be it."
"Yeah, yeah," Fridge grumbled, waving off Tristian's threats before sitting up and setting his feet on the floor (watching his belly shift with the movement was like watching the boulder come rolling towards Indiana Jones) and heaving himself to his feet. "What are we having man? I'm starving, here!" He gave his stomach's rounded side a few pats with one hand.
"You're always starving," Tristian said, amused in spite of himself. "And I thought..."
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