Live from New England, it’s (the Ice Queen on a) Saturday Night!
Posted by The Ice Queen | February 27th | 11:32 PM
Hey there, puck bunnies! Ice Queen here, your go-to gal for the coolest takes on all things Barracudas.
I’m trying something new tonight. I’ve been seeing a lot of livestreams and decided to jump in on the trend. That’s right, your Ice Queen is blogging live! Are you all ready to get the tea while it’s piping hot?
Drew Larney and Jackson Monroe are seated in a booth at one of the newest restaurants in town. I won’t say which one, because that would end with me doxing myself, and we can’t have that, can we?
However, what we do have is BSU’s power couple engaging in what can only be described as the world’s most pathetic display of public affection.
Jackson is reading his economics textbookwhile Drew scrolls through his phone. Their free hands are loosely intertwined on the table as though they’re afraid of catching something from each other. Every few minutes, one of them remembers they’re supposed to be dating and squeezes the other’s fingers. It’s painful to watch.
I’ve been here for almost an hour, and in that time, I’ve witnessed three kisses—closed-mouth pecks that wouldn’t make a nun blush—and one instance of Drew fixing Jackson’s hair. It lasted all of eight seconds before Jackson swatted his hand away to turn a page.
This is not the behavior of two college guys who dry-humped each other into oblivion in a roller rink bathroom. Oh yes, I know about that. Sarah Piper might think she’s the only one with sources, but I’ve cultivated my own network of informants. The girl working the skate rental that night has an incredibly loose interpretation of “employee confidentiality” when provided with the right incentive—and an NDA. According to her, Drew and Jackson stumbled out of that bathroom thoroughly debauched. I’m talking swollen lips, sex hair, and suspicious wet spots on their matching purple spandex.
So, where’s that energy now? Drew’s wearing jeans and a Barracudas hoodie, standard fare. But Jackson—sweet, allegedly dickmatized Jackson—appears to have rolled out of bed and come straight here. He’s wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and basketball shorts, despite the February cold, and has the general aura of someone who hasn’t been properly fucked in days.
Drew Larney doesn’t do celibate. I’ve been tracking his exploits since freshman year, and the man has the sexual appetite of a Roman emperor. Yet here he sits, content to hold hands like they’re in middle school.
Something doesn’t add up. If they’re madly in love, why isn’t Drew spending nights in Jackson’s dorm? Or better yet, why isn’t Jackson christening every surface of the Hockey House? God knows those animals wouldn’t bat an eye. Gerard and Elliot have probably traumatized them all into a state of immunity by now.
When Drew heads for the restroom, Jackson watches him walk away. There’s longing there, sure, but it’s the wrong kind. Not the satisfied afterglow of someone who knows they’ll be getting more later, but the desperate yearning of someone who wants what they can’t have.
“Jackson!” Ryan Abrams appears, sliding into Drew’s vacated seat. “We need to discuss your continued tissue consumption.”
Now,thisis interesting. I lean closer, pretending to be absorbed in my laptop screen.
“Not here,” Jackson hisses, his face flushing red. “And how the hell did you even know where I was?”
“Where else am I supposed to address it? You’re never in our room anymore except to”—Ryan makes a gesture that’s unmistakably meant to represent masturbation—“and Drew told Gerard, who told Elliot, who told me that you guys were going here for dinner.”
Oh. My. God. Jackson’s living with his right hand while his supposed boyfriend is right there, available, and allegedly willing? This is better than Christmas morning.
“Ryan, please,” Jackson begs, glancing around nervously. His eyes slide right over me—I’ve perfected the art of being invisible when needed.
Drew returns from the restroom, and Ryan immediately stands. “Drew, you might want to discuss Jackson’s carpal tunnel. It’s becoming concerning.”
He leaves, and I watch Drew’s brow furrow as he processes this information. But instead of the knowing smirk I’d expect from someone who understands exactly why his boyfriend is wearing out his wrist, Drew simply looks confused.
“Carpal tunnel?” he asks. “From what?”
“Studying,” Jackson says quickly. “Lots of note-taking.”
Drew accepts this explanation with a shrug, and they go back to their pathetic hand-holding routine. No heated stares. No suggestion that they sneak off to take care of Jackson’s obvious problem. Just two people playing the most unconvincing game of boyfriends I’ve ever seen.
My dinner arrives as I formulate my next move. The roller rink performance threw me off—there was something there in those final moments. But whatever that was, it’s not translating to their daily lives. Real couples can’t keep their hands off each other, especially in the first few months. They find excuses to touch, to kiss, to disappear into empty classrooms for a quickie between lectures.
Either Drew and Jackson are the world’s most committed method actors or something else is going on here.
Until next time,
Ice Queen skating off!
25
JACKSON
