“Do you suppose the Ice Queen will make an appearance?” Ryan asks, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “If the hockey team does participate, I could see her documenting the spectacle on her blog.”
“You know about the Ice Queen?” My words come out garbled through a mouthful of beef and cheese. I swallow hastily. “Wow! Color me surprised. Mr. 1950s-Throwback knows about our resident anonymous blogger.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I am aware of current events. Her posts are also featured in theBerkeley Shore Gazette.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jackson asks as he steals one of my fries.
“The campus newspaper,” Ryan explains with the patience of someone teaching kindergarteners their ABCs. “It’s been in publication since 1923. They have print and digital editions now.”
“There’s a campus newspaper?” I ask, genuinely shocked. With two and a half years at BSU under my belt, this is somehow news to me.
“Of course there is. Elliot’s friend Sarah is the lead journalist for both the sports and gossip columns. She mentioned to Elliot, who told me when he visited Jackson the other day, that the Ice Queen has been conspicuously silent since Gerard and Elliot became official.”
I process this information while I drag a fry through a dollop of ketchup. The Ice Queen’s first blog post last semester was about Gerard’s ass. It broke the internet and snowballed from there.
“Perhaps this event could mark her return to form.” Ryan scratches his nose and finishes his glass of water. “Maybe she’ll find a new subject to follow, if anyone catches her fancy.”
I lean back in the booth, considering. “You know what? That’d be pretty cool. Why should Gerard get all the fun and attention? I mean, sure, my ass isn’tquiteas massive, but it is bubbly.”
Jackson violently chokes on his soda, sputtering and coughing as it goes down the wrong pipe. I pound his back.
One of Ryan’s eyebrows rises as he eyes me with newfound interest. “I wasn’t aware you had such confidence in your backside, Drew. Or that there’s a hierarchy of posterior quality on the hockey team.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of confidence.” I grin, enjoying the way Jackson’s ears turn pink. “These hockey glutes didn’t build themselves, bud. It’s been hours of skating and squats in the gym. Hell, everyone on the team has a derriere worth talkingabout. Gerard’s is obviously number one, but Oliver’s close behind, thick and muscular, and Kyle’s is a boulder.”
“Please stop,” Jackson strangles out.
“What? All I’m saying is that if the Ice Queen wants new material, there are options.” I pop another fry into my mouth and watch Jackson become laser-focused on his fingers. “And if the Ice Queen wants to write about me diving into freezing water for charity, more power to her. I can only hope she captures my best angle.”
The conversation soon drifts to other topics. Classes starting soon. Jackson’s depression over the football team not getting into the playoffs. Ryan’s theory about the dining hall using expired milk. But eventually, we circle back to the Polar Bear Plunge.
“You really think the hockey team will do it?” Jackson asks.
“Fuck yeah. When have we ever backed down from doing something wild and crazy?”
Darlene appears again, slapping the check down on the table.
“I’ve got it,” I say, reaching for the slip of paper at the same time as Jackson. Our hands collide, and for a second, neither of us moves. His fingers are warm against mine, and I can feel the calluses from throwing footballs. I fleetingly wonder what it’d be like to have his hand wrapped around my cock, cupping my balls, squeezing my ass.
Ryan clears his throat loudly, and we jerk our hands back as if we’ve been burned. Jackson’s ears are pink again, while heat creeps up my neck. I yank out my wallet and throw down enough cash for everything plus a tip.
I slide out of the booth, and my legs protest the movement, still sore from practice. We file out of the diner into the crisp January night. The temperature has dropped since I arrived, and our breath forms clouds in the air. The parking lot is mostlyempty except for a few cars and one couple making out against a Toyota Corolla.
“Saturday morning. Berkeley Shore Beach?” Jackson confirms, sliding his gloves on.
“I’ll tell the team tonight,” I promise. “Prepare for an invasion of beefy hockey players.”
“I’ll bring the first aid kit,” Ryan adds. “And some thermal blankets.”
“Thanks for joining us, Drew. This was fun.” Jackson smiles at me, and something warm bubbles up in my chest, making my steps lighter as I head toward my truck.
“See you soon, Jacky,” I say, throwing in his nickname so I can watch him blush one more time.
I parkmy truck in front of the Hockey House and sit there for a minute, basking in the phantom pressure of Jackson’s thigh against mine. The porch light flickers, threatening to die as it has been for the past two years, and music thumps from inside. Not just any music—“Holding Out For A Hero” at maximum volume.
What fresh hell awaits me inside tonight?
Getting out of my truck, I jog up the walkway, push through the front door, and freeze. Gerard, Oliver, Kyle, and Nathan are in the living room, holding Wii remotes, trying to follow theJust Dance 2015choreography on our fifty-five-inch TV. It’s like watching bears try to perform Swan Lake.
