I grab my sweatpants from my bed and yank them on over the briefs, grateful for the coverage even as the fabric settles weirdly over my newly prominent package. My hoodie follows, and suddenly, I’m a normal human being again instead of an underwear model.
“What time are we leaving?” I ask.
Ryan checks his watch—an analog. “We should depart in approximately forty-five minutes. That will give us adequate time to find parking and locate your hockey player acquaintances.”
“They’re your acquaintances too now, buddy. You’re stuck with us.”
“A fact I lament daily.”
I grin at him. Despite his formal weirdness and his inability to dress like anyone born after 1955, Ryan’s become one of my closest friends at BSU. He puts up with my chaos, makes sure I eat my vegetables occasionally, and never judges me for the truly concerning amount of time I spend discussing a certain hockey player.
The beach parkinglot is already packed when we arrive. My eyes scan for one particular figure, and even though I can’t spot him yet, a familiar flutter kicks up in my gut. The one reserved exclusively for moments when Drew Larney might be within a hundred-foot radius.
Sophomore year was supposed to help me figure this shit out. After spending all of freshman year pretending I wasn’t checking out guys in the locker room, I decided to experiment. The sex was fine. Good, even. I knew what I was doing, where everything went, and how to make my partners leave satisfied. But there was always this nagging sensation, as if I was going through the motions and playing a part in someone else’s script.
Then Raymond from my econ class happened. Everybody loved him, me included. We were study partners turned beer partners turned guys who pressed each other against a wall at a house party and kissed. My entire body lit up like a Christmas tree, and my brain—the star on top—exploded.
This was it, the thing I’d been missing. The electricity that everyone talked about.
We stumbled back to his dorm, hands roaming everywhere, ripping the clothes from our bodies. But when he pulled my pants down to my ankles and watched my dick spring up to say hello, I froze. All I could think about was what my teammates would say if they found out. So, I redirected, using my hands on him instead. I watchedhisface contort with pleasure. I watchedhisballs draw up tight.I watched himcome undone on my face.
That became my pattern. Make out with a guy, get them off with my hands, then make up an excuse about early practice and bolt before they could reciprocate. Xavier from the swim team. Fred from my philosophy seminar. That TA from the chemistry department whose name I never learned, but whose broken moans still echo in my dreams sometimes.
Each encounter left me more confused, more frustrated, more…desperate. And now, what’s been even worse is having to watch Drew Larney navigate his sexuality as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. He’ll stroll into The Brew with a girl on his arm on Tuesday, show up to Thursday’s party with a guy from the lacrosse team, and leave the next morning with both. No shame. No second-guessing. Just Drew being Drew.
“How do you do it?” I’d asked him after way too many beers on New Year’s Eve. “Be so open about everything?”
He’d stared at me with bloodshot eyes, and his head tilted as though he was seeing right through my bullshit. “Life’s too short to pretend to be someone you’re not, Jacky.”
Easy for him to say. He didn’t grow up with friends and teammates who’d made “no homo” their catchphrase. He didn’t spend countless nights staring at the ceiling, desperately trying to categorize the butterflies in his stomach as something other than what they obviously were.
“You ready for this?” Ryan asks, pulling me out of my funk.
I kill the engine and give him a megawatt smile. “As ready as one can be for voluntary hypothermia.”
We climb out of the Jeep, and I’m grateful that the briefs have finally stopped trying to castrate me. I throw my arm around Ryan’s shoulders, pulling him into a side hug that makes him squawk indignantly. “You ready to be introduced to the gang?”
“I suppose I have no choice in the matter,” Ryan says, adjusting his scarf.
We start the trek toward the beach, sand already creeping into my sneakers. The January wind whips off the ocean, carrying salt and the promise of frozen balls.
“Okay, so let me give you the rundown before we find them.” I steer Ryan around someone setting up beach chairs. “First up is Gerard Gunnarson. Think golden retriever in human form. Big, enthusiastic, probably too nice for his own good.”
“The one with the posterior that achieved internet fame?”
“That’s the one. The Ice Queen wrote a whole blog post about his ass last semester. Thing went viral. Gerard didn’t even mind—he thought it was hilarious.” I shake my head. “The guy’s impossible to embarrass.”
Ryan nods, filing away the information.
“Then there’s Oliver Jacoby. He’s the team’s big brother. Works at The Brew, makes a mean latte, and will absolutely destroy anyone who messes with his friends. Built like a brick shithouse, but secretly a teddy bear.”
Ryan’s shoulders go rigid beside me. His jaw tightens, and his gaze fixes straight ahead with sudden intensity.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fine.” The word comes out clipped. “The wind is rather biting.”
I glance at his face, noting the way his cheeks have gone from their usual pale to almost translucent. Must be the cold. The wind is brutal out here.
