“Then there’s Drew.” I try to keep my voice casual, but something warm blooms in my chest just saying his name. “He’s, uh, kind of a playboy. Dates everyone. Very confident. We’ve gotten pretty close since our friend groups merged.”
“The hockey player you mention approximately seventeen times per day?”
“I do not mention him seventeen times per?—”
“Yesterday alone, you referenced him while brushing your teeth, eating breakfast, walking to class, during class, after class?—”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” Heat crawls up my neck that has nothing to do with physical exertion. “He’s my friend. Friends talk about friends.”
Ryan’s eyebrow arches in that knowing way that makes me want to shove him into the sand.
“And lastly, there’s Kyle Graham.” I barrel forward before Ryan can psychoanalyze my Drew situation any further. “Grumpy as hell. Looks like he wants to murder everyone in his general vicinity. But the guy’s brilliant—he has a 4.0 GPA. Don’t let the death glare fool you.”
“A tetrad of fascinating personalities,” Ryan observes. “The golden retriever, the big brother, the playboy, and the curmudgeon. It sounds like the setup for a sitcom.”
“Trust me, living with themisa sitcom. A really chaotic, occasionally homoerotic sitcom.”
Another gust of wind slams into us, and I instinctively hunch my shoulders. My sweatpants flap against my legs, but underneath, everything stays secure.
“Hey, Ryan?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for the underwear advice.” I adjust myself through my pocket as subtly as possible. “My penis is snug as a bug in a rug right now. No frostbite for these family jewels.”
“I’m thrilled to have contributed to the preservation of your reproductive capabilities.”
“You should be. Future generations of Monroes depend on it.”
We crest a small dune, and the beach opens up before us. A registration tent flaps in the wind, volunteers in bright orange vests directing participants. Beyond that, the ocean stretches gray and angry, waves crashing against the shore with the enthusiasm of someone who really wants to ruin your day.
And there, clustered near a lifeguard stand, I spot them. The hockey team. At least a dozen guys in various stages of undress, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air.
Gerard’s impossible to miss—he’s doing lunges in nothing but those ridiculous pink swim trunks. Oliver stands beside him, arms crossed over his impressive chest, looking like a bodyguard at a particularly cold nightclub. Kyle lurks at the edge of the group, already in his black swim shorts, scowling at the ocean.
And Drew is…pulling his shirt over his head, revealing abs that have no business existing outside of a magazine. His skin pebbles in the cold, and when he tosses the shirt aside, my stomach drops to my knees.
Ryan makes a small noise beside me. When I glance over, he’s staring at Oliver with an expression I can’t quite read.
Fear? Recognition? Indigestion?
“Come on.” I grab his elbow and drag him toward the group. “Time to meet the chaos.”
THE BERKELEY SHORE GAZETTE
CAMPUS NEWS & CULTURE SINCE 1923
From Hockey Butts to Happily Ever After: The Ice Queen’s Greatest Obsession Finds Love
A retrospective on Gerard Gunnarson’s journey from campus heartthrob to one-half of BSU’s most unexpected couples
By Sarah Piper
Staff Writer
When my best friend accidentally became the co-lead in this semester’s most deranged campus soap opera, I knew I had to document the madness. Consider this my official statement for the historical record—written by possibly the only student at Berkeley Shore who hasn’t joined the Gerard Gunnarson Gluteal Appreciation Society.
Yes, you read that correctly. People have gone gaga for his blemish-free peach, his large hands, and even his colossal feet. Apparently, when you’re a 6’5” hockey god, every part of your anatomy becomes public interest and subject to intense scrutiny by an anonymous blogger, the Ice Queen.
