I’ve been to enough of Jackson’s games to recognize most of the faces. But up close, his teammates are more of a buffet of beef than I had ever realized.
“Guys, this is my friend, Drew Larney.” Jackson claps me on the shoulder and squeezes gently, soothing the wild thumping of my heart. “He plays center for the hockey team.”
“Hockey, huh?” A guy with biceps the size of cantaloupes extends his hand. “I’m Arthur, tight end. Heard you guys are pretty good.”
“Prettygood?” I scoff, shaking his hand and trying not to wince at his grip. “We’re fucking legendary. Ask anyone.”
The group laughs, and another teammate introduces himself as Tyrell. “Are we crazy for doing this? The water has to be, what, thirty degrees?”
“Thirty-seven.” I researched everything about the ocean last night when I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about hypothermia,notabout Jackson in swim trunks. “Perfect temperature for separating the men from the boys.”
“Or the sane from the insane,” Arthur adds.
“Attention, everyone!” a voice screeches through a megaphone, making us all turn. A group of sorority girls in matching pink parkas stands on a makeshift platform. They remind me of an army of Elle Woods preparing for battle. The one with the megaphone, a blonde whose ponytail defies both gravity and the wind, continues speaking. “Welcome to the Berkeley Shore Polar Bear Plunge!”
The crowd cheers.
“The rules are simple,” Megaphone Girl shouts. “When you hear the air horn, you run into the ocean. You must go completely under. No chickening out—we’re watching.”
“Supportive,” Kyle mutters from somewhere behind me.
“Remember, this is for charity. Every splash counts!”
Oliver appears at my side and bumps me with his hip. “You ready for this, Larney?”
“Fuck yeah,” I lie. My nipples could cut glass right now.
“Ryan’s already instructed me on the signs of hypothermia,” Oliver continues. “Shivering is normal. Blue lips are concerning. If anyone winds up speaking in tongues or seeing their dead relatives, call 911.”
The sorority girls count down from sixty, and the energy on the beach shifts. Guys are bouncing, stretching, psyching themselves up. Gerard joins in, his ass swaying with each movement.
“Thirty seconds!” Megaphone Girl announces.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” someone chants nearby. It might be me.
Jackson arches his back in a stretch, and my mouth goes dry at the obscene display of muscle. The winter sun hits his chest, highlighting every ridge and valley of muscle. A dusting of hair trails down from his navel, disappearing into his swim trunks.
“You okay?” he asks, catching me staring. “You look ready to pass out.”
“Just preparing myself mentally,” I grit out.
“Ten seconds!” Megaphone Girl declares.
The crowd surges forward in a tidal wave of testosterone and questionable decisions. Bodies press against me from every direction. I’m relieved to find Jackson on my right and Oliver on my left. If I’m going to die, I want them by my side.
The air horn blasts.
Every sports team, every frat boy, every idiot, stampedes toward the ocean. Sand kicks up in clouds. Elbows fly. Someone steps on my foot, and I don’t even care because we’re running, running, running toward our frozen doom.
The first step into the water is like stepping on thousands of tiny knives. Sharp, stabbing pain shoots up through my soles and into my calves. My brain screams abort mission, but my legs keep moving because the wall of bodies behind me won’t let me stop.
The second step is worse. So much worse. The cold isn’t justcold—it’s malicious. It’s personal. It has beef with me specifically and wants me to suffer.
By the third step, my feet have gone completely numb. They might as well belong to someone else. I glance down and see them moving through the water, pale and disconnected, operating on autopilot while my brain has checked out entirely.
Around me, chaos erupts. A chorus of manly shrieks pierces the air—grown men hitting notes that would make Mariah Carey jealous. The rugby player in the red Speedo lets out a squeal that could shatter glass. Arthur, the football tight end, is singing soprano like he’s auditioning for a church choir. Tyrell has abandoned words entirely and is just making sounds.
As for me, “FUCK ME GENTLY WITH A CHAINSAW!” rips out of my throat without warning. Apparently, when faced with liquid death, I turn into a Heather.
