“Er, right.” Gerard’s cheeks flush pink, and he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Seven. I knew that.”
Oliver snorts. “Sure you did, buddy.”
Gerard shakes it off with a flourish of his hand. “Anyway! Drew, you should come hang out with us. We’re heading to The Brew. You in?”
I glance between the three of them—the golden giant, the brick shithouse, and the serial killer—and wonder if this is some sort of elaborate hazing ritual. “The Brew?”
“Campus coffee shop,” Oliver explains. “Best lattes this side of New England. Plus, they have these chocolate croissants that’ll make you weep.”
“I don’t cry over pastries,” Kyle says flatly.
“That’s because you don’t have a soul,” Oliver shoots back.
Kyle shrugs, neither confirming nor denying.
Gerard bounces on his heels again, those blue eyes sparkling with hope. “So? What do you say?”
What do I say?Three hockey players—one of whom could snap me like a twig, one whoprobablywould snap me like a twig, and one who’d smile while the snapping occurred—are invitingmeto coffee.
“Yeah, sure.” I grin. “Lead the way.”
Gerard fist-pumps, Oliver claps me on the shoulder, and Kyle gives me a single nod that I choose to interpret as acceptance rather than a death threat.
The Brew is a ten-minute walk from the quad, tucked between two elm trees. The moment we step inside, the smell of fresh espresso and baked goods wraps me up in a warmhug. Exposed brick walls, mismatched furniture, and fairy lights strung across the ceiling give the place a cozy, lived-in feel.
“Fair warning,” Oliver says to me as we make our way through the place. “The Brew is addictive. I spent so much time here this summer while my dad was helping Coach Donovan with shit that they threatened to make me an employee.”
“That’s because you were hitting on the guy behind the counter,” Kyle points out.
“Successfullyhitting on the guy behind the counter,” Oliver corrects. “There’s a difference.”
We snag a corner booth—or rather, Kyle and Oliver squeeze into one side while Gerard and I take the other. I’m hyper-aware of Gerard’s thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space, radiating heat through his shorts.
“So,” Oliver says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
A server comes by—a cute guy with floppy brown hair and an eyebrow piercing—and takes our orders. Gerard gets a caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream, Oliver orders a black coffee, and Kyle asks for green tea, which is unexpected. I go for a vanilla latte because I’m basic and proud of it.
“What about you guys?” I ask once the server leaves. “Where are you from?”
“Colorado,” Gerard says, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Jersey,” Oliver adds. “Exit 82.”
We all turn to Kyle, who stares at his hands for a long moment before muttering, “Maine.”
“Maine,” I repeat. “That tracks, actually.”
Kyle’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing! Just that you have very…” I gesture vaguely at his entire being. “Stephen King energy.”
Oliver chokes on air, and Gerard’s baby blues dart between us with that confused again. “Stephen King writes books, right? About scary stuff?”
“Gerard, buddy, how do you not know who Stephen King is?” Oliver wheezes.
“I know who he is! I just don’t read much. Hockey takes up a lot of time!”
