Our drinks arrive, and I watch in horrified fascination as Gerard dumps seven sugar packets into his already disgustingly sweet macchiato. Kyle sips his tea like a Victorian lady at a garden party. Oliver gulps his black coffee as though it’s water.
“So what made you want to play hockey?” Gerard asks me, licking whipped cream off his upper lip in a way that should be illegal.
I shrug, wrapping my hands around my mug. There’s a reason, and as much as I like these guys already, I’m not ready to spill my life’s story. So, I lie instead. “Saw the neighborhood kids play. I wanted to join them. Turns out I was actually good at it.”
Gerard’s eyes go wide. “That’s so cool! After BSU, my dad played in the NHL for like fifteen years. He’s retired now, but he still coaches the peewee team back home.”
The conversation flows more easily after that. I learn that Oliver is an only child. Gerard has a younger sister whom he adores, and he shows me picture after picture of her in his camera roll, becoming sad when there aren’t any more. Kyle…he doesn’t share much, but he does admit he likes to read, which earns him points in my book.
“What do you read?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Kyle’s jaw tightens. “Poetry.”
I wait for the punchline. It doesn’t come.
“Poetry,” I repeat slowly. “Like…sonnets and shit?”
“Among other things.”
Oliver and Gerard exchange a look that suggests this isn’t news to them, but they’re still surprised Kyle admitted it out loud.
“That’s actually really cool,” I say, and I mean it. “I had to read a lot of poetry in high school. Some of it was good.”
Kyle’s shoulders drop slightly, and when he takes another sip of his tea, he doesn’t look quite so much like he’s plotting my demise.
By the time we finish our drinks, the sun has painted the sky in shades of orange and pink. My cheeks hurt from laughing, and my stomach is warm from the latte and the unexpected sense of belonging settling into my bones.
“We should do this again,” Gerard says as we slide out of the booth. “Like, every day. Drew, you have to come to the Hockey House once you make the team!”
“IfI make the team,” I correct.
“When,” Oliver says firmly. “Trust me, kid. You’ve got the vibe.”
“The vibe?”
“The vibe,” Gerard confirms, nodding sagely like he has any idea what Oliver means.
Kyle doesn’t say anything, but when our eyes meet, he gives me another one of those imperceptible nods. And somehow, that’s the biggest seal of approval of all.
We make our way back to the quad, which is now empty save for a few straggling volunteers dismantling the Ferris wheel. The cotton candy machine is gone, and so is the dean in his Speedo, thank God. Without all the chaos, the campus looks almost peaceful—just manicured lawns and old brick buildings bathed in golden hour light.
“Wait,” I say, stopping mid-stride. “What’s the Hockey House?”
Gerard’s smile nearly splits his face in half. “Oh! It’s the best! It’s where we’re gonna live!”
“The entire hockey team,” Oliver clarifies, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s tradition.”
“Each floor is a different class,” Kyle adds, his voice flat but informative. “Freshmen on the first floor. Seniors at the top.”
I blink, trying to process this. “So you’re telling me a whole bunch of hockey players live in one house?”
Oliver nods. “It’s a big house. Right on Fraternity Row, but we’re not technically a frat. Just a bunch of dudes who happen to play hockey and share a bathroom.”
“Only the seniors get their own bathrooms,” Gerard corrects helpfully. “But yeah, you’ll see a lot of dongs.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Dongs,” Gerard repeats, as if I simply didn’t hear him the first time. “And butts. Like, so many butts. The BSU hockey team has no shame, Drew. Zero. My dad warned me about it before I came here.” He grins, that sunshine smile completely at odds with the words coming out of his mouth. “He said the Hockey House is where shy boys become nudist men.”
