Until next time,
Ice Queen skating off!
P.S. For those asking about my silence on Gerard and Elliot, what’s there to say? They’re disgustingly happy and make out in the library stacks when they think no one’s watching. In my opinion, happy couples are boring. Give me the drama, the tension, the will-they-won’t-they. Give me Drew and Jackson.
10
JACKSON
The barbell crashes back onto the rack, sending a shudder through my body, and I immediately regret adding those extra plates.
“Damn, Monroe. Trying to impress someone?” Arthur grunts from the bench next to me, his newly shaved head glistening with sweat under the harsh lighting of the BSU athletic center.
“Trying to stay in shape,” I wheeze, sitting up and grabbing my water bottle.
Outside, it might be North Pole weather, but in here, it’s a sauna of testosterone and poor ventilation. The place reeks of rubber mats, sweat, and determination, with the slightest hint of that boy funk that never quite goes away. After half an hour of working out, my BSU football T-shirt is soaked through with sweat.
Tyrell appears in my peripheral vision, dumbbells in hand, moving with that fluid grace that makes him deadly on the field. “Speaking of impressing someone…” He sets the weights down and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Y’all see what the Ice Queen posted?”
My stomach drops faster than a failed fourth-down conversion. I keep my face neutral, focusing on the fascinating task of removing the added plates from the bench press. “I don’t read that gossip blog.”
“Bullshit.” Arthur snorts, swinging his long legs off the bench to face me. His eyes drill into me like he’s trying to read the playbook on Drew I have tattooed on the inside of my skull. “Everyone reads the Ice Queen. She’s the TMZ of BSU.”
“Well, I don’t.” I’ve read her latest post twenty-five times since it went up this morning.
“Seriously? Because this is golden.” Tyrell settles onto a bench across from us and scrolls through his phone with obvious glee. “She says y’all were ‘eye-fucking’ each other. Her words, not mine.”
“We were cold!” The protest bursts out of me louder than intended, drawing curious glances from other gym-goers. I lower my voice. “It was survival. Basic human warmth preservation.”
“Uh-huh.” Tyrell’s grin widens as he continues reading. “‘The chemistry is undeniable.’ Oh, and check this part—‘Drew’s chat history suggests he’s been sampling the entire Eastern Seaboard’s dating pool.’”
“How does she even know that?” Arthur wonders aloud.
“And here”—Tyrell’s voice takes on a dramatic tone—“‘Jackson gives off straight-boy energy.’”
Straight-boy energy.If only they knew about the experiments I’ve conducted over the past three years. Discreet encounters in dorm rooms with the lights off, fumbling hands in dark corners of house parties, downloaded apps quickly deleted. Each time, I told myself I was curious, exploring, making sure.
And I am sure…now. My pulse races when I see certain guys. Dreams leave me tangled in sweaty sheets. It’s a constant effort to keep my eyes at appropriate heights in locker rooms.
I’m bi. I’ve known it for months—maybe longer if I’m being honest with myself.
But knowing and doing something about it are two entirely different things.
“She’s wrong,” I say, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my face. “Drew and I are friends. Even if I were interested in him—which I’m not—Drew wouldn’t look twice at me. Have you seen the guys he hooks up with?”
“What do you mean?” Tyrell asks, genuinely curious now.
I shouldn’t elaborate, but the words fall out anyway. “They’re all confident. Sexy. Carefree. They crack jokes that make everyone laugh and never second-guess themselves.”
They’re everything I’m not. Where Drew is built for hockey—thick and solid with those large hands that could palm a basketball and feet that power him across the ice—I’m lean muscle and agility. My hands are narrower, with longer, more delicate fingers, better suited to threading a football through tight coverage than to gripping a hockey stick. My feet are smaller too, made for quick cuts on grass, not carving across frozen water.
Drew appreciates guys who match his energy, who can keep up with his boasting and give as good as they get. I’ve watched him with them—the effortless way he touches them, how naturally they fit against his broader frame. Meanwhile, I’m the guy who still gets tongue-tied when he smiles at me, who rehearses conversations in my head before saying anything.
“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” Arthur observes, and I realize I’ve been rambling.
“I notice things. So what?” I grab a twenty-five-pound plate and slide it onto the bar with more force than necessary. “The point is that everyone needs to mind their own business. Nothing is going on between Drew and me.”
“If you say so.” Tyrell shrugs, but his expression suggests he’s not buying it. “Did you know someone’s already selling ‘Drackson’ merch outside the student center?”
