“They’re what?” My voice cracks.
“T-shirts, man. ‘Drackson Forever’ with little hearts.” Arthur pulls up a photo on his phone. “They’re pretty cute. I might get one for my girlfriend…as a joke.”
I stare at the image of cheap cotton shirts with our names mashed together like we’re some celebrity couple. This can’t be real life. “This is insane.”
“This is BSU,” Tyrell corrects. “Remember when everyone thought Professor Foxworth was secretly married to that TA? They had a whole wedding registry going before anyone bothered to check if it was true.”
“How did that end?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.
“Turns out they’re cousins,” Arthur supplies helpfully. “Really killed the vibe.”
Great. So I’m either going to have to pretend to be dating my best friend or reveal we’re secretly related. Neither option appeals to me.
“Ignore it,” Tyrell advises, standing up and heading toward the squat rack. “It’ll blow over when the next scandal hits. Everyone forgot about that professor who got caught skinny-dipping in the lake after a few days.”
He’s probably right. This will pass. It has to. Because the alternative—that people keep pushing this narrative until something cracks—isn’t something I can handle.
I position myself under the bar again, needing the burn in my muscles to distract me from the turmoil in my head. As I press the weight up, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirrored wall. Lean arms straining, face flushed with exertion, definitely giving off what the Ice Queen eloquently called “straight-boy energy.”
If she only knew the truth—that when I close my eyes at night, it’s Drew’s calloused hockey hands I imagine tracing my collarbone, his weight pressing me into the mattress. That I deliberately sought out guys who looked nothing like him, who played different sports, who laughed differently, because I knew anyone who reminded me of Drew would be dangerous territory. My “experiments” weren’t random at all; they were calculated decisions to keep my heart intact.
“Yo, Jackson!” Arthur’s voice breaks through my spiral. “Spot me?”
“Yeah, coming.” I rack the bar and move to help him, grateful for the distraction.
By the timewe hit the showers, I’m exhausted in more ways than one. The hot water pounds against my shoulders, and I let my head fall forward, closing my eyes. Drew’s face appears immediately. I sigh at the image of his smile on the beach, the water droplets that clung to his eyelashes when he emerged from the ocean. The memory of his body pressed against mine, seeking warmth on the sand, causes all the blood in my head to rush south.
If Arthur and Tyrell weren’t two feet away, scrubbing their asses with loofahs, I’d take myself in my hand, right here, right now. It’s been a few days since I’ve rubbed one out. I usually do it when I have the dorm room to myself, but Ryan has spent the last few nights inside rather than out stargazing.
“You good, Monroe?” Arthur calls, spinning around to rinse the soap off his pasty-white ass.
“Perfect,” I lie as I crank the water to cold before my teammates can see my painfully hard predicament. My teeth chatter as the chill assaults my overheated skin.
Minutes later, I’m toweling off with too much aggression, as if I can scrub my feelings away with the dead skin. It doesn’t work. It never does.
“Same time Thursday?” Tyrell asks once we’re all dressed and headed for the locker room exit.
“Yeah,” I say, slinging my gym bag over my shoulder.
They head off for The Brew, while I take the path back to the dorms. I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over Drew’s contact. We usually text after workouts. Stupid stuff about protein shakes or playfully arguing over whose coach is more psychotic—his, by a mile.
But I can’t do it. Not with the Ice Queen’s blog post rattling around in my skull. Not with Arthur and Tyrell’s knowing looks burned into my retinas.
I breathe in the sharp and cleansing winter air, letting it freeze the frenzied thumping in my chest.
One day, I’ll figure out what to do about my massive crush on Drew Larney. Just not today.
11
JACKSON
By the time I get back to my dorm, I’m ready to fall asleep until May, but movement catches my eye. “Holy fuck!” I yelp, nearly jumping out of my skin.
Ryan stands at the dresser, completely naked, his head under a towel that he’s using to dry his hair. “Welcome back,” he says mildly, as if he isn’t standing there with his penis on full display. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer. Tough workout?”
I avert my eyes up to the ceiling. “Could you maybe put on some pants before I answer your question?”
“Says the guy who parades his penile tumescence around for the world to see.” He opens a drawer. “I just got out of the shower. You’re the one who barged in without asking if I was decent first.” The sound of fabric rustling tells me he’s getting dressed. “What has you so rattled, roomie?”
