Oliver snorts. “Your dad has a way with words.”
“He’s wise,” Gerard says solemnly.
My brain short-circuits as I try to reconcile the image of this golden retriever of a man casually discussing communal nudity. Meanwhile, my body has absolutely no problem processing this information. Heat creeps up my neck, and I have to adjust my stance to accommodate the sudden tightness in my jeans.
“So,” I manage, clearing my throat, “it’s just…dicks out all the time?”
“Pretty much,” Oliver confirms. “You’ll get used to it after the first week. By the second week, you’ll stop noticing. By the third week, you’ll be the one walking around naked.”
Gerard throws an arm around my shoulders, nearly sending me stumbling with the weight of it. “Don’t worry, Drew! It won’t be weird. We’re all brothers, you know? And we all have a penis, so there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. They came in all shapes and sizes.”
Easy for him to say. He’s built like a Greek god.
But even as nerves twist in my gut, there’s something else there too. Anticipation. Excitement. The idea of living in a house full of hockey players—naked hockey players, apparently—is terrifying and thrilling. This is exactly the kind of college experience I signed up for. The chaos. The camaraderie. The potential for extremely poor decisions.
“I can handle it,” I say.
Oliver raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because you look like you’re about to pass out.”
“That’s just my face.”
Kyle makes a sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. It’s hard to tell with him.
“You’re going to fit right in,” Gerard declares, squeezing my shoulder. “I can feel it. This is going to be the best four years ever!”
I glance between the three of them, and something settles in my chest. It’s not quite confidence, but it’s close. It’s the feeling of standing at the edge of something new, something bigger than myself, and choosing to jump anyway.
And if joining the hockey team and living in the Hockey House means getting to see Gerard Gunnarson’s ass on a daily basis, well…I’m willing to make that sacrifice.
PART I
JANUARY
1
DREW
Present Day
The walk from my car to the entrance of Infinity Arena never gets old. My legs know the journey by heart—roughly the length of three football fields—but my chest still tightens with anticipation when those glass doors come into view. Some guys get a boner walking into strip clubs. Me? I get it from a hockey arena that has been my second home since I joined the team.
The walls are made of steel and glass that reflect the setting sun, forcing me to squint as I approach. Barry the Barracuda glares down from his perch above the entrance—all razor teeth and menacing fins. A not-so-subtle reminder to visiting teams that they’re swimming in dangerous waters. The university clearly blew its budget to ensure this place screams “Barracuda Territory” to every car passing on the highway.
The doors whoosh open, and I’m hit with that familiar cocktail of scents I’ve come to love. Zamboni fumes, industrial cleaner, and the decades of sweat and dreams that have soaked into the foundation of the building.
The sound of my sneakers squeaking against the floor bounces through the massive atrium as I turn in place, head tilted all the way back. The ceiling soars three stories up, and every inch of wall space is plastered with action shots of Barracudas past and present, while championship hardware gleams behind solid glass. Around the edges, merch stands hawk everything from game jerseys to boxer briefs with Barry’s teeth strategically positioned across the crotch. Championship banners hang from the rafters, and I take a second to appreciate the 2014-2015 Frozen Four one. Last season’s finale was a night to remember, and I can only hope that this year’s will be even more memorable.
I walk down the hall and enter the code into the keypad on a door that takes me into the bowels of the arena. Down here, the glamour gives way to function. Exposed pipes, concrete walls painted in the team colors of navy blue and white, and the omnipresent hum of the HVAC system. Voices and laughter echo from the locker room before I fully round the corner.
“—swear to God, if Coach makes us do suicides today, I’m transferring to a school in Florida where they’ve never heard of ice,” someone complains.
I push through the door right when Gerard decides it’s the perfect moment to moon the entire locker room as he digs through his gear bag.
It’s an ass that was made famous by an anonymous blogger last semester. An ass that could smother me in my sleep. An ass that’s about to be the victim of a vicious attack.
Thwack!Oliver’s towel connects with Gerard’s left cheek.
“Fiddlesticks!” Gerard yelps, using his made-up curse word because he’s too pure for this world. He shoots up and spins around, his cock swinging freely with the motion. “Ollie, you absolute buttmunch!”
