“Happy jerking!” Gerard calls after me, letting me know he heard everything.
I flip him a double finger salute, my face burning once more as I take the stairs two at a time. I burst out of the Hockey House, and the winter air does nothing to cool the fire beneath my skin.
My dick remains painfully hard as I speed-walk across campus. Every step reminds me of Drew’s fingers kneading my back, his breath on my ear, the promise that he’s going to finish himself off.
Little does he know, I’ll be doing the same.
17
DREW
Professor Grieco’s psychology lecture is in one of those massive auditoriums that fit three hundred students and reeks of coffee and despair. It’s also the perfect place for discussing my impending doom.
I run my hands through my hair, turning it into a wild bird’s nest. “She’s not letting up. It’s pissing me off.”
“She will,” Sarah says, taking the open seat beside mine.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because. Friday’s game.” She turns her laptop screen toward me. It shows the hockey team’s schedule. “Home game against Boston College. The arena will be packed.”
“So?”
“Jackson will be there, wearing your jersey and screaming his head off every time you have the puck.” She grins wickedly. “He used to go feral for Gerard, but now he gets to beyourpuck bunny. There’ll be no way for the Ice Queen to spin that as fake.”
Every muscle in my body locks up tight. Jackson as my puck bunny. I don’t know whether to be elated or mortified.
When we rang in the new year, Jackson Monroe was the guy I texted multiple times a day, and the only person who couldbeat me atMario Kart. We’d spent most of last year downing Red Bulls and rewatching each other’s playoff highlights. I never considered him as anything other than the sort of friend you’d rescue from a well or mortgage your own future to bail out of a casino jail.
However, over the last few weeks, something changed. It wasn’t dramatic, like a musical number or a slow-motion movie kiss. It was small, like noticing the way Jackson can quote entire scenes fromThe Mighty Ducksbut somehow make it sound deep. It was how, on the snowiest day of winter break, he shared his thermos of hot chocolate with me. Soon, I was counting on those little gestures, and when they didn’t happen, I missed them like hell.
Now, here I am, sitting in class and trying to come to terms with the fact that pretending to date Jackson isn’t the hard part. The hard part is pretending that it’s only pretend.
Sarah closes her laptop with a decisive snap, yanking me out of my inner turmoil. “Trust me. Friday’s game will shut everyone up. No one who sees Jackson watching you play will believe that Ice Queen bitch.”
I sink lower in my seat as Professor Grieco writes something on the board. I should be paying attention, but how can I when I have all of this weighing on me? Between the game and Jackson, I’m this close to plunging myself back into the ocean.
When I walkinto the locker room, I’m hit by the familiar stench of Bengay with an aftershock of feet, hockey pads, and jockstraps drenched in baby powder. Most of the guys arenaked, but a few are half-dressed, half mad, and performing rituals that would get them banned from any reputable house of worship.
Kyle and Jonas Patterson, our backup goalie, are locked in their usual pregame telepathy, staring at each other until one of them blinks. Mason Bay, one of our defensemen, sits on the end of the bench, untying and retying his laces with the precision of an old lady crocheting a scarf. Will Dixon, a second-line right winger, is reading a battered paperback, oblivious to the rampant nudity and epic wedgies being committed all around him.
Taylor Colson, one of our most impressive forwards, is in his compression shorts, doing interpretive yoga in the middle of the floor. He’s trying to get me to laugh by mouthing the lyrics to “Barbie Girl” in time with the locker room playlist, and it’s almost working.
Francisco and Sebastian, the two freshmen, are bickering over who used the last bit of toilet paper. In the far corner, Gerard’s leading the sophomores in an off-key rendition of Ariana Grande’s “Problem,” complete with twerking.
Needless to say, the place is a beautiful, smelly, testosterone-soaked circus. And through it all, Oliver stands by the whiteboard with his arms folded across his beefy chest, watching us with fond exasperation.
I’m lacing up my skates when he clears his throat, ready to mother-hen us into something we’ll regret. The pregame energy shifts—guys stop taping their sticks, and Taylor pauses mid-stretch with his leg behind his head.
“Before we destroy Boston College,” Oliver announces, “I need everyone’s attention.”
“If this is about the jockstraps in the freezer again—” Nathan starts.
“It’s not about the jockstraps.” Oliver pulls out his phone. “We’ve been invited to participate in a charity event next weekend. A roller disco competition at the Spinfinity Roller Rink.”
The groans are immediate and theatrical. Kyle’s head whips back with such force, I swear I hear his vertebrae crack. “Roller disco? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Twenty bucks entry, all proceeds go to charity.” Oliver’s using his captain voice now, the one that makes freshmen piss themselves. And sometimes me. “The entire teamwillbe there. This is nonnegotiable.”
