“You’re tapping your foot like Thumper inBambi.”
I force my leg to still and try to find some zen. It doesn’t work.
“How did you do it?” I ask Elliot. “Last semester, when everyone was watching you and Gerard?”
Elliot considers this, absently playing with the hem of Gerard’s jersey. “I focused on the fact that the scrutiny was temporary. The Ice Queen would move on eventually.”
“How long did that take for you again?”
“Well, let’s see. It all started in October, and her last post about us was right around Christmas.” He does the math on his fingers. “Almost three months.”
Three months would take us to April. To spring break and our planned amicable breakup.
Fuck.
The game endswith a 6-2 victory for the Barracudas. As the team does its victory lap, Drew breaks away from the group and skates over to our section. He pulls off his helmet, his hair a sweaty mess, and gestures for me to come down to the glass.
“Go,” Elliot says, shoving me. “This is perfect Ice Queen fodder.”
I grip the railing, my fingers pressing so hard against the metal that I lose feeling in my fingertips. The concrete steps seem to tilt beneath me as I move down. Someone whispers. A phone camera clicks. Another person nudges their friend. The weight of their stares presses against my back, pushing me forward.
When I reach the glass, Drew presses his glove against it. I place my hand over his, and the cold barrier makes me shiver.Or is it Drew?
“Good game,” I rasp.
“I played for you,” he says, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
My heart stops beating.
As if he knows what he’s doing to me, he winks seductively before skating away to rejoin his team, leaving me with my hand still pressed to the glass.
The crowd around me is losing its mind, but all I can think about is that I have no idea how I’m going to survive three more months of this.
19
DREW
Our victory party has reached that perfect level of chaos where someone’s bound to end up naked on the roof of the Hockey House by midnight. Freshman defensemen are doing their best to impress the upperclassmen and also avoid getting taped to furniture. Upstairs, a chorus of slurred “Cudas!” erupts, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body or two hitting the floor.
Every surface is sticky with beer and questionable decisions. Someone—probably Nathan—has already started a pyramid of empty cans on the kitchen island, and whenever the front door opens, another burst of subzero air and a flock of randoms floods in.
I’m halfway through a very questionable Jell-O shot when a broad-shouldered presence blocks out the string lights overhead.
“Drew! My man!” Arthur holds a cup filled to the brim with beer. “Sick game tonight. Your boy Jackson was losing his mind in the stands.”
My stomach does that stupid flip thing it’s been doing all week whenever someone saysJackson.
“Dude was ready to fight the ref after that one boarding call. Never seen him that worked up, not even at our own games.” Arthur grins. “Young love, am I right?”
I force a laugh, drain the rest of my shot, and walk away before he can read the truth on my face. I navigate through the chaos of drunk college guys rapping to the Beastie Boys, dodging elbows, and trying to figure out how to tell Jackson about the roller disco competition.
“Drew!” Nathan appears, shirtless, with his arm slung around some sophomore I don’t recognize. “Did you see Gerard?”
“What’s he doing now?”
“Reenacting his wipeout from tonight. With props.”
Jesus Christ. I push through to the dining room where, sure enough, Gerard has pushed the table against the wall and commandeered the floor. He’s wearing only his boxers and what appears to be a cape made from a BSU flag. Elliot stands nearby, watching his boyfriend with an expression that sits somewhere between fond exasperation and secondhand embarrassment.
