“Jackson—”
“Nope. No deflecting. No British-boarding-school modesty. You walked in here with cum on your shorts, and I laundered them for you without judgment. You owe me the full story.” He settles back against the wall, folds his arms behind his head, and assumes the posture of someone preparing for a feature-length film. “I want the picnic. I want the sunset. I want the moment things escalated. And I especially want to know what Oliver did that made you ruin a perfectly good pair of khakis. Make my toes curl, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal.”
My face is incinerating. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to deflect, to minimize, to fold the evening into something small and manageable.
But Jackson did tell me about Drew. About fingers and lube, of trembling thighs and trust. He opened a door for me, and the least I can do is walk through one for him.
“Fine,” I say.
Jackson pumps his fist. “Yes. Okay. Go.”
ICE QUEEN BLOG POST #5
Sunday in the Park with Oliver
Posted by The Ice Queen | August 3rd | 9:33 AM
Hey there, puck bunnies! Ice Queen here, your go-to gal for the coolest takes on all things Barracudas.
I know what you’re thinking.Ice Queen, where have you been? We’ve missed your razor-sharp observations and your devastating wit.To which I say, patience is a virtue, and good gossip is worth waiting for.
Now, imagine, if you will, a hidden clearing in the park near campus. A place that couples stumble upon when they want to escape the prying eyes of nosy roommates and overly invested friends. The place where the fireflies dance and the stars watch silently from above.
Got it in your mind? Add two figures on a blanket. One tall, broad-shouldered, built like a Greek god who traded Olympus for a hockey rink. The other, smaller, leaner, dressed like he steppedout of a sock hop and took a wrong turn into the twenty-first century.
If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m talking about Oliver Jacoby and Ryan Abrams. Our beloved Barracuda captain and the mysterious Bobby Darin enthusiast were having a picnic, complete with handmade sandwiches, sparkling water, and a blanket under the stars. It was like something out of a Nicholas Sparks novel, if Nicholas Sparks had the good sense to write about hockey players instead of whatever tragic heterosexual nonsense he usually peddles.
But here’s where it gets interesting. Dear Oliver returned to the Hockey House that evening, with evidence of his activities prominently displayed on his shorts. Evidence that suggests the picnic included a creamy dessert.
Now, I could be even more crass about this. I could make jokes about stains and stamina and the apparent enthusiasm of our captain’s lower regions. But I find myself feeling oddly protective.
Protective, you gasp.The Ice Queen? Feeling something other than cynical amusement?I know. I’m as surprised as you are. The thing is, I’ve watched the Barracudas stumble through their romantic entanglements for years now. I meddled with Drew and Jackson—pushed them into elaborate shenanigans when they were too stubborn to see what was right in front of their faces. I obsessed over Gerard and his magnificent posterior, documenting everything to an inch of its life.
But with Oliver and Ryan, there’s a tenderness to their story that makes me want to step back and simply observe. Something is growing between them. Something more than just their penises. Something real.
Consider this my official blessing, lovebirds. You have my approval, for whatever that’s worth. You’ve earned your happiness through years of separation and pining and what I can only assume was a truly spectacular amount of dry humping. May your love story continue to unfold with all the drama and tenderness it deserves.
And always remember that the Ice Queen is watching. With something that might, if you squint, resemble affection.
Until next time,
Ice Queen skating off!
The campus sleeps around me, unaware that its secrets have once again been cataloged and curated for public consumption. But this post hits differently.
Usually, there’s a thrill in the exposure. A sharp satisfaction in pulling back the curtain on someone’s private life and watching the ripples spread across campus as my words sink in. I live for the madness, the gasps, the frantic texts flying between friends who discovered their business is now everyone else’s.
But after last semester’s debacle, I’ve come to realize that Oliver Jacoby and Ryan Abrams deserve this. They deserve to be celebrated rather than merely exposed.
I didn’t expect to care. About any of them, really. The Barracudas were supposed to be entertainment. Content. Fodder for my blog and my boredom. But somewhere along the way, they became my friends, even if they have no idea who I really am.
I turn away from my laptop to stare out the window. The stars are bright tonight—not as bright as they must have been in that clearing,but bright enough.
Somewhere out there, Oliver is dreaming of Ryan, and Ryan is dreaming of Oliver. But is anyone dreaming of me?
PART IV
AUGUST
