Ryan kisses me, soft and sweet, a contrast to the intensity of what we just shared. “And now you have to live with the consequences.”
I pull him closer, ignoring the mess between us, ignoring everything except the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart against mine.
“I can live with that.”
40
THE ICE QUEEN
The thing about being a ghost is that nobody ever sees you.
I type another sentence into my laptop, the satisfying click of keys punctuating the frenzy erupting around me. The Hockey House living room has transformed into a veritable circus this morning, and I’ve got a front-row seat to the greatest show on campus, all while crafting my next masterpiece for the masses.
Chapel of Love, I type at the top of the document. The title feels right. Saccharine enough to make my readers gag, but accurate enough that they’ll devour every word.
“He didn’t come home,” Drew is saying for approximately the seventeenth time, pacing in front of the television like a man possessed. His dark hair is still rumpled from sleep, and he’s wearing sweatpants that have seen better decades. “Oliver. Captain of the team. Didn’t. Come. Home.”
Jackson leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like the cat who swallowed the canary and then asked for seconds. “And where do you think he spent the night, Drew?”
Drew whirls around, gesturing wildly. “What if something happened? What if there was an accident? What if?—”
“He spent the night with Ryan.” Jackson’s grin is as large as the house. “Which is why I slept here, remember?”
I type faster, capturing every delicious detail.Sources confirm that the hockey captain and his longtime friend finally took their relationship to the next level. The sheets, reportedly fresh for the occasion, will never be the same.
“You mean—” Drew’s voice drops to a whisper that’s somehow louder than his normal speaking voice. “They actually?—”
“Consummated their love? Sealed the deal? Made the beast with two backs?” Jackson ticks off options on his fingers. “Yes to all of the above. Ryan texted me this morning. Three exclamation points and a series of emojis I’m choosing not to interpret too closely.”
“What were the emojis?” Drew asks.
“A hand. An eggplant. A tongue. A peach. Rain droplets. Oh, and the shocked face emoji. The one that looks like this.” Jackson slams his large hands to the sides of his face and imitates Macaulay Culkin inHome Alone.
The thundering of footsteps on the stairs announces Gerard’s arrival before he even appears. He bursts into the living room, his wavy blond hair flying in every direction. “I heard commotion,” he announces at a volume that reminds us he’s never encountered the concept of indoor voices. “What’s happening? Is someone getting married?”
“Oliver and Ryan had sex,” Drew says flatly.
The sound that emerges from Gerard’s throat is high-pitched enough to shatter glass, long enough to require supplemental oxygen, and enthusiastic enough to wake the dead. “THEY DID IT?!” He grabs Drew by the shoulders, shaking him like a maraca. “OMG! I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY FINALLY DID IT! OUR BABIES ARE ALL GROWN UP!”
I add a note to my document:The team’s response to the news ranged from barely contained glee to sounds previously thought impossible for the human vocal apparatus.
The front door opens, and Elliot shuffles in, his glasses slightly askew and his expression suggesting he’s already regretting coming over. He’s still wearing his library name tag, the plastic badge pinned to his chest as he stops dead at the threshold.
“Gerard.” His voice is flat as a frozen pond. “Stop squealing.”
Gerard releases Drew, spinning toward his boyfriend with arms outstretched. “But Elliot! Oliver and Ryan?—”
“I heard you from outside. Hell, I’m fairly certain the entire campus heard you.” Elliot removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Some of us have been working since seven and would appreciate not having our eardrums perforated.”
“But they consummated!”
“Congratulations to them.”
I’m so focused on typing—The team’s librarian-in-residence offered his characteristic brand of enthusiasm—that I almost miss the real entertainment walking into the room.
Nathan Paisley emerges from the hallway in all his glory. And by “all his glory,” I mean every single inch of it, because the man is wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his head like a turban. His bright pink hair spikes out from beneath the terry cloth at odd angles. His green eyes are half-closed with post-shower/post-masturbation contentment. And everything below the neck is on full display, including an ass that could be classified as a sight for queer eyes.
“Morning, everyone,” Nathan says cheerfully, completely oblivious to his state of undress. “What’s all the noise about?”
