“He’s worried about you. All of you. He won’t say it, but he’s been checking his phone every ten minutes since Saturday.”
That hits me somewhere soft. Kyle, the guy who communicates primarily through glares and monosyllabic grunts, is being a worrywart. I file that information away under Things Kyle Would Murder Me For Knowing.
“Tell him we’re fine,” I say. “Or as fine as a group of guys who got arrested for skinny-dipping can be. The dean’s not going to throw us out. Worst case, we’re looking at some kind of community service or summer labor situation.”
“And Ryan?”
“What about Ryan?”
“He’s not on the team. He’s not a jock. He doesn’t have the shield.”
The shield? It takes me a second to understand what he means, but when I do, my stomach drops. He’s right. Gerard, Drew, Nathan, and I are championship athletes. The university has a vested interest in keeping us happy and enrolled. Jackson’s a star quarterback with his own set of institutional armor. But Ryan? He’s an astronomy major with no athletic affiliation,no booster backing, no safety net beyond his academic standing. If the dean decides to make an example of someone, Ryan’s the obvious choice.
“I won’t let that happen.” The steel in my voice surprises me.
Alex nods, as if he expected exactly that response. He finishes the last crumb of his scone, folds the napkin into a perfect triangle, and stands. “Break time’s over.”
“Yeah.” I push myself to my feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “Alex?”
He pauses, half-turned toward the counter.
“Thanks. For asking.”
Another micro-expression. This one might actually be warmth, though with Alex, it’s hard to tell. He gives me the smallest of nods and drifts back to the register.
I toss my water bottle in the recycling bin and return to my station behind the espresso machine. The morning sun has shifted, the golden rectangles on the floor now stretching toward the door, and the soft jazz has cycled to something with a saxophone that feels too melancholy for a Monday.
Whatever happens tomorrow, we’ll face it together. That’s nonnegotiable.
ICE QUEEN BLOG POST #2
Splish Splash
Posted by The Ice Queen | June 6th | 2:23 p.m.
Hey there, puck bunnies! Ice Queen here, your go-to gal for the coolest takes on all things Barracudas.
Well, well, well. If it isn’t the consequences of their own actions coming home to roost. I mean, where do I even begin? Perhaps with the fact that approximately twenty naked hockey players thought they could infiltrate the university pool under the cover of darkness and emerge unscathed? Or what about the security footage that captured every glorious, gluteus-maximus-filled second of their escape?
Security, bless their hearts, received an anonymous tip. (Not from me. I have journalistic integrity. Also, I was busy at the time.) They arrived to find a pool full of naked athletes and promptly lost their minds. What follows is, from what I’ve been able to piece together from multiple sources, the most chaotic naked sprint in BSU history.
The end result? A glorious, unprecedented summons. But not to court. According to my sources—and by sources, I mean the freshman who was hiding in the bushes outside the administration building this morning—the following individuals have been formally identified and called to account for their aquatic crimes:
Gerard Gunnarson (hockey)
Oliver Jacoby (hockey)
Drew Larney (hockey)
