“But,” Oliver continues with a grimace, “Coach Davis walked into the equipment room at exactly the wrong moment. And by wrong moment, I mean I had my tongue down Devon’s throat and my hand halfway down his pants.”
I choke on nothing. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” Oliver laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Coach froze in the doorway, shock, confusion, and resignation written all over his face. Then he said, ‘Jacoby, my office,’ and walked out.”
“What happened?”
“I was convinced my life was over. That he was going to out me to my parents, kick me off the team, tell the whole school.” Oliver shakes his head. “Instead, he sat me down and asked if I was being safe. If we were using protection and understood the importance of consent and communication.”
My jaw drops. “Seriously?”
“Coach Davis was old-school in a lot of ways, but he’d had a gay brother who died of AIDS in the eighties. Changed his whole perspective on things.” Oliver’s voice softens with obvious affection. “He told me that who I loved was my business, but that I needed to be smarter aboutwhereI expressed that love. Said theequipment room smelled bad enough without adding teenage hormones to the mix.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “He sounds incredible.”
“He was.Is.I still call him sometimes.” Oliver pauses, his expression growing more serious. “He didn’t out me, but the experience kind of forced my hand. I realized I didn’t want to spend my life hiding in equipment rooms. So I came out to my parents that summer. Then to the team. It wasn’t always easy, but it was freeing.”
I try to picture myself standing in the center of a room, every hidden part of me suddenly illuminated. It feels as foreign as a distant galaxy, completely unattainable.
“I’ve never had that,” I say quietly. “The freedom part.”
Oliver studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “Ryan, can I ask you something else?”
“You’re on a roll. Might as well.”
“Have you ever dated anyone? Had a boyfriend, I mean.”
The inquiry shouldn’t sting, but it does. It’s a reminder of all the experiences I’ve observed from the sidelines, all the milestones I’ve missed.
“No,” I admit. “Never.”
Oliver’s eyebrows rise slightly, but there’s no judgment in his expression. Merely curiosity. “Never? Not even here?”
“Especially not here.” I fidget with the corner of a yellowed document. “I’m not exactly someone worthy of pursuing. And I’ve never been brave enough to pursue anyone myself.”
“What about kissing? You’ve at least?—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “Never been kissed either. I’m a regular Drew Barrymore.”
Oliver’s quiet for a moment, processing. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, connecting dots I wish he’d leave unconnected. “So you’re…” He trails off, clearly trying to find a delicate way to phrase it.
“A virgin?” I supply, my face burning. “Yes, Oliver. I’m a twenty-year-old virgin who’s never been kissed, never been on adate, never done anything remotely romantic or sexual with another human being. Go ahead and add it to the list of ways I’m pathetically behind everyone else.”
“Hey.” Oliver’s voice is gentle but firm. Across the table, his knuckles brush the edge of my notes before his palm covers my clenched hand, hesitant at first, then settling with gentle pressure.“That’s not pathetic. That’s just your timeline. I didn’t lose my virginity until freshman year here.”
I blink at him. “What?”
He shrugs like this isn’t earth-shattering information. “All that stuff in high school with Devon? It never went further than making out and handjobs. I wasn’t ready to go all the way. I wanted it to mean something, even if I couldn’t articulate what that something was. Then I got to BSU, and it happened. It was my choice, on my terms, when I was ready.”
The revelation settles over me. Oliver Jacoby—hockey god, team captain, walking embodiment of confident sexuality—waited.Choseto wait. Didn’t see it as a failure or a shortcoming.
“Most people see the Oliver who exists now and assume I’ve always been this way. Like I emerged from the womb knowing how to flirt and fuck.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “Trust me, I had my awkward years. My uncertain years. My ‘what the hell am I doing?’ years.”
“Hard to imagine.”
“That’s because you didn’t see me at fourteen, trying to figure out how to talk to boys without spontaneously creaming my pants.” Oliver’s smile turns nostalgic. “I was a mess, Ryan. A well-meaning, hockey-obsessed mess who had no idea how to navigate any of it.”
“What about the nine months?” I ask, emboldened by Oliver’s openness. “The Ice Queen made a big deal about you not…you know.”
