“They’re just underwear,” I mutter under my breath. “Material designed to support the male anatomy. There is nothing romantic or revelatory about a pair of white briefs.”
I find myself back at the display, my hand reaching for a pack before my brain can object. Size XL. Three pairs bundled together, because God forbid the underwear industry let you dip just one toe into these particular waters.
I flip the pack over and read the back—tagless comfort, and a contoured pouch for support. The model on the front is standing with his hands on his hips in a pose that says he has never once questioned his underwear choices. I envy him deeply.
I could try them on in the privacy of my own room, where no one will ever know. It’s not weird. People try new underwear all the time.
Fuck.I am absolutely losing my mind.
The internal debate that follows is worthy of a congressional hearing.
For:They might actually be comfortable. Ryan seems perfectly content in them, and he’s not the type to sacrifice comfort for aesthetics. Maybe there’s something to the classic brief design that modern underwear has lost in its quest for longer leg openings and trendier cuts.
Against:I am buying tighty-whities because I have a crush. This is not a valid consumer decision. This is emotional purchasing, the underwear equivalent of buying your ex’s cologne to smell it when you’re lonely.
For:They’re not overly expensive. The financial risk is negligible.
Against:The psychological risk is incalculable. If anyone finds out—Drew, Gerard, literally any guy on the team—I will never hear the end of it.
For:But what if they’re actually better? What if the entire boxer brief industry is a conspiracy to keep men from experiencing the superior comfort of a classic brief?
Against:What if I’m just horny and delusional?
Screw it.
I walk away with a package of tighty-whities and a pair of green boxer briefs, because if I don’t like them, well…I still need new underwear.
Drew’s jeans get yanked off a rack I pass without stopping. I grab a pack of socks from a nearby display and toss them into my basket. I do need them, but more importantly, they’ll hide the briefs between layers of normal, uncontroversial purchases.
The checkout line is four people deep. I slide in behind a woman buying bath towels and a man with an armful of dress shirts.
Soon enough, I’m next.
The cashier is a kid, maybe nineteen, with a wispy mustache. His name tag reads “Jason” in block letters, and he has the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s been ringing up strangers’ purchases too long to care about what they are.
“Find everything okay?” he asks, scanning Drew’s jeans.
“Yep.” My voice comes out approximately one octave higher than normal. I clear my throat. “Yeah. Good. Great.”
When he reaches for the Fruit of the Loom pack, heat floods my cheeks, my ears, and my neck until I’m basically a tomato with a credit card.
He scans the briefs without even glancing at them. The price appears on the screen, and he drops them into the bag.
That’s it. No raised eyebrow. No knowing smirk. No intercom announcement: “Price check on tighty-whities for the emotionally compromised hockey captain at register four.”
Jason tells me my total. I swipe my card through the reader with fingers that are definitely not trembling, grab my bag, and walk out of Macy’s at a pace that falls somewhere between “casual stroll” and “fleeing a crime scene.”
The drive home is fifteen minutes of me glancing at the Macy’s bag in my passenger seat as though it contains a live explosive. Every red light feels like the universe giving me an opportunityto turn around and return them. Every green light feels like the universe daring me to keep going.
I keep going.
The Hockey Houseis quiet when I arrive. It’s that dead zone of mid-afternoon where most of the guys are either at the gym, at the beach, or napping. I take the stairs two at a time, bag clutched to my chest, and close my bedroom door behind me with a soft click.
With the lock engaged and the blinds drawn, my privacy is now secured. I pull out Drew’s jeans and toss them on the bed—I’ll bring those to him later. The socks go in the sock drawer. The boxer briefs go in the underwear drawer.
All that’s left is the pack of white briefs.
I tear open the packaging with more care than I’ve ever put into extracting underwear. The briefs unfold in my hands, bright white and impossibly clean, the cotton soft against my fingertips. They’re lighter than I expected.
