“For what?”
“For not making it weird. I’ve been wearing them for a couple of days now, terrified someone would notice, and the first person who does is the one person who actually gets it.” His voice softens, losing its teasing edge. “You have no idea how relieved I am right now.”
Something about his earnest gratitude makes it suddenly hard to swallow. “Oliver, you don’t need my approval to wear whatever underwear you want.”
“I know. But having it feels pretty damn good.”
Across the yard, Drew hollers that the food is ready, and bodies converge on the grill like moths to a flame. Gerard abandons the Slip ’N Slide mid-run, skidding across the wet grass barefoot, and nearly takes out a couple of frat guys in his rush toward the burgers.
Oliver and I stay right where we are. Content to enjoy each other’s company, and savor the knowledge that we’re now the co-CEOs of the Briefs Brigade.
ICE QUEEN BLOG POST #4
Love Is Like A Heatwave
Posted by The Ice Queen | July 13th | 1:47 a.m.
Hey there, puck bunnies! Ice Queen here, your go-to gal for the coolest takes on all things Barracudas.
I smell drama the way sharks smell blood in the water, and folks, the ocean is absolutelycrimsonright now.
The Berkeley Shore County Fair kicks off this weekend, and if you think I’m going to miss the annual convergence of cotton candy, questionable carnival rides, and our beloved Barracudas making fools of themselves in public, you clearly don’t know me at all. I’ve been doing this long enough to recognize the signs: summer heat, alcohol hidden in novelty cups, competitive games designed to showcase masculine prowess. It’s a recipe for gossip, and I amstarving.
Let’s review the evidence, shall we?
Exhibit A:Our dear Captain Jacoby has been spotted around campus, appearing distinctlylesslike a man carrying the weight of team leadership andmorelike a man who’s discovered the existence of joy. Multiple sources report that he is smiling unprovoked and humming.Humming, people. Something—orsomeone—has clearly brightened up his days.
Exhibit B:The astronomy tower. I have it on good authority that two figures were spotted ascending those spiral stairs on the night of the lunar eclipse. Two figures who remained up there forhours. Now, I’m not one to speculate about what activities might occur under the romantic glow of a blood moon, so I’ll let you all do that in the comments.
The fair presents the perfect storm. Ferris wheels that trap couples in suspended intimacy. Ring toss games that allow for “accidental” physical contact. Funnel cake consumption that inevitably leads to powdered sugar on noses and subsequent wiping. I can practicallytastethe content.
The fair runs Friday through Sunday. I will be there all three days, armed with my phone, my anonymity, and my unshakable commitment to bringing you the truth about BSU’s most entertaining athletes.
Will there be a dramatic confession on the Ferris wheel? A jealousy-fueled confrontation at the dunk tank? An ill-advised attempt to win an oversized stuffed animal that reveals more about someone’s feelings than they intended?
The heat is rising, and where there’s heat, there’s bound to be flames.
Until next time,
Ice Queen skatingoff!
The post is live. The comments are already rolling in. And I have approximately ninety minutes before my friends pick me up.
The shower sputters to life, and I step under the spray, letting the lukewarm water rinse the sweat of a July night off my skin. I tilt my head back, my hair darkening as it plasters against my forehead, and let my mind do what it does best: strategize.
Here’s the thing about being the Ice Queen. On the internet, I’m untouchable. Sharp, witty, feared. People refresh my blog at two in the morning, hoping for crumbs. I am, without question, the most powerful anonymous voice on this campus.
In person? I’m the person who gets their hair ruffled.
I squeeze shampoo into my palm and work it through my hair with more force than the task requires.
One friend patted me on the head last week. Patted. Me. On. The. Head. Another introduced me to someone at The Brew as “basically a little sibling.”
The water runs through my hair, carrying suds down my back in rivulets I don’t bother tracking.
There’s one friend, though, who is the worst offender, honestly. The man once threw his jacket over a puddle so I wouldn’t get my shoes wet, which sounds romantic until you realize he does the exact same thing for his little sister when she visits campus.
I am, in the eyes of every person I know, a sexless entity. A mascot with good hair. The team hamster everyone adores but nobody wants to take home for the weekend.
