Chapter 1
1
GERARD
A t two in the morning, I stumbled down the hallway like a naked, sleep-deprived zombie to use the bathroom. Five hours later, I’m still awake and staring at a mess of epic proportions.
Jeans and shirts carpet the hardwood floor. Sweatshirts in shades of blue and gray huddle under the dim light. And my colorful socks, those not-so-little balled-up devils, have transformed into makeshift landmines.
I’ve never been the tidiest person. Just ask my mom; she probably had ten aneurysms a month cleaning up after me when I was a kid. In my defense, what boy wants to clean his room when he can be chasing after a puck on the ice?
A gust of chilly air from the open window brushes over my skin, but it does nothing to soothe my anxiety.
Where on earth could that darn hockey stick have vanished to?
Keeping track of my belongings has never been my strong suit. Going to class without my cell phone is about as common for me as scoring goals on the ice, which is all the time.
But forgetting a phone makes sense. It’s small and compact and can easily get misplaced. A hockey stick, on the other hand, is big and long and— oh my gosh, am I describing my penis ?
I glance down, and…indeed I am.
Focus, Gerard.
My hockey stick, my loyal companion on the ice, might be buried under Mount Clothesmore. Or it’s lodged between Wall Jeans and the Fortress of Solitude—that’s my bed, by the way.
There’s only one way to find out.
I lower myself to the ground and start an army crawl through the treacherous landscape of socks, where every inch is filled with peril and the potential for explosive discoveries.
A sock with questionable stains clings to my arm, and I grimace as I peel it off, half expecting it to remove a layer of skin with it.
Yeesh, this thing’s crustier than week-old bread. How did I let my room get this bad?
Dodging the rogue socks reminds me of weaving through enforcers on the ice. Every move I make is calculated to avoid a career-ending hit—or, in this case, a career-ending infection from Sock Ebola.
I make it to Mount Clothesmore, which is no ordinary pile of clothes. It’s an Everest of forgotten laundry because my procrastination skills are top-notch.
As I study it the way I study a Jenga tower, I notice a pair of eyes staring back at me. “Holy mother of Gretzky!”
My hand shoots to my chest as my heart leaps into my throat. But upon closer inspection, I realize it’s not a monster but a homemade sock bunny.
Don’t ask me why I have a sock bunny; I do strange things when bored.
I grab it out of the pile of clothes and chuck it toward the laundry pile. It somersaults through the air and lands with a soft thud.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I dive for it, thinking it’s the Hockey Gods calling to tell me my stick’s whereabouts. Instead, it’s a reminder: GAME DAY!!!
As if I could forget. This isn’t just any game; it’s the season opener. The one where scouts from all over will be watching. The one where I’m supposed to debut my new curve—and I don’t even have my stick.
I belly-flop onto the bed and peer between Wall Jeans and the Fortress of Solitude. Could it have fallen into the crack? I stretch an arm down, fingers groping in the darkness like a blind man searching for his cane. But all I come up with are enough dust bunnies to form a dust bunny hockey league.
God, I’m so screwed.
Still lying on my belly, I thump my bare feet on the floor like a toddler throwing a tantrum. The sound echoes through my cavernous room, mixing with the early morning bird chirps outside.
This is it. This is how I go down—defeated by my own disorganization.
Think, Gerard, think!
The last time I remember having my hockey stick was after practice. I playfully jabbed Oliver in the butt with it as we headed to a nearby burger joint with the team.
Post burgers? It gets fuzzy there.
A sudden urge to scream rips through me, but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to wake up the entire house. The last time I did that, it was an absolute circus.
It all started innocently enough. I was studying for an important test and had the genius idea to brew coffee— loads of it —to stay awake.
I tiptoed like a thief in the night into the kitchen, and everything was going swell until I dropped the can of coffee grounds.
The sound of metal clanging against tile might as well have been an air-raid siren. Lights instantly flicked on, followed by a parade of confused and irritated hockey players thundering down the stairs.
Imagine it: nearly thirty sleep-deprived giants in various states of undress, hair standing in every direction possible, and faces creased not only from sleep but also from emerging anger .
Drew, our team’s center, was the first to reach me, rubbing his eyes with his massive hands while trying to make sense of what lay before him—a sea of coffee grounds and one incredibly guilty teammate.
“Gerard,” he had sighed, half exasperated, half amused. “What on earth?—”
Before he could finish, Oliver appeared at the top of the stairs, looking more like a mythological beast than a college student and my best friend. You could hear a pin drop—or, in this case, a bead of sweat from my forehead hitting the ground—that’s how quiet the house got.
Oliver wasn’t the type of person who got mad often. So, I knew I was dead meat.
My punishment? A week’s worth of cleaning duties around the Hockey House, including scrubbing bathrooms and the kitchen, until they shined as brightly as the championship trophies we all coveted.
And let me tell you, cleaning up after a bunch of college athletes is no joke. It’s like trying to erase evidence at a crime scene where everyone constantly commits new crimes.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. It’s physically impossible for a house on Fraternity Row to fit an entire hockey team inside. But I’m here to tell you that it’s entirely possible when the house is four stories tall and as wide as the Titanic.
The only downside to living in a house that probably belongs in Whoville is the bathroom situation. The fourth floor, where the seniors are tucked away, is a slice of heaven. Each room has a bathroom—complete privacy, no queues for showers, and no arguments over who left the sink looking like a swamp creature’s habitat.
But for everyone else? It’s a whole different story.
Think of it as an extreme team-building exercise—the freshmen, sophomores, and juniors sharing one full bathroom on the first floor. It’s practically a nightmare during the morning rush or before bed when nobody wants to be up till midnight waiting to brush their teeth.
You learn a lot about your teammates when fighting for mirror space or negotiating time to shower. And God forbid you need the toilet five minutes before a house meeting.
Thankfully, this year will be different. And that’s all thanks to Oliver.
At our first house meeting this semester, Oliver presented us with a bathroom schedule that breaks down each player’s shower time, a designated towel hook, and color-coded towels.
Mine is a lovely shade of periwinkle— I know, very manly. I’d have preferred pink, but apparently, Walmart was out of stock.
The only part of the bathroom schedule that made me blush harder than a nun in a cucumber patch was Oliver’s addition of “private time” slots.
I mean, I get it. We’re dudes; we masturbate. But seeing it officially listed on the schedule, in Oliver’s precise handwriting no less, is almost more than I can take.
I’m scheduled for a 6:30 a.m. shower and a 6:45 a.m. “private time” session. Thankfully, I’m not one of those guys who can only do it standing up. Since we got this schedule, I’ve been jerking off nightly in my bed.
Sure, I go through more socks now than ever before, but it’s a small price to pay than to have the guys know what I’ve been getting up to at a quarter to seven.
Masturbation slots notwithstanding, I have to hand it to Oliver. He’s thought of everything, including a sign-up sheet for “Emergency Poops” because when you gotta go, you gotta go.
The entire system is ingenious, and that’s precisely why the team elected him captain this year. He’s not simply crafty; he’s the type of dude who wants us to live in peace and harmony.
A knock on my doorjamb startles me. I glance over my shoulder, wondering who else could be up at this godawful hour.
It’s Oliver, who is nothing short of a sight for sore eyes. His short black hair is mussed from sleep, and his green eyes have that half-lidded drowsiness of someone who doesn’t want to be awake right now.
He’s also shirtless, and I can’t help but notice how ridiculously jacked he’s gotten over the summer. Seriously, his arms are as thick as logs, and his pecs are gigantic fluffy pillows.
My eyes linger longer than they should, and I make a mental note to do more bench presses next time I hit the gym.
“You okay?” He rubs the back of his neck as he crosses the threshold into my room. The motion makes his shoulder muscles ripple, and I force my gaze back to his face.
“Do I look okay?”
Oliver cocks his head to the side, and I can see the moment it clicks for him. His eyes widen just a fraction, then narrow with amusement.
“Dude!” He stifles a laugh. “You look like you’re making love to your mattress.”
I roll over onto my back, letting it all hang out, and flip him the bird. “Jealous?”
He chuckles and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, whatever gets you in the zone for the big game.” He pulls out my desk chair, turns it around, and sits. “What’s going on, G? You’re usually the last to rise, not the first.”
A knot of anxiety twists in my gut as I blurt out, “It’s gone. I’ve looked everywhere.”
“What’s gone?”
“My stick!”
He quirks an eyebrow as his gaze drops to my lap. I roll my eyes, knowing exactly where his mind went.
It’s not something I’m embarrassed about, per se. But it’s also not something I wave around like a flag at a parade. It’s simply another body part, such as my nose or ear, that the good Lord gifted me with.
Again, I know what you’re thinking. “Gerard, stop beating around the bush and tell us what you’re talking about. ”
And to that, I say, “Fair enough.” While I love beating around my bush, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable truth.
So…here goes nothing.
I, Gerard Anthony Gunnarson, have a big penis.
I know, I know. It’s not exactly something you bring up in polite conversation. But when you’re constantly in the locker room with a bunch of other dudes, word gets around.
It started back in high school when puberty hit me like a freight train. One summer, I was a chubby little thing, and the next, I was towering over my teammates with a deep voice and a bulge that was impossible to ignore.
The first time my teammates at BSU caught a glimpse of my, shall we say, “impressive” equipment, jaws dropped, eyes widened, and a hush fell over the room.
Then, the ribbing began.
Everything from the classic, “Is that a hockey stick in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?” to Drew hollering across the room, “Damn, G! Should we start calling you Ankle Spanker? Or how about King Dong?”
From that day forward, I suddenly became the go-to guy for all things penis-related. Need advice on how to impress a girl in bed? Ask Gerard. So what if he’s still a virgin?
Wondering if that bump on your junk is normal? Gerard’s your man.
It was like I had become the team’s unofficial dick doctor. And let me tell you, it’s not a title I ever aspired to have.
But the ribbing and the questions were just the tip of the iceberg—pun very much intended. The real challenge was the jealousy from some of my teammates.
I remember one particular incident in the showers after a grueling practice. I was minding my own business, lathering up my hair with shampoo, when I felt a presence behind me. I turned around to find one of the seniors glaring at my junk.
“Dude, seriously. How big does that thing get? ”
I sighed, knowing this conversation was inevitable. “I don’t know, man. I’ve never measured it.”
The dude scoffed. “Bullshit. You expect me to believe you’ve never whipped out a ruler and checked?”
I shook my head, sending suds flying everywhere. “Nope. I’ve never seen the point.”
“The point is, you’re packing some serious heat down there. And inquiring minds want to know.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably around eight inches. Maybe eight and a half on a good day.”
His jaw nearly hit the floor. “Eight and a half? Jesus Christ, G. You could be in porn with a dick like that.”
I cringed at the thought. “Not my cup of tea, thank you very much.”
The dude walked off, muttering something under his breath about the unfairness of life and the distribution of penis sizes. I could only shake my head and chuckle.
Every season, it’s the same old song and dance. New guys join the team; they glimpse my package in the showers, and I’m suddenly the talk of the locker room again. “Did you meet the dude with the giant schlong?”
Over time, I’ve come to appreciate my penis’ fame, even if I still don’t fully understand the fascination.
Maybe it’s because we’re in a world where everything is so uncertain, and my penis is a constant. It’s always there, ready to impress and be a topic of conversation.
Or maybe it’s because in a sport where size matters—the size of your muscles, the size of your heart, the size of your determination—having a big dick is just another feather in your cap.
But what none of them realize is that having a big penis isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.
For one thing, finding pants that fit is a nightmare. I can’t tell you how often I’ve split the crotch of my jeans sitting down too quickly. And don’t even get me started on underwear.
Boxers are the only thing that allows my buddy to breathe. Boxer briefs or tighty-whities? Forget it. I’d end up in the emergency room.
When it comes to jockstraps, you’d think that with all the advancements in sports technology, someone would’ve figured out how to make one that can accommodate a guy of my proportions.
But no. Every time I tried to squeeze into one, it was like stuffing a watermelon into a thimble.
I’ve had to resort to ordering custom XXXL jockstraps online. And let me tell you, the look I got from the equipment manager the first time I submitted my gear request was priceless. He did a double-take, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head as he read “XXXL” next to “jockstrap.”
I guess he didn’t realize that it’s not only my dick that needs the extra room. Hockey butt is a real thing, and I’ve got it in spades. Years of skating and squatting have left me with glutes that could crush a man’s skull.
I also have hands the size of bear paws and feet that can give Bigfoot a run for his money. I’ve had to be sponsored by some major companies to get skates that fit, and finding gloves that don’t cut off the circulation in my fingers is a constant struggle.
Sometimes, I think the universe saw God creating me and thought, “You know what? Let’s make this kid the biggest, most awkward human possible. That’ll be hilarious.”
And hilarious it is—at least to everyone else.
Despite everything, I’ve learned how to use my largeness to my advantage. My long reach helps me scoop pucks from the other teams, my long legs and big feet help me get from one end of the rink to the other before anyone can even blink, and my massive frame keeps the other team from stealing the puck back.
But I digress. Talking about my God-given talents won’t save me from Coach’s wrath if I show up at the game tonight empty-handed.
I shoot Oliver a glare that probably comes off as menacing as a puppy’s scowl. “I’m talking about my hockey stick, you jerk.”
“Hmm.” He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “ You had it with you at the burger joint. Did you still have it when you left the library?”
“The library?”
“Yeah…you said you needed to get a book for class.”
I jump to my feet. “Holy snickers! You’re right!”
Books and me? We go together about as well as peanut butter and pickles. Given the choice between lacing up my skates or staring at words on a page, I’ll always choose the first option. So, forgive me for forgetting where I went after practice.
I rush to the far side of the room, tossing junk over my shoulder until I find what I’m searching for. A beat-up copy of It by Stephen King that I triumphantly hold over my head.
Oliver feasts his eyes on the super-long novel. “I’ve always wanted to read that book.” He walks over to me and takes it from my hands. I’m not surprised when he opens it and reads the first chapter. The dude’s a secret nerd. A few minutes go by before he hands the book back to me. “You should check the library’s lost and found. Maybe someone turned it in.”
“The library has a lost and found?”
“Dude, every place has a lost and found. You wouldn’t believe how many room keys get left behind at The Brew.”
Ah, The Brew. Oliver’s employer and BSU’s version of Central Perk.It’s the hangout spot on campus where students can relax before, between, and after classes.
“Alright. First stop, The Brew.” Before I can walk out, Oliver stops me with a hand around my wrist.
“Uh…Gerard?” His eyes dart down my body, and I follow his gaze.
Yikes! I’m still naked. I can only imagine the call my parents would’ve gotten from the dean had it not been for Oliver’s quick thinking. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Gunnarson. This is the dean at BSU. Your son was arrested for public indecency.”
I chuckle nervously, blushing from head to toe. “Right. Clothes. Probably a good idea before I go out in public, huh?”
Oliver snickers. “You think? I know you’re proud of what you’ve got, G, but I doubt the librarians would appreciate the view as much as the puck bunnies.”
I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Please, not the puck bunnies right now. I’m mortified enough.”
“Hey, I’m only trying to help. We both know Coach will rip your dong right off if you end up in the slammer before the big game. And then I’ll have to call you ‘Dickless Gerard.’”
“Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” My eyes narrow. “You’re also enjoying this way too much.”
Oliver raises his hands in a “what can you do” gesture and grins. “It’s not every day I get to see Gunnarson the Great flustered.”
I flip him off and scan the room for something clean to put on.“Keep it up, Jacoby, and I’ll leave a giant turd in the toilet before your turn in the bathroom.”
He laughs and heads for the door. “Alright, alright, I’ll let you be.Just remember that wearing only a jockstrap is still considered indecent.”
“Out!” I chuck a balled-up sock at his head that he easily dodges as he slips out of the room.
By the time the sun has fully risen, I’ve finally gotten myself dressed in pink socks, semi-clean shorts, and a BSU sweatshirt that barely passes the sniff test. Take that, Oliver.
Slipping my feet into some beat-up Adidas slides, I rush out of my room, only to dash back in to grab my cell phone.
Satisfied that I have everything this time, I race down the stairs, narrowly avoid barreling into one of the freshmen, and burst out the front door.
As I head for the library, I pray my hockey stick is there. Otherwise, “Gunnarson the Great” will soon be known as “Gunnarson the Hopeless.”