Icing on the Cake (The Barracudas #1)

Chapter 2

2

ELLIOT

I ’m this close to pulling my hair out. What was supposed to be a peaceful morning at work has turned into an all-out nightmare.

College students in hockey jerseys have taken over every inch of the library. And while I can appreciate the sport as much as the next person, this isn’t the time or place to be betting on Gunnarson the Great pulling off another hat trick tonight.

I’m about to tell off some jerks for attempting to search porn on the computers when two large hands hover over my glasses and obscure my vision. “Guess who!”

I know who it is—that jovial voice is unmistakable—but I play along anyway. “Ryan Reynolds?”

“Nope.”

“Ryan Gosling?”

“Nope, again.”

“Ryan Phillippe?”

“Geez, Elliot. Do you have a thing for guys named Ryan or something?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. What’s it to you?” I turn around and flash my best friend, Jackson Monroe, a rare smile. He’s BSU’s star quarterback and the only guy on campus who doesn’t make me want to gouge my eye out with a rusty spoon. Taking in his appearance, there can only be one reason he’s drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. “Went for a run?”

“You know it!” I get a thumbs-up for my correct guess. “Care to join me sometime?”

I scoff. “When pigs fly.” Another group of hockey fanatics enters the library and my eye twitches. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“Can’t a guy visit his best friend at work?”

“A guy can…when he doesn’t reek to the high heavens.”

Jackson’s jaw drops. “Are you saying you don’t like this smell?”

“I’m saying it’s not even a scent a mother could love.”

Ignoring his glare, I walk over to the circulation desk where I’d been categorizing event flyers before the entire campus decided my workspace should be a meeting point.

“Dude, why are you seconds away from having a brain aneurysm?” Jackson hops up onto the desk with a wolfish grin. He knows I hate when he treats everything like it’s his kingdom.

He also knows I won’t do a thing to stop him.

I run my hands through my hair and tug. “Have you seen this place, Jackson? It’s a zoo, but instead of cute animals, it’s…them.”

He follows my gaze, taking in the chaos and chuckles, which only pisses me off more.

“Is this funny to you?”

“A little bit.” He has the nerve to wink at me, the rat bastard. “They’re excited, Elliot. Tonight’s the season opener. I thought you knew that.”

“I do.” Everyone who doesn’t live under a rock knows that tonight is Berkeley Shore’s version of Mardi Gras.

BSU is a small school, but we’re massive when it comes to hockey. The sport is practically a religion here, with Infinity Arena serving as the student body’s makeshift cathedral. While I understand school spirit, the level of fanaticism for the BSU Barracudas knows no bounds.

The current team is considered nothing short of legendary. They’ve taken home the Frozen Four championship two years running, and everyone expects them to three-peat. What makes this season even more remarkable is who’s playing on the first line: Gerard Gunnarson, Oliver Jacoby, Drew Larney, and Kyle Graham.

The Fearless Foursome.

Of the four of them, Gerard Gunnarson is the most popular. Almost every student in here right now is rocking his jersey. His nickname is Gunnarson the Great, and he certainly lives up to it.

Gerard’s a right winger; with his size and strength, he’s a powerhouse on the ice. I’ve been to a few games with Jackson, and I’m always left gobsmacked at how Gerard can bulldoze through the other team’s defensemen like they’re made of sticks.

He’s not only brawn, though; his puck control and ability to read the game make him deadly in offensive plays.

Then there’s Drew Larney, playing center. He’s the strategist and a real playmaker. His ability to predict where players will be before they know it themselves makes him indispensable. He sets up plays that most of us can barely follow with our eyes.

The one thing about Drew that everyone knows is that he’s a total sleaze. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen him sneaking out of random janitors’ closets in different buildings on campus, followed by girls—and sometimes guys—who look thoroughly fucked.

I don’t get the appeal. Sure, he’s conventionally attractive with his chiseled jawline and perpetual bedhead, but who in their right mind would want to be just another notch in someone’s belt?

“Earth to Elliot.” Jackson waves a hand in front of my face. “You spacing out on me?”

“I just don’t understand how one person can sleep with half the campus and still have time to practice,” I say, more to myself than to Jackson.

“Who are we talking about now?”

“Larney. I swear that dude has an actual harem.”

Jackson shrugs. “Some people are just super efficient with their time.”

I glare at him. “You’re not defending him, are you?”

“Different strokes for different folks. Not everyone wants the same thing.”

“Yeah, well, some of us want more than a quickie in a broom closet.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t press further because two girls in skintight leggings and crop tops approach the circulation desk with a stack of books.

I recognize them immediately as two of Oliver Jacoby’s puck bunnies. Their type is easy to spot: doe-eyed, gossipy, and dressed to kill.

I swipe the first girl’s student ID and note the barcode on the top book. “Chemistry for Non-Majors. Sounds riveting.”

Jackson hops down from the desk, and I can practically see his tail wagging. “Hey, ladies.”

Unfortunately for him, they’re too absorbed in their hushed conversation to even give him a cursory glance.

“Do you think he’ll notice me if I wear his jersey?” says the first girl.

The second girl scoffs. “He’ll notice me more if I paint his number on my cheek.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Jackson leans over the desk, trying to insert himself into their line of sight. “You guys talking about the game tonight?”

The girls pause, blink at Jackson like confused kittens, then return to their chirping.

“Oliver is just so dreamy,” says the first girl with a sigh that could power a wind farm.

“Yeah, I can’t wait until he scores and points up at us,” says the second.

I finish scanning the last of their books and slide them across the desk. “Due back in two weeks.”

The girls take their haul and strut off, still babbling about Oliver like he’s the second coming of Wayne Gretzky.

Jackson scratches his head, genuinely baffled. “What was that? Did I lose my touch or something?”

“They’re not interested in you, Casanova.” I start organizing a stack of returned books. “They have their sights set on bigger prey.”

Jackson pouts. “I thought hockey and football ran in the same circles. Like, shouldn’t we be allied jocks or something?”

“Maybe if this were a bad 80s teen movie.” I glance over at Jackson, who’s still sulking. God, he has such a fragile ego. “Don’t take it personally. Those two are obsessed with Jacoby.”

“Isn’t he…?” Jackson trails off, but I know what he’s getting at.

“Yup. As gay as a musical number in Glee .”

“So why?—”

“Because they’re delusional,” I cut in. “They think he’ll magically switch teams if they throw themselves at him hard enough.”

Jackson shrugs again. He does that often when he has nothing useful to add but still wants to seem agreeable.

I think about telling him how stupid it is for them to pin their hopes on a guy who isn’t even interested in their gender, but then I remember how many times people have tried to give me “helpful” advice about things they don’t understand.

“They’re just wasting their time,” I finish lamely.

Oliver Jacoby holds down the fort as the left winger and team captain. His leadership isn’t as loud or extravagant as the captains before him, but he can still command the team. Partially because of his booming voice, partially because of his beefy body, and partially because of his kind eyes .

And yet, despite his insane build and masculine energy on the ice, it should be pretty apparent that he’s gay.

The way he carries himself off the ice is a dead giveaway—not that most people seem to notice.

Maybe it’s because they’re too blinded by his rugged good looks and the mythos of heterosexuality that surrounds jock culture. Or they’re just as delusional as those girls, refusing to see what’s right in front of them.

I see it because he reminds me of my high school ex. An athlete who every girl wishes was straight.

But who am I kidding? Even if someone like Oliver gave me the time of day, it’s not like anything could happen. I’m nobody special.

“Elliot?” Jackson interrupts my thoughts again. “You’re staring.”

“I was thinking about how Jacoby balances everything,” I lie. “School, practice, and now the captaincy.”

“Yeah, Ollie’s got a lot on his plate,” Jackson says, and I’m momentarily surprised that he calls Oliver by a nickname—as if they’re friends. But then again, Jackson loves the BSU Barracudas as much as the puck bunnies do.

I remember how Jackson nearly burst an eardrum screaming when Kyle Graham, the goalie, did the splits to block the shot that netted our school another Frozen Four win.

It’s his signature move, and no one ever expects it. Watching a beefy, six-foot hockey player stretch his legs wide like a gymnast is something else, especially when he does it with that amount of precision and speed.

The puck ricocheted off his pad and sailed harmlessly into the corner, and the crowd went ballistic.

Hockey players, especially goalies, are surprisingly flexible. With all that muscle, you’d think they’d be stiff as boards, but nope. They’re limber as fuck.

It’s one of those hidden aspects of the sport you don’t appreciate until you see it up close. The agility and balance are almost like watching a ballet if the ballet includes high-speed collisions and missing teeth.

Kyle’s save played continuously for weeks on every TV in town, including the one in Jackson’s dorm. Every time I visited him, his eyes were glued to the TV, and his mouth hung open in pure, unfiltered fanboy joy.

If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he had a crush on Graham. His ears turned pink when I asked him what he thought of Kyle stretching out like a Cirque du Soleil performer.

“It was an impressive save,” he muttered.

Uh-huh. Sure.

“So, would this be a bad time to tell you I have tickets to tonight’s game and wanted to see if you’d be my plus one?” Jackson crosses his fingers and shuts his eyes.

I want to say no and tell him I have plans, but he and I both know I never have plans.

I live and breathe school. If I’m not studying, I’m here working at the library. And if I’m not working, I’m still at the library, getting lost in romance novels and wondering when I’ll fall in love with the man of my dreams.

“I don’t know,” I hedge. “The last time I went to a game with you, you ended up giving me a bloody nose.”

Jackson’s eyes pop open and turn wide with alarm. “That was an accident, Elliot, I swear! I was…too into the game and, you know, had a few too many beers.”

I smirk. “Sure, Jackson. ‘Too into the game.’ That’s one way to put it.” But inside, I’m not as unforgiving as my tone might suggest.

The incident at the hockey game was an accident—a chaotic intermingling of excitement, alcohol, and bad luck that ended with my nose bleeding and a trip to the emergency room.

Jackson had been ecstatic. The Barracudas had scored a winning goal, and in his booze-fueled jubilation, he turned too quickly, and his elbow connected squarely with my face.

Despite the pain, I found the situation somewhat humorous. After all, how often do you end up in the ER with your best friend over a celebration gone wrong?

“I promise it won’t happen again.” Jackson clasps his hands together, an earnest expression on his face. “So, what do you say? I’ll even buy you nachos and your favorite overpriced Slurpee.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly pleased with the offer. “Okay, fine. But if you elbow me again…”

Jackson’s smile lights up his face, and he holds up three fingers. “Not gonna happen! Scout’s honor.”

And there you have it. We’re set for tonight’s game.

Despite my reservations, one thing is undeniable: There’s nobody else I’d want to see a BSU hockey game with.

The first time we met, I was sure it would be a disaster. A month into my freshman year at BSU, I had to interview a football player for a journalism assignment. Of all the players on the team, Jackson was the only one willing to sit down with me.

I was a fish out of water searching for Jackson in the locker room, which smelled distinctly of sweaty jockstraps and cheap cologne. All I had to go by was a blurry picture I found on the school website.

“Hey! You must be Elliot.” Jackson’s voice had this melodic lilt that quickly put my nerves at ease. He was sporting an easy grin and wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.

My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage as I approached him. It wasn’t the setting that unnerved me. I was worried I’d make a fool of myself.

Jackson didn’t mind my nervousness, though. Or that I could barely meet his eyes without blushing. He chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, man, we’ll keep it chill. Pretend we’re best buds catching up, yeah?”

It was bizarrely easy talking to Jackson. He had this knack for breaking down walls without you even realizing what he was doing. As we wrapped up, him still in that ridiculous towel and me with pages of surprisingly good notes, he clapped a hand on my shoulder .

“See? Not bad for your first sports interview.” He winked, and somehow, I knew we’d end up friends.

The sound of books crashing to the floor pulls me back to the present. “For fuck’s sake.”

I storm off for the history aisle, where I find a tangled mess of limbs and paperbacks sprawled beneath a now-disheveled bookcase.

“Seriously?” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose as frustration bubbles inside me. It’s always something.

Jackson follows hot on my heels. His smile falters as he surveys the scene. “Guys, come on.” His tone is light but edged with enough authority to make the culprits pause mid-scuffle.

The tallest one, a guy with a mustache reminiscent of a porn star, grins sheepishly at Jackson from the floor. When his eyes land on me, he snickers. “Oh, chill, librarian.”

He stands up and brushes off his shirt, unconcerned that he nearly destroyed library property.

My patience, which has been on thin ice all morning, finally snaps. “Out. Now.”

This is my domain—books, order, and quiet—and I’ll defend it more fiercely than Kyle Graham defends the goal.

The group doesn’t move until Jackson steps forward. His presence looms large, even without pads and a helmet. His hands find my shoulders in a gesture that steadies my simmering anger. “Yeah, you heard him. Clear out… and apologize.”

One by one, they mumble apologies that sound more amused than sincere as they shuffle past us. Silence resettles over the aisle the second they’re gone, and the tension bleeds away from my shoulders under Jackson’s reassuring grip. He gives them a slight squeeze before letting go.

“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the scattered books. Their titles blur before my eyes—histories of wars and revolutions momentarily trivial after our tiny skirmish.

“No problem.” He flashes me a big smile.

With practiced hands, I put the books back where they belong. Jackson quietly helps.

“You’re always rescuing me.” I focus intently on aligning spines perfectly on the shelf, knowing I’ll break if we make eye contact.

“That’s because I always have your back.”

“Yeah.” I smile faintly. “I know.”