Chapter 3
3
GERARD
R unning across campus in shorts and slides isn’t one of my brightest ideas. By the time I reach the quad, I’m pretty sure I’ve developed frostbite.
The weather in Berkeley Shore is as unpredictable as the winning lottery numbers. Yesterday, it was hot enough to tan my butt cheeks, but today, I’m afraid my dick will be an icicle by the time I make it to the library.
But that doesn’t mean I’m miserable, far from it. I love this time of year. The trees are all sorts of colors, from red and orange to yellow and shades of brown. The leaves crunch under my feet as I hustle past the old brick buildings that make up most of the campus.
Even the lampposts get into the spirit, with little pumpkin and scarecrow decorations tied around them. It’s cheesy, but in a way that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Well, maybe not warm—I’m still freezing my penis off—but you get the idea.
Bulletin boards plastered with a million different flyers dot the walkway like colorful confetti, and I screech to a halt to scan the more interesting ones.
There’s one for a poetry slam this weekend at The Brew, another for the knitting club, and even one for a weekend trip to Boston to see the aquarium. I linger a bit longer on that last one; I’ve always wanted to see the penguins.
As fun as everything sounds, hockey takes up most of my time. Practices, games, and the occasional team bonding session leave me with a schedule tighter than a new pair of skates.
I think about tearing down the flyer for the poetry slam. Oliver would probably like that kind of thing, and it could be an excuse to hang out with him outside of the Hockey House. Then again, he might think I’m trying to bribe him to get out of bathroom cleaning or something. I leave it up and keep moving.
If Coach finds out that I misplaced my hockey stick, he’ll have my head. Dad will probably have something to say about it, too. He’s the reason I’m here, after all.
An alum of BSU, he made a name for himself as the Barracudas’ star center in the early 90s. Growing up, our house was a shrine to his college days—framed jerseys, team photos, and his collection of hockey sticks taking up every inch of available wall space.
My earliest memories are of him holding my hand as I wobbled around like a newborn giraffe on the frozen lake behind our house. From that moment on, I was hooked.
There’s something about being on the ice—the way it glides beneath you, the sharp bite of cold air in your lungs, the sound of blades carving paths. It makes me feel alive.
A gust of wind cuts through my shorts, and I run faster. The library is so close I can almost feel its warmth seeping into my bones.
It wasn’t a huge surprise when BSU offered me a scholarship. The Gunnarson name still carries weight here, and I know a big part of it is Dad’s legacy. But I’m not na?ve; having a famous last name will only get me so far. I need to prove myself on the ice and in the classroom if I want to make him proud—and if I want to make a name for myself.
But lately, I’ve found myself at my wit’s end with two full- time jobs—hockey and school. While the former comes easily for me, the latter one-hundred percent does not.
Calling me studious is as accurate as saying a hockey puck is soft. My sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Henley, bless her soul, spent more time with me than her crossword puzzles, trying to drum the mysteries of fractions into my dumb blond head.
“Remember, Gerard,” she’d say, pointing at the numbers as if they were positions in a play. “The bottom number is your team—it decides how you play.” It made sense when she put it that way.
In English class, I was the student who always struggled to stay on topic. I’d be writing about my summer vacation and somehow end up with three paragraphs about why dogs chase their tails. Or how clouds sort of resemble marshmallows if you squint hard enough.
As the years have passed, I’ve continued to be stumped by the world of education.
Take last semester, for example. Statistics was kicking my butt harder than a mule in a temper tantrum. I was this close to flunking when Oliver sat me down and showed me how to calculate averages using our season stats.
It clicked like a well-oiled gear, and I scraped by with a C-minus.
Now, I do that with all my classes. I find a way to relate them to something I care about—usually hockey—and muddle through as best I can. Sure, it’s more effort than coasting, but nothing worth doing is ever easy.
I round the corner of a building and see students sitting on benches, enjoying their morning coffee and huddling close together to stay warm. The smell of wet leaves and espresso fills the air, and I take a deep breath, savoring it.
Puck bunnies from my sociology class spot me and giggle. One beckons me over, but I don’t stop to flirt. Instead, I flash a smile and keep on running.
My teammates would slap me across the face for not giving them the time of day. They’re beautiful with long hair and breasts you could get lost between, but I don’t want to lead them on. Other guys might be fine with hump-and-dumps, but not me. I want my first time to be with someone special. Someone I care about for what’s on the inside, not the outside.
Sappy? Maybe.
As I pound the pavement, a pair of solid-looking dudes cross my path, nearly making me stumble. I recognize them immediately—they’re from the BSU rugby team. These guys are built like brick houses, with shoulders as wide as doorways and hands that could crush coconuts.
“Whoa, there!” the taller one says, steadying me with a meaty paw. “Where’s the fire, Gunnarson?”
I catch my breath, feeling like a puny mortal in the presence of demigods. “Just trying to get to the library before my toes fall off.” I bounce on the balls of my feet to keep warm.
The shorter one, who’s still a good six inches taller than me, chuckles. “Aren’t you hockey guys supposed to be used to the cold?”
“Normally, yeah.” I grin sheepishly. “But I’m not wearing a hundred layers.”
Their eyes travel the length of my body, and for some odd reason, it feels nice. They’re not checking me out the way puck bunnies do. They’re appreciating what I bring to the physique table.
“I can’t find my hockey stick.” I continue. “I think I may have left it at the library.”
Their eyebrows shoot up in unison.
“Dude, that sucks.” The tall one shakes his head sympathetically. “I’d be lost without my rugby ball.”
“Totally,” his buddy agrees. “It’s like a part of you, you know?”
I nod, feeling a surge of brotherhood. These guys get it. They understand the bond between an athlete and their gear .
“Well, good luck finding it, man,” the tall one says, holding his fist out for a bump. “I’m sure it’ll turn up.”
I stare at his outstretched fist, marveling at its size. If my fists are considered big, his are downright colossal. Each knuckle is like a small boulder with the skin stretched taut over solid muscle and bone.
The shorter guy goes in for a high-five, and I brace myself for impact. His palm collides with mine, and the force of the impact reverberates up my arm and into my shoulder. I wince, trying to play it off as a grin, but holy snickers, that stung!
“Thanks, guys,” I say, feeling a renewed sense of determination. “I appreciate the support.”
As they walk away, I flex my hand to check that all my fingers are still attached. It’s no secret that hockey players are built differently—we’re tall, broad, and packed with muscle. But these rugby guys? They’re in a league of their own.
I’ve seen them in action on the rugby pitch, barreling through opponents like a herd of rampaging bulls. It’s a wonder anyone survives those matches without being flattened like a pancake.
In a way, I envy them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my hockey team. They’re my family, my brothers-in-arms. But there’s something about the rugby guys that just seems…different. Like they’ve tapped into some primal force of nature that the rest of us can only dream of.
I chuckle to myself as I continue my trek to the library. Look at me waxing poetic about a bunch of dudes in short shorts. If the guys could hear my thoughts, they’d never let me live it down.
But I can’t help it. There’s just something about being in the presence of raw, unbridled strength that gets the blood pumping. It’s like standing at the foot of a mountain and feeling utterly dwarfed by its majesty.
As I walk, I rub my still-stinging palm against my thigh to try and erase the tingling sensation. Note to self: never challenge a rugby player to a high-five contest. You will lose, and you will regret it .
Breadcrumbs crunch under my feet, and I glance down in confusion. “What in the world?”
Suddenly, it hits me. Last night, an email blast went out to the entire student body stating that we can feed breadcrumbs to the pigeons. I think some people went overboard, though.
My feet crush the breadcrumbs into nothing more than dust, and the pigeons take notice. They turn their beady little eyes on me, and the next thing I know, they’re soaring high into the air, wings flapping like a thousand wet towels, before aiming straight for my devastatingly handsome face.
I shriek like a girl. “Gah! Shoo! Get away from me, you flying rats!”
As if on cue, their attack intensifies. Beaks and claws swipe at my hair, my ears, my nose. I throw up my hands to fend them off, but they’re too quick. Too determined.
“Come on! I didn’t mean to—” A sharp pain lances through my scalp as one of them yanks on a tuft of my hair. “—trample your stupid bread!”
I stumble backward, swatting at the air like a drunkard. A girl on a bicycle swerves to avoid me and nearly eats the pavement.
“Sorry!” I yell, ducking as the pigeons make another pass. Their rustling wings create a miniature hurricane around me, and I catch glimpses of angry little faces and beaks open in silent screeches.
This is not how I envisioned my morning. All I wanted was to find my stick and catch up on some sleep before the big game tonight. Now I’m going to end up on the five o’clock news as the boy who got pecked to death.
With one last desperate lunge, I break free from the flock and run for my life. The pigeons give chase for a few yards before deciding I’m no longer worth the effort.
I slow to a jog, then a walk, breathing hard and muttering made-up curses. It’s a weird quirk of mine; don’t ask.
The library looms ahead, the glass doors sparkling in the morning sun. Usually, I’d avoid this place like the plague—too many bad memories of cramming for exams—but today, it’s my only hope.
I push through the front doors, and a wave of warm air smacks me in the face, making my whole body tingle as the blood rushes back to my extremities.
I glance down at my toes to see if I can wiggle them again, and sure enough, all ten of them are now doing a happy dance.
The library is the tallest building on campus. With five floors and more nooks and crannies than a mansion, it’s easy to get lost. Trust me, I know. Thankfully, I’m a guy who learns his lessons and knows where to go this time.
The information desk.
It’s not as fancy as some places, but it gets the job done. The desk has enough space for a computer and maybe a person to perch on top of it while they talk to the poor soul working behind it.
Today, that poor soul is a guy with black hair and glasses. He’s sporting a deep tan that screams summer and a scowl that suggests winter frost. His attention is buried in a book, and he doesn’t notice me as I walk up to him with a pep in my step.
“Excuse me,” I say, probably too loud for library standards. The guy doesn’t flinch. I clear my throat and try again, even adding a friendly wave. “Hey, can you help me out?”
Nothing. It’s like he’s in a reading coma.
Crossing my legs at the ankles, I lean on the desk with one hand, tuck the other in my pocket, and try to peek at what he’s so engrossed in.
Maybe it’s one of those steamy romance novels with the shirtless pirate on the cover. I smirk at the thought before remembering why I’m here.
“Dude!” I tap the wood surface with my knuckles. “I’m kind of in a rush here.”
He finally looks up, and I’m struck by how his eyes resemble two dark chocolate chips, all melty and warm. I unconsciously lick my lips as my stomach growls softly .
From the way he continues to glower at me, I think he’s going to tell me to screw off, but instead, he sets the book down and sighs.
“What do you need?” His voice is soft, almost bored, but there’s an edge to it.
“Have you seen a stray hockey stick wander through here? It’s big, kinda like me, and hard to miss.”
His eyes flick down to my hand on the desk before coming back up to pin me with a long, evaluating stare.
I’ve never felt this scrutinized before. I don’t know what to say or do. Something tells me he’ll bolt if I make any sudden movements. So, I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.
I don’t even scratch the itch on my balls.
After what feels like hours, and without any change in his facial expression, he finally breaks the silence. “Did I say, ‘I can help who’s next?’”
Fiddlesticks. Is this one of those places where you have to take a number and wait your turn?
I glance around the desk for a sign or a ticket dispenser but come up empty. “Uh…no?”
“Exactly. So, step back about ten paces and wait…your…turn.”
I scratch my head, trying to calculate what ten paces would be for a guy my size. I wear a size fifteen shoe, so ten of my paces could put me back in the lobby. Maybe even outside in the pigeon war zone.
The librarian scowls harder and returns to his book. I’m starting to miss the pigeons.
Straightening up, I take ten dainty, toddler-sized steps backward and clasp my hands behind my back.
Several agonizingly silent seconds tick by, and I start rocking on my heels and whistle. The librarian flips a page, then another, not bothering to engage in any further conversation with me.
My eyes wander to a bulletin board advertising study groups and yoga sessions. One has a picture of a cat doing a downward dog pose, and it makes me smile. It’s the simple things, you know ?
Suddenly, my stomach growls again, but louder this time. I skipped breakfast in my rush to find the stick, which is totally not my style. I’m the guy who could eat a horse and still ask, “What’s next?” because I have a bottomless pit where my stomach should be.
Just as I’m about to give up and find the nearest vending machine, the librarian closes his book with a thud. The sound echoes through the library like a gunshot, making several students duck for cover.
He stretches, pulling his sweatshirt up his body to reveal a small patch of his flat belly. His skin is smooth, and I wonder how it would feel under my fingers.
I clear my throat. “So…do you know how long the wait is?”
The librarian shrugs and fixes his glasses before scanning the lobby. He deliberately avoids making eye contact with me.
“Depends,” he says.
“Depends on what?”
“How long it takes me to finish helping the next person.”
Is this guy for real? I’m the only one in line.
“There’s no one else here,” I say, stating the obvious.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is there not?”
I throw my hands up in defeat. “Come on, man! I’ve got places to be.”
The librarian leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers together. A slow, sinister smile creeps across his face.
“You’re one of the Fearless Foursome.” It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “That explains so much.”
Before I can ask what he means by that, a young woman wearing a cardigan and holding a stack of books strolls up to the information desk. “I’d like to check these out, please.”
The guy smiles kindly at the woman and scans her books into the computer system.
My eyes narrow as I take him in, studying how his thin lips curve and his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s disarming, especially when his gaze flicks to me, and his smile morphs back into a smirk.
I should be pissed. I want to be pissed. But instead, I feel this weird jolt of…something to my gut that makes my toes curl.
What the heck is wrong with me? Maybe I’m just tired. Or hungry. Or both.
Or maybe it’s because I haven’t jerked off since last night.
Yeah, that’s probably it. My body is just confused and pent-up.
The woman walks away with her books in a bag, leaving me with Mr. Jekyll and Hyde again.
He picks up a pen and taps it on the desk, still smirking. “So…” He drags out the word as if it’s the most beautiful syllable he’s ever heard. “Where were we?”
I’m about to take a step forward but think better of it. “Look, I really need to find my hockey stick. Coach will kill me if I don’t have it for the game.”
He shrugs again, and that infuriatingly casual motion makes me want to shake him by the shoulders. “Not my problem.”
“Can you at least check the lost and found?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in his chair, and closes his eyes. “Maybe later. Nap time.”
That strange jolt hits me again, stronger this time, like my body is rebelling against my brain’s attempt to stay calm.
Why do I care so much about what this twerp thinks? He’s nothing more than some cranky librarian. I’ve faced worse than him on the ice.
But those melty chocolate eyes…ugh.
I run a hand through my hair, exasperated more with myself than with him. “Dude, please? I’ll owe you one.”
His eyes snap open at that, and he sits up straight. “You’ll owe me?”
“Yeah. Whatever you want.”
He tilts his head to one side like a curious bird as he considers my offer. “ Interesting.”
I wait, holding my breath. This has to work. It’s my last shot.
“Alright. I’ll check the lost and found.”
Relief washes over me, but it’s quickly tempered by suspicion. This was too easy.
“But…” He holds up a finger, and for some reason, I’m mesmerized by how thin and long it is. “ I get to decide when and how you repay the favor.”
This sounds dangerously like a deal with the devil, but what choice do I have? “Fine. Deal.”
He stands and motions for me to wait as he disappears into an office nearby.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a new message from Oliver lighting up the screen.
Oliver
Any luck at the library?
Me
The dude’s checking for me now.
Oliver
Fingers crossed, man!
Me
Eyes and toes, too!
The librarian returns, clearing his throat to get my attention, and I pocket my phone. “Sorry, man. I checked the lost and found and only saw a couple of wallets, a school ID, and some headphones.”
Fiddlesticks. “I appreciate you checking. If it does turn up, would you?—”
“I have an idea.”
The interruption comes from another woman walking up to the desk. But this one acts as if she owns the place.
When she peers up at me and smiles, I get the strongest urge to shout, “Awooga!” and then cross my eyes and strum my lips like Bugs Bunny. But that would make me come off as a complete tool, so I don’t.
This woman, whoever she is because she’s not wearing a name tag—and come to think of it, neither is he—is beautiful. Her hair is a dark brown that stops at her shoulders. Her skin is milky white, and her lips are as red as mine, which is very.
“You were here yesterday, right?” she asks.
“Yes! I checked out?—”
“A Stephen King book. Maybe you left your stick on the third floor in our horror section?” She shrugs. “We don’t see much foot traffic in that part of the library because most of those books have creepy covers. Elliot can take you if you want some company.”
Ah, so his name is Elliot. For some reason, I file that away for safekeeping.
The look Elliot gives the woman is downright vicious. I’m talking Pennywise the Clown meets Hannibal Lecter levels of pure evil.
My poor penis, already confused by both Elliot’s and the woman’s presence, decides it wants absolutely no part of this and retreats so far into my body that I swear it’s now neighbors with my spleen.
Surprisingly, the woman meets Elliot’s death glare head-on, and it’s like watching two gunslingers at high noon, but instead of pistols, they’re armed with library cards and overdue book fines.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other and contemplate breaking the silence. But what does one say in a situation such as this?
Elliot tears his gaze from the woman, and a flicker of embarrassment crosses his face. But it vanishes so quickly that I’m unsure if I imagined it. “Fine. Follow me.”
He stalks off toward the elevator, and I follow him, hot on his heels, like a good boy.