Chapter 6
6
ELLIOT
Two years earlier
“ H ave you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
I shake my head at the bus driver as I step off the bus for my campus tour. Of all the colleges I’ve been to, Berkeley Shore University takes the goddamn cake. The world is painted in a lush shade of green, and the cheerful melodies of birds fill the air. The peaceful stillness here is a far cry from the constant hustle and bustle of Boston.
Walking through the gated entrance, I realize that this isn’t just a place to get a degree; it’s a chapter waiting to be written.
I fall in line behind the other passengers disembarking from the bus and make my way toward the center of the campus. As I approach, I’m taken aback by the large crowd of students already milling about. There must be at least fifty of them chatting excitedly and introducing themselves with overeager handshakes.
My stomach twists into knots as I imagine having to make small talk with these strangers. I’ve never been good at idle chatter, frankly, because I’ve never understood it. Why do we have to pretend to give a shit about each other’s hometowns and intended majors ?
I hang back from the group, hands shoved deep in my pockets, and do my best to make myself as invisible as possible. Maybe if I’m lucky, no one will notice me, and I can blend into the background.
Fat chance of that. My caramel skin and glasses mark me as an outsider amongst the sea of preppy white faces.
The tour guide, a peppy blonde girl with a megawatt smile, launches into a spiel about the history of BSU. I tune out her chirpy voice and instead scope out my potential peers from the safety of the sidelines.
There’s the typical collection of jocks and cheerleaders bonding—and by that, I mean flirting. A few artsy types with colorful hair and quirky fashion sense. And, of course, the overachievers who are undoubtedly gunning for valedictorian hanging on the tour guide’s every word.
I don’t fit into any of those neat little boxes. I don’t have an athletic bone in my body nor the ability to flirt. My clothes are plain and boring. I’m smart, but I don’t care about being at the top of the class.
I’m nothing more than a grumpy scholarship kid with a chip on his shoulder and a burning desire to prove himself. The only thing I care about is graduating with a degree. I’ll be damned if I become another statistic of a Latino kid from the wrong side of the tracks failing at life.
The tour winds its way through the manicured paths of the campus, and I’m once again struck by how beautiful the scenery is. The groundskeepers must spend hours making sure every tree, shrub, and flower is picture-perfect. I’m almost afraid to step off the sidewalk for fear that a siren will sound and I’ll be expelled before I’ve even started here.
We walk down a slight hill and take in the track and field down below. We meander past a small pond where ducks quack and birds swoop down to catch some fish. We get a close-up look at the new state-of-the-art athletic complex, which all the jocks pop boners over .
The more we see, the more I can’t believe I’m not dreaming. I’m from one of Boston’s grittier neighborhoods. It’s the kind of place where the sidewalks are cracked and littered with broken glass, and graffiti tags compete for space on brick walls. The closest thing we have to a green space is the overgrown lot behind the old textile mill.
Don’t get me wrong; my hometown has its charm. It’s loud, it’s busy, it’s alive. But it’s also a struggle. Mom works two jobs just to keep us in our tiny apartment, and I’ve been hustling since I was fourteen—first at the corner bodega, then delivering pizzas, and now working at the barber shop as a receptionist. We make do, but there’s never been any extra.
My high school is a rundown relic from the 1950s. The linoleum floors are chipped and peeling, and the lockers are rusted and permanently dented from decades of abuse. Most of the windows are covered with metal grates, giving the place a prison-like aesthetic. We don’t have a pond with ducks or a state-of-the-art gym, and we’re lucky if the heat works in the winter.
Education-wise, it’s about as bottom-tier as you can get. Our textbooks are older than I am, and half of them are missing pages. The teachers do their best, but they’re overworked and underpaid. A lot of kids drop out before they even make it to junior year, and those who do graduate aren’t exactly heading off to Ivy Leagues.
Can I actually see myself here? That’s the question gnawing at me. It’s not just about fitting in—though that seems like an uphill battle—it’s about believing that I deserve something this nice.
I’ve always been different. From a young age, I knew that I wanted more than what my neighborhood had to offer. I buried myself in books and studied late into the night by the dim light of a desk lamp. I took AP classes, joined clubs, and did everything I could to stand out from my peers.
But even with all my hard work, I’ve always felt like an outsider. The teachers don’t quite know what to make of me. The other students glare at me with envy and disdain. They think that I act as if I’m better than them.
And maybe I do. But can you blame me? When I look at the manicured lawns and gleaming buildings of BSU, I feel like all those years of my mom and me busting our asses might actually pay off.
The tour guide’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. We’re standing in front of the library. A magnificent five-story building that glows in the midmorning sun. Huge windows line each floor, and when a student walks out, I swear the wind blows the aroma of paper and ink right at me.
Teasing me.
Tempting me.
For the first time since I arrived, excitement flickers in my chest.
I may not fit in with the other students, but in that library, surrounded by the written word, I know I’ll find my home.
Our final stop on the campus tour is the administration building, where a giant statue of the school’s mascot—a stony, fearsome-looking Barracuda—stands guard in the center of the water fountain.
The tour guide holds up a stack of flyers and shouts, “Don’t forget to check out The Brew! It’s our on-campus coffee shop, and your first drink is free with this coupon.”
My feet are sore, and I contemplate heading straight to the bus station, but maybe one cup of coffee can’t hurt.
The Brew is located around the corner from the campus cafeteria. As soon as I walk through the door, the smell of freshly ground coffee overwhelms me, and…oh, God. It’s heaven .
The space itself reminds me of New York City with its industrial furnishings, concrete floors, and exposed brick walls. Mismatched armchairs and loveseats invite students to sink in and stay awhile. The tables are made of reclaimed wood and metal, and each one is outfitted with a small succulent plant.
I stand in line, and my eyes are drawn to the massive chalkboard menu behind the counter. It spans the entire length of the wall, and one of the baristas is up on a ladder, carefully writing out the day’s specials in swirling calligraphy.
There are clever names for each drink, like “The All-Nighter” and “Procaffeinating.”
I stifle a laugh. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore. Back home, all we have is a dingy Dunkin’ Donuts.
As I inch closer to the front of the line, I scan the menu for something familiar, but it’s all foreign to me.
What the hell is a flat white? And why would anyone want a lavender oat milk latte? I feel like I need a translator to order a damn coffee. But then I remember the coupon. My first drink is free. I can afford to be adventurous.
Maybe I’ll try one of those fancy pour-over coffees. Or a cold brew with vanilla sweet cream. The possibilities are endless.
I’m so engrossed in my mental debate that I don’t realize it’s my turn to order until the barista clears her throat. “What can I get for you?”
I blink, startled. “Oh, um...” My mind goes blank. I glance up at the menu again, but the words blur together. “I’ll have a…medium coffee?”
It comes out like a question, but thankfully, the barista smiles kindly. “One medium drip coming right up. Room for cream?”
“No, thanks. Black is fine.” I hand over my coupon, and she rings me up.
I take a seat at one of the empty tables in the back as soon as I get my drink. I pull out my phone, but instead of scrolling mindlessly through social media, I find myself people-watching.
There’s a group of students frantically typing away over what I assume is a group project. A couple shares a pastry, giggling and sneaking kisses between bites. A guy with a man bun and a beard works on a Sudoku puzzle. There’s even a professor—I can tell because his suede jacket has elbow patches—playing Words with Friends.
A few minutes pass before a couple of good-looking guys stroll in wearing hockey jerseys. They’re tall, broad-shouldered, and wear easy smiles. The jerseys are deep navy blue with white lettering that reads “BSU Barracudas.”
I remember reading about the Barracudas when I was researching BSU. Apparently, they’re a big deal around here. While most schools are all about football, BSU is hockey-obsessed. The team has won multiple Frozen Fours—whatever that means—and even produced a few NHL players over the years.
My eyes follow the guys over the rim of my mug as they order their drinks and settle down at a nearby table. I almost wish they chose to sit with me. Not because I have anything to say to them but because it would be nice to bask in their cheerfulness.
Growing up, I was never into sports. I preferred burying my nose in a book or tinkering with computers. Hockey existed in the background on TV screens in crowded restaurants or in snatches of overheard conversations.
But here, it’s a way of life. I overheard some guy on the bus mention that the arena downtown is always packed with students cheering themselves hoarse. There are even special hockey-themed events throughout the year, like a Dinner & Skate with the Barracudas Night and a charity tournament.
It’s a whole different world that I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand or be a part of. But then again, that’s the beauty of college, isn’t it? The chance to explore new things, step outside your comfort zone, and discover parts of yourself you never knew existed.
Maybe I should give hockey a chance. Go to a game or two and see what all the fuss is about. Who knows, I might even enjoy it. And if not, that’s okay too .
I’m still lost in thought when a deep voice asks, “Is this seat taken?”
I glance up to see a very handsome, very tall, very beefy boy standing over me. His halo of golden blond curls shimmers under the warm lights. His ruby-red lips curve into a kind smile as his crystal-blue eyes meet mine.
He’s wearing a BSU Barracudas hockey jersey, too. But on him, it looks different. Better. The deep navy blue fabric stretches enticingly across his broad chest like it was made specifically for him.
A backpack is slung carelessly over one shoulder, and his large hand grips the strap with an ease that speaks of strength and confidence. Everything about him exudes warmth and approachability, and it sets off butterflies in my stomach.
I realize I’m staring with my mouth slightly agape, and I quickly snap it shut.
“Uh, no. It’s not taken,” I stammer out.
His smile widens. “Mind if I join you then? All the other tables are full.”
I nod dumbly, no longer trusting my voice. He sets his backpack down and slides into the seat with an inherent gracefulness that seems at odds with his size. His thick legs spread wide, and it takes all my strength not to start drooling. This boy is big with a capital B, and he’s even more beautiful up close.
His skin is smooth and sun-kissed. A smattering of light freckles dusts the bridge of his nose. His jawline looks like it was carved from marble by Michelangelo himself.
In short, he’s beautiful.
“Are you a student here?” He asks me, even though I’m staring with my mouth open again.
I close it and shake my head. “Not yet. I’m here for a campus tour. Still deciding where I want to go in the fall.”
The guy’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. His eyes sparkle with excitement, and his smile grows even wider, revealing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. “You’re considering BSU? That’s awesome! You absolutely have to come here. It’s the best school ever .”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and clasps his hands together. “I mean, just look at this campus. It’s beautiful, right? And the academics are top-notch. Plus, the hockey team is legendary. Have you seen them play?”
I chuckle at his uncontrolled enthusiasm. While this guy is a walking, talking advertisement for BSU, it’s endearing how he gushes about the school. This place means something to him.
“I haven’t had the chance to see the hockey team play yet,” I admit, gesturing to his jersey. “But I take it you’re a fan?”
A pretty red blush spreads across his cheeks, nearly matching the color of his plush lips. He glances down at his chest as if he’s only now realizing what he’s wearing.
“Oh, this? It’s actually my dad’s old jersey. He played for the Barracudas back in the day. I guess you could say hockey runs in the family.” He runs a hand through his curls, making himself appear bashful. “I’ll be going to BSU in the fall as a legacy student. Can’t wait to carry on the tradition, you know?”
I nod, impressed. “That’s really cool. Your dad must be proud.”
“He is. He’s always telling me stories about his glory days on the ice. I hope I can live up to the hype.”
He says it jokingly, but I detect a hint of nervousness in his voice. It must be a lot of pressure to fill such big skates.
“I’m sure you will,” I reassure him. “With a legacy like that, how could you not?”
His answering grin is blinding. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.” His mouth pops open, and he slaps his forehead. “Oh, shoot! Where are my manners? I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Gerard. Gerard Gunnarson.”
He sticks out his hand, and I accept it gladly. I’m surprised to find that his palm is as smooth as butter. I was expecting calluses and rough patches of skin.
His grip is firm, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s as if he knows the amount of power that’s in his body, and he’s being careful not to squeeze too hard.
I open my mouth to tell him my name, but before I can get a syllable out, a booming voice calls out from the entrance of The Brew. “Gerard!”
Gerard’s eyes widen comically, and his cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red. He’s the spitting image of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Oh man, that’s my dad,” he says apologetically, already gathering his backpack and standing up. “I totally forgot he wants me to meet the dean. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
I nod in understanding while also trying to hide my disappointment that my conversation with a cute guy has been cut short. Story of my life.
Gerard slings his backpack over his shoulder and gives me one last blinding smile. “It was really nice meeting you…uh…” He trails off, realizing he never got my name.
I attempt to tell him again when his dad yells even louder, “Gerard!”
Gerard cringes, and it’s adorable how even the tips of his ears blush. I watch him go, admiring the way his hockey jersey stretches across his back. And the way his jeans mold perfectly to his ass.
Right as he’s about to disappear from view, he stops abruptly and spins around. He presses his face against the glass window, and his breath fogs up the pane as he waves enthusiastically.
I can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of me. This guy is ridiculous.
Ridiculously charming .
I wave back, and his grin somehow grows wider.
After one more exaggerated wave, he pushes off the window and walks away, leaving behind his massive handprint on the glass.
Did that really just happen? Did I have a conversation with a cute hockey player and live to tell the tale ?
It feels surreal. Like something out of a cheesy rom-com. The grumpy introvert and the sunny jock bonding over coffee.
As I gather my things and head out of The Brew, I’ve decided that I will go here. Come hell or high water.
Present Day
The roar of the crowd is deafening as I take my seat next to Jackson in the stands of Infinity Arena. The place is packed to the rafters with BSU students and fans decked out in the school colors and waving banners.
Down on the ice, the team warms up. My eyes are immediately drawn to the tallest figure. The one wearing the number seven.
Gerard Gunnarson.
He moves around the ice in a way that shouldn’t be possible for someone so big. His skates carve effortless patterns as he and his teammates pass the puck back and forth in a game of Keep Away.
I’ve never told anyone that I met Gerard once before. Talked to him. Been worthy of his presence.
Because I barely believe it myself.
And I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember me. The encounter was so brief that he’d have to have an eidetic memory to recall it. Considering he was freaking out over his missing hockey stick this morning, I think it’s safe to say he does not.
I’ve worked hard to suppress the memory of our first meeting. But every time I see his grinning mug on a poster or social media, I’m immediately reminded of how that gigantic smile was once focused on me.
That’s the real reason why I go to these godforsaken hockey games. Why I brave the drunken crowds and the bone-chilling cold. I want to remember what it was like to be on the receiving end of Gerard’s kindness. His childlike wonder. His unbridled optimism.
His sunshine.
Jackson clasps his hand on my thigh and squeezes, startling me out of my Gerard-induced haze. He’s grinning from ear to ear, and his brown eyes sparkle under the lights.
“Can you believe it’s finally here? The season opener, baby!” He has to shout to be heard over the din of the crowd. “I’ve been counting down the days all summer.”
I nod and feign enthusiasm. “Yeah, it’s pretty exciting.”
“Are you still going to introduce me to Gerard after the game?”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of my head. “For the last time, we talked for like five minutes. He’s probably already forgotten about me.”
Jackson scoffs. “Please. Have you seen yourself, Elliot? You’re unforgettable .”
He says it with such sincerity that I turn as red as a tomato. “Even if he did remember me, which he doesn’t, how exactly am I supposed to introduce you? It’s not like I have backstage passes or anything.”
Jackson’s grin turns sly. “Oh, don’t worry about that, bud. I have my ways.”
I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. “What did you do?”
He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Nothing illegal, I swear! I just pulled some strings with the athletic department, called in a few favors, and…”
Jackson reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He unfurls it with a flourish, revealing a detailed blueprint of Infinity Arena.
My eyes widen in disbelief. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Jackson winks at me conspiratorially. “I told you, I have my ways.”
He lays the blueprint flat on his lap and starts tracing his finger along the intricate lines and symbols. His nail is perfectly manicured, the cuticles pushed back, and the edges filed into a neat oval shape. It’s the hand of someone who has never done a day of manual labor in his life.
“Okay, so here’s the plan.” Jackson lowers his voice to a whisper, and I lean in to hear him better. “After the game, we’re going to slip away from the crowd and find this hallway here.” He taps a long, winding corridor that snakes deep into the heart of the building. “It’ll take us directly to the locker room.”
I study the blueprint skeptically. The hallway is a far cry from the straightforward route the players take from the bench.
“Are you sure about this? What if we get lost?”
Jackson waves away my worries with a flick of his wrist. “Please, I’ve got this memorized like the back of my hand. I could navigate it with my eyes closed.”
I shoot him a dubious look. “Okay, Tom Cruise. This isn’t Mission Impossible . We’re not trained spies.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jackson retorts with a grin. “I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life. I was born to sneak into locker rooms and charm the pants off hockey players.”
I laugh at his audacity. “Alright, fine. We’ll do it your way. But if we get caught, I’m saying you kidnapped me and forced me to be your accomplice.”
Jackson clutches his chest in mock offense. “Elliot! I thought our friendship meant more to you than that.”
“Our friendship means the world to me,” I assure him. “Which is why I don’t want to see you get arrested for trespassing. Or worse, expelled.”
Jackson’s expression softens, and he squeezes my thigh again. “Hey, don’t worry. We’re not going to get caught. Trust me, I’ve thought of everything.”