Chapter 8
8
ELLIOT
“ J ackson!” I hiss as he takes off down the hall. “I’m not a jock. I don’t run.”
He screeches to a halt, his sneakers creating scuff marks on the pristine tiled floor, and scowls at me. “Pretend like the building is on fire.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because then you’ll run.”
“I’m not running.” I walk at my usual pace—languidly—and Jackson rolls his eyes.
“For Pete’s sake.” He jogs back to me, his athletic shorts swishing with each stride.
Before I can protest, he grabs my hand in his larger one. “Jackson, what are you—” He takes off again, dragging me along like a rag doll. I nearly fall on my face, trying to match his pace. “Slow down!” I wheeze as we careen around a corner. The squeak of our sneakers against the polished floor is almost as loud as my heartbeat.
Jackson shoots me a mischievous grin over his shoulder. “Can’t. They’re gaining on us.”
I risk a glance behind me and nearly trip. Two burly security guards have appeared at the end of the hall, their faces set in grim determination.
“This is ridiculous. They’re going to catch us.”
“Not if I can help it.” Jackson’s grip on my hand tightens as he pulls me through a set of double doors. We emerge in a dimly lit stairwell with concrete steps that disappear into the gloom above and below.
“Up or down?” My voice echoes in the cavernous space.
“Down. Definitely down.”
We take the stairs two at a time, and I’m pretty sure my lungs are about to explode. I haven’t done this much cardio since…never.
Just as we reach the bottom, the door above us bangs open. “They went this way!”
Jackson yanks me through another door, and we stumble into a deserted hallway. The air here is thick with the smell of sweat and stale popcorn. A sign on the wall to our left reads, “Security Offices.”
“We’re busted,” I moan as we creep past.
Jackson shushes me, his finger pressed to his lips. He’s having the time of his life. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is mussed from all the running.
I want to be annoyed, but it’s actually kind of fun living a scene from an action movie.
We round another corner and come face-to-face with a dead end. Jackson curses under his breath.
“Now what?” I demand, my hands on my hips.
He spins around, his eyes darting left and right. Then he spots something, and his face lights up. “There.”
I follow his gaze to a small door tucked into an alcove. Janitor’s closet.
“Oh no.” I shake my head wildly. “No way. I am not hiding in a closet with you.”
“And pass up the chance to tell Sarah I came out of the closet?” Jackson snickers as he grabs my hand again and tugs me inside.
The door clicks shut behind us, and we’re plunged into darkness. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the sudden lack of light. The closet is cramped and stinks of cleaning supplies and stale mop water.
“Ow,” I hiss as my foot collides with something hard and plastic. I stumble, my hands flailing in the darkness, and collide with Jackson’s solid chest.
“Watch it,” he grumbles against my ear. “There’s a broom stabbing me in the ass.”
I snort. “How do you think I feel? My foot is literally in a bucket right now.”
Jackson shifts his body closer to mine in the confined space. “Seriously, how can you like something up the ass? This hurts like a motherf?—”
I clap my hand over his mouth, my heart leaping into my throat as heavy footsteps echo outside.
The security guards. They’re close. Too close.
We freeze. Jackson’s arms wind around my waist, and he pulls me flush against him. The rapid rise and fall of his chest and the thudding of his heart do nothing to calm my nerves.
The footsteps draw nearer and pause. A gruff voice mutters something unintelligible. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the inevitable. For the door to be flung open, for light to flood the cramped space and expose us like deer caught in headlights.
But the moment never comes. The footsteps recede, fading into the distance until all I can hear is my ragged breathing.
I exhale shakily before sagging against Jackson in relief. “That was close.”
“Agreed.” His arms tighten around me. “You okay?”
I nod, then remember he can’t see me in the darkness. “Yeah. You?”
“I think the broom violated me, but I’ll live. ”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, born of relief and the absurdity of the situation.
“This is ridiculous.” I carefully untangle myself from Jackson’s embrace. “We should just go back to your dorm before we get caught and expelled.”
“Aw, come on.” Even in the darkness, I can see Jackson pouting. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“It died when my foot got stuck in this bucket.” I wiggle my toes, wincing as pins and needles shoot up my leg.
Light floods the closet as Jackson cracks open the door, making me squint. He pokes his head out, glances both ways, then sucks in a sharp breath.
“What?” I whisper while standing on my tippy-toes to see over his shoulder. “Is it the guards?”
He shakes his head mutely. I’ve never seen Jackson rendered speechless before. It’s unsettling.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I nudge him aside. I follow his stunned gaze, my own eyes widening when I see the plastic lettering above a set of swinging doors.
BARRACUDAS LOCKER ROOM
Holy shit. We made it.
“Dude,” Jackson breathes. “It’s the Holy Grail.”
I snort. “The Holy Grail is a cup, not a locker room.”
“You know what I mean.” He takes a step forward, hand outstretched like he wants to touch the doors to make sure they’re real.
Apprehension curls in my gut. “Jackson, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Why not? We came all this way.” His brown eyes go all puppy-dog. “Just a quick peek.”
“A quick peek,” I echo skeptically. “Right. Because that always ends well.”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a buzzkill, Elliot. ”
“Excuse me? I am not a buzzkill. I’m practical. Sensible. Things that you are not.”
But Jackson isn’t listening. He’s already slipping through the swinging doors, leaving me no choice but to follow when I hear footsteps again.
Pushing my way inside, I immediately run smack into Jackson’s back.
“Jackson?” I poke him in the ribs. “What’s wrong with you?”
He doesn’t respond. Just makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
Frowning, I peer around his body to see what has him so shell-shocked. That’s when I see them .
The BSU hockey team. Staring at us with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Shit.
Sitting on a bench in the center of it all is Gerard. He’s wearing nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips. His tanned skin glistens with droplets of water from his post-game shower. His blond hair is matted to his forehead, and his bright blue eyes are wide with shock.
“Elliot?” His voice is laced with confusion and shock.
“Uh, hey, Gerard. Fancy seeing you here.”
Gerard blinks at me, then glances at Jackson, who is still making incoherent noises. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know.” I wave a hand airily. “Wanted to take a tour of the place. Check out the sights. The sounds. The smells.” I wrinkle my nose. “Definitely the smells.”
Gerard’s brow furrows. “But how did you get in here? This area is off-limits to non-team members.”
I open my mouth to respond, but Jackson beats me to it. “We snuck in. We wanted to see where the magic happens.”
I cringe inwardly. Way to play it cool, Jackson.
To my surprise, a slow smile spreads across Gerard’s face. “Well, in that case”—he stands up and adjusts his towel—“welcome to the Holy Grail of the Infinity Arena.”
He spreads his arms wide, encompassing the entire locker room, and I take the opportunity to study his body now that it’s free from clothing.
His biceps are the size of cannons, and his thighs are even thicker. His calves are carved from granite slabs, tapering down to thick ankles that flex and relax as he shifts his weight.
And then there are his feet—they’re enormous .
“Look at those pecs!” Jackson blurts.
I smack his arm, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
Gerard and some of his teammates laugh. “Thanks. Lots of bench presses.”
I study his chest now that he’s given me permission—well, not really permission, but I’m going with it anyway. His pecs are two slabs of meat, thick and heavy, with pink nipples the size of dollar coins perched on top like cherries. It’s the kind of chest you could use as a pillow—not that I’m thinking about doing that or anything.
Gerard runs a hand through his damp hair, bringing my attention to his handsome face.
His long eyelashes perfectly frame his bright blue eyes, and his lips are full and red as if he’s wearing lipstick, though I know he isn’t.
He’s beautiful in a way that’s wholly unfair for a guy who’s supposed to be a rugged athlete.
I suddenly remember that I’m supposed to be taking in the room, not the boy who’s making my heart race, and look away.
The room is larger than I expected, with an open, airy feel. Each player’s locker has their last name and jersey number engraved on a plaque at the top. The stalls are arranged in a U-shape around the center of the room, and it’s giving luxurious clubhouse rather than college locker room.
Sweaty gear is strewn about, and a large BSU Barracudas logo is emblazoned on the center of the floor, surrounded by scuff marks from countless skate blades.
“Gentlemen!” Gerard’s voice rings out, loud and clear, and draws everyone’s attention. “I want to introduce you to Elliot and Jackson.”
Heat creeps up my neck as I wave awkwardly at Gerard’s teammates, who are in various states of undress. Some are fully clothed, others are shirtless, and a few are wearing nothing but towels like Gerard.
My gaze lands on the other three members of the Fearless Foursome. Oliver Jacoby is at his locker, the V of his obliques disappearing beneath a white towel slung low on his hips. His short black hair is spiked with water from his recent shower. He regards Jackson and me with warm green eyes and a kind smile, not unlike a big brother welcoming us into the fold.
Drew Larney, on the other hand, is eyeing us with unabashed interest. He’s completely naked, his muscular body on full display as he lounges on the bench with his legs spread wide. He clearly doesn’t give a shit that he’s showing us the goods. He’s half-hard, his cock resting heavily against his thigh. He catches me looking and winks salaciously.
Finally, there’s Kyle Graham. He’s fully dressed in a BSU T-shirt and athletic shorts, and his sandy brown hair is still damp from his shower. He studies us with a grumpy scowl, his arms crossed over his chest. I get the distinct impression that he’s not thrilled about our impromptu visit.
But none of them compare to Gerard. Even in a room full of half-naked athletes, he’s the one my eyes keep coming back to. The way the fluorescent lights glint off his wet skin, highlighting every dip and curve of his muscular body. The way his towel clings precariously to his hips, threatening to slip off at any moment. The way his blue eyes could drown me if I stare into them too long.
He’s a Greek god among mortals.
“What do you think of our little slice of heaven?” Gerard’s voice snaps me out of my funk, and I tear my gaze away from his chest and meet his eyes .
“It’s…impressive,” I manage to say without squeaking. “Very impressive.”
His smile widens. “I’m glad you think so. We work hard to keep it in tip-top shape.”
“I can see that,” I mumble, my eyes drifting back down to his towel-clad hips.
Get it together, Elliot. Stop ogling the straight boy.
But it’s hard not to ogle when he’s standing there like a wet dream come to life.
Jackson, bless his heart, comes to my rescue. “Gerard, would you be willing to give us the grand tour?”
Gerard claps his hands together. “I thought you’d never ask! Follow me, gentlemen.”
He turns on his heel and walks us over to a row of doors with gold nameplates on them. “Over here, we have the coaches’ offices. They’re usually pretty busy during the season, watching tape and strategizing plays.”
The first office is for Head Coach Jack Donovan. The second office belongs to Assistant Coach Riley Dunn. The third office is for Goalie Coach Isaac Novak. The last office is for the team doctor, Marty Zuckerman.
We walk down a short hallway to the next area—a large room filled with sticks, pads, helmets, and skates. “This is our equipment room. It’s all top-of-the-line gear.” He picks up a stick and tests its flex.
“Dude!” Jackson reaches for one of the helmets, but Gerard swats his hand away.
“Gotta earn the right to wear that on your head, bud.”
He replaces the stick and ushers us to a room with exam tables and a large tub that could easily fit Gerard and a few of his equally massive teammates.
Gerard notices me eyeing it and chuckles. “Our cold tub. Gotta take care of the muscles after a game. You guys are welcome to try it out sometime. There’s nothing like submerging yourself in freezing cold water after a grueling practice. ”
“Looks cozy,” I say sarcastically.
“It’s not for everyone. But it does help with muscle recovery and reducing inflammation.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” We turn down another hall, and I realize we’re walking in a circle. Interesting layout.
“And here’s the most important part.” Gerard spins around, and I nearly collide with his chest. This close to him, I can see individual droplets of water clinging to his skin.
“Last but not least, I give you…the showers. It’s big enough for the whole team to use at once, which comes in handy after a tough practice or game.”
Jackson waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I bet it does.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Jackson,” I admonish.
Gerard chuckles. “It’s not as exciting as it sounds. Mostly just a bunch of sweaty dudes trying to get clean as quickly as possible. See for yourself.”
We turn our heads, and I’m not prepared for the sight that greets me.
Steam rises in thick clouds, obscuring the far end of the room, but what I can see up close is more than enough to short-circuit my brain.
Several players are still in the showers, their naked bodies on full display. Water sluices over rippling muscles and toned flesh. Asses of various sizes are covered in suds. And then there are the dicks. Dear Lord, the dicks.
A small part of me wonders where Gerard falls on the scale of average to holy-shit-that-thing-is-a-monster. Judging by the size of his hands, his feet, and what genetics gifted him in the back, I dare say it’s probably closer to Empire State Building status.
“Whoops!” Gerard quickly ushers us down the hall, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Guess I should have checked that it was empty first.”
He grins bashfully and rubs the back of his neck. Seeing this big, tough hockey player get flustered is strangely cute.
Meanwhile, Jackson is uncharacteristically quiet. I glance over and see that his face is beet red, too.
I can relate. That was…a lot to take in. I shift uncomfortably and discreetly adjust myself. Thank God for this baggy sweater.
“Anyway.” Gerard clears his throat, snapping us out of it. “Let’s head back. I need to finish getting dressed.”
We follow Gerard to his locker and avert our eyes as he drops his towel and begins to get dressed.
It’s not that I’m a prude or anything; it just feels weird to openly ogle him now that we’ve officially met. Like, I should at least buy him dinner first before getting an eyeful of his junk, you know?
To distract myself, I let my gaze wander over the contents of his locker. It’s meticulously organized, with his gear arranged just so. Everything has its place, from his skates to his stick to his… is that a bobblehead?
I lean closer, squinting at the small figurine perched on the top shelf. Yep, that’s definitely a mini Gerard staring back at me with a goofy grin and wearing a tiny replica of his jersey.
Unable to resist, I reach out and give the bobblehead a flick. Its oversized head wobbles comically on its spring, and I snicker.
“Having fun?” Gerard’s amused voice makes me jump. I glance over to see him watching me, his lips quirking in a lopsided smile. Thankfully, he’s dressed now, though his shirt clings to his damp skin in a way that’s entirely too distracting.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly, snatching my hand back. “I’ve just never seen a bobblehead that actually looks like the person it’s supposed to be. Usually, they’re more…generic.”
“Oliver got that for me as a gag gift last year,” Gerard explains, leaning against the locker next to his. The scent of his body wash wafts over me, making my head swim pleasantly. “He said it captures my ‘essence.’ Whatever that means.”
I study the bobblehead again, taking in its bright blue eyes and megawatt smile. “I mean, he’s not wrong. It does kind of have your whole”—I gesture vaguely at his face—“thing going on. ”
“My thing? ” Gerard raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too amused.
“Yeah, you know.” I shrug, feeling my cheeks heat again. “The whole golden boy, all-American charm thing. Like you stepped out of an Abercrombie ad or something.”
Gerard throws his head back and laughs. “An Abercrombie ad? Really?”
“I said what I said.” I lift my chin defiantly.
“Well, I’ll take it as a compliment.” He reaches out and flicks the bobblehead himself, making it nod frantically. “Though I think mini me here is much more charming.”
“Oh, definitely,” I agree solemnly. “The real you is a total ogre.”
Gerard laughs again. It’s a nice laugh, I decide. Rich and full-bodied like a good wine.
Jackson watches our exchange with barely concealed amusement. “You two are an adorable old married couple.”
I shoot him a withering glare. “Shut up, Jackson.”
But Gerard is unbothered by the comparison. “I don’t know. I think we’d make a pretty cute couple.” He winks at me, and my traitorous heart skips a beat.
To hide my flustered reaction, I turn my attention back to his locker and take in the rest of its contents.
There’s a well-worn copy of The Outsiders tucked into one corner, its pages dog-eared and spine cracked from repeated readings. A half-empty bottle of Gatorade sits next to it with condensation beading on the plastic.
But what really catches my eye is the cluster of Polaroid photos taped haphazardly to the side wall. They’re slightly faded and curling at the edges as if they’ve been there for a while.
Most of them are of Gerard with his teammates—their faces flushed and eyes glassy in a way that suggests they’re not entirely sober.
In one, Gerard has his arm slung around Drew’s shoulders as they both grin goofily at the camera. In another, he’s giving Kyle a noogie while Oliver laughs in the background.
But there’s one photo that stands out from the rest. In it, Gerard is crouched down next to a little girl with the same golden hair and bright blue eyes as him. They’re both smiling widely, with their faces pressed close together to fit in the frame.
“Who’s that?” I ask before I can stop myself, pointing to the photo.
Gerard follows my gaze, and his expression softens. “That’s my little sister, Lily.” I detect a note of fondness in his voice. “She’s the light of my life.”
“She’s cute.” I study the photo more closely and surmise that she can’t be more than six or seven, at least when the picture was taken. Her cheeks are still round with baby fat. “You two look alike.”
“Yeah, we get that a lot.” Gerard’s smile turns wistful. “She’s the best. Smart as a whip and sassy as can be. Keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure.”
“I bet.” I try to picture Gerard being bossed around by a pint-sized version of himself. It’s an adorable mental image.
“Do you have any siblings?” He glances at me curiously.
I shake my head. “Nope. Only child.”
“That’s cool. Being an only child has its perks. Don’t get me wrong, I love Lily to death. But siblings can be a real handful sometimes. They always get into your stuff, hog the bathroom, rat you out to your parents…” He shakes his head ruefully, and a stray lock of golden hair falls into his eyes. “I bet it’s nice to have your parents’ undivided attention. You don’t have to compete with anyone or share the spotlight.”
I blink in surprise at what Gerard’s saying to me. I’ve never thought about it that way before. Being an only child has always been a curse rather than a blessing. Sure, I never had to fight for the last scoop of ice cream or worry about being made fun of for wearing hand-me-downs. But I also never had anyone to play with on lonely summer days or someone to commiserate with when my mom was being particularly unreasonable.
“I always wished for a sibling. Someone to share inside jokes with or to show me the ropes of getting through life. It gets pretty lonely sometimes being the only kid.”
Gerard nods sympathetically, his full lips pursing slightly. “I can see that. Grass is always greener and all that jazz, right?”
“Exactly.” I’m grateful that he understands. “But hey, at least now I have Jackson to keep me company. He’s been my surrogate brother since I got here.”
“Damn straight!” Jackson throws an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his side. “I taught this one everything he knows. From how to get the nerve to skip class to flirting with girls—er, I guess that last one didn’t take, did it?”
I smack his stomach. “Shut up, Jackson. You’re not nearly as smooth as you think you are.”
Gerard chuckles at our antics. “You two are funny. I can see the brotherly love.”
Then he does something that takes my breath away. He reaches out and ruffles my hair affectionately. Every muscle in my body locks up tight as his fingers card through my short strands and inadvertently tug at the roots in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
I have the sudden, wild urge to lean into his ministrations like a touch-starved kitten. But I don’t. Because that would be weird and inappropriate. “We should probably get going, Jackson. I’m sure Gerard wants to go celebrate with his teammates.”
Gerard takes his hand back. A brief flicker of something I can’t name flashes across his face before he smiles broadly. “Oh, good call.”
“Thanks again for letting us meet the team,” Jackson says as Gerard walks us out of the locker room. “And for the tour. It was awesome.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I try to sound enthusiastic, but my mind is a whirlpool of conflicting emotions.
Gerard leans against the door frame. “Anytime. I’m glad you guys snuck in here.” His blue eyes lock onto mine. “Elliot, I hope to see you around campus more.”
My heart does a stupid little somersault. “Uh, yeah. Maybe.”
With that, Gerard pushes off the door frame and saunters back into the locker room.
“Gerard, wait!” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He pops his head back out, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “What’s up?”
I chew on my bottom lip, second-guessing myself. But the concern won’t let me go. “Are you okay? That slam into the boards looked pretty intense.”
Gerard’s eyes widen a fraction before he schools his features into an easy smile. “Oh, that? I’m fine. Just a little knock to the noggin. Nothing I can’t handle.”
But I saw the way he stopped breathing for a split second after the impact like the wind was knocked out of him. “Are you sure? It looked like you might have a concussion.”
Gerard waves a dismissive hand. “I’m good. I’ve taken worse hits than that and walked away just fine.” He taps the side of his head. “Built like a brick wall up here.”
Despite myself, I snort. “I don’t think that’s the saying.”
“Well, it should be. Because it’s true.” He grins, and my stomach does that stupid fluttery thing again.
I don’t know why I’m so concerned. It’s not like Gerard and I are friends. We barely know each other. But there’s just something about him that makes me want to wrap him up in bubble wrap and keep him safe.
Which is ridiculous. He’s a grown man. A collegiate athlete. He can take care of himself.
But still, the image of him slamming into the boards replays in my mind. The way he crumpled to the ice.
It should horrify me. But instead, it sends a thrill down my spine .
There’s just something so…primal about hockey. The raw physicality of it. The barely contained violence simmering just beneath the surface, ready to explode at any moment.
It’s caveman stuff. And it shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does.
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay, regardless.”
“Thanks, Elliot. I appreciate that.” Gerard’s teammates call out to him, and he glances over his shoulder. “Have a good night, Elliot.”
“You too, Gerard.”
The door swings shut behind him, and I’m left staring at the spot where he stood, at a loss for words.
Jackson turns to me with a huge grin plastered on his face. “Dude.”
I blink at him, still processing everything that just happened. “What?”
“He has a thing for you.”
I scoff, but it comes out weaker than I intend. “You’re delusional.”
“I’m serious! Did you see the way he was looking at you? Oh, and what about how he pointedly said he hopes to see you around campus? Come on, Elliot. Even you can’t be that dense.”
I run a hand through my hair and muss it up worse than Gerard did. “He was being nice. He’s probably that way with everyone.”
Jackson shrugs. “Maybe. But I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
A good feeling. That’s what worries me most. Because despite all my reservations and knowing better than to get involved with a jock, some irrational part of me hopes Jackson is right.
And that hope is dangerous.