Chapter 9
9
GERARD
B EEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The sound that rips from my throat is more of a lion’s roar than a human groan. My screaming alarm clock won’t shut up. The sun is out in full force, burning my eyeballs from beneath my eyelids. My teammates are clomping down the hall for their morning showers, workout routines, and God knows what else.
I know I need to get up and face the day, but nothing—not even a juicy cheeseburger—will get me moving anytime soon.
I’m lying on my stomach with my face smooshed into the world’s fluffiest pillow. Turning my head, I crack open an eye and gaze blearily at Barry the Barracuda resting on the floor. He’s a stuffed animal I’d gotten for my sister but never gave her because he was too darn cute to give away.
His glassy eyes pierce deep into my soul. He’s silently judging me for my wild weekend when I should have been resting.
“Don’t give me that look, dude,” I mumble, my voice raspy and broken. “I had to celebrate.”
Had to . As if it were a requirement for my grade or something. But really, how could I not party like it was 1999? The whole team was amped up, and the adrenaline carried us through a rager that started Friday night and somehow bled into early this morning.
I don’t remember much except that I drank a lot of beer and got a lot of butt slaps from the guys. My poor cheeks are still tender from all the congratulatory whacks.
With a herculean effort, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Nope. Bad move. Shockwaves of pain ricochet through my skull. I force myself to breathe through the nausea rising in my throat.
As incredible as the weekend has been, I’m paying for it now. My mouth feels stuffed with cotton balls, and every inch of my body aches from the top of my head to my little pinky toe.
I glance over at my nightstand, hoping to find a bottle of water, but all I see is an opened tube of lube. I guess drunk me got lucky with drunk me at some point last night. Good for him.
My muscles scream in protest when I pull myself up into a seated position. I turn my head this way and that, cracking my neck and moaning in ecstasy. My dick perks up at the sound, but I shake my head. “Down, boy. I don’t think I have the energy for that right now.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it with all the enthusiasm of a man reaching for a live grenade.
Oliver
Dude, u alive? We’re downstairs waiting for you.
Fiddlesticks. The weekly house meeting completely slipped my mind.
I haul myself out of bed and study myself in the mirror that hangs on the back of my door. Yikes . My usually bright blue eyes are dull as dishwater, and my hair could double as a nest for a family of sparrows. Even my skin has taken on a grayish hue, like week-old meatloaf.
“Barry, I think I’m getting too old for this.” I realize how pathetic I sound. I’m only twenty, but I’ve woken up in the body of a washed-up has-been trying to relive his glory days. Ha, I’m my dad!
Don’t tell him I said that. He’d cuff me upside the head.
I pat my hair into submission and throw on a BSU hoodie and gym shorts. I pluck a pair of neon green socks off the floor and put them on my feet, enjoying how they instantly warm my toes.
As I shuffle toward the door, I give Barry a thumbs up. “Stay cool, Bar.”
He stares back at me with that same toothy grin. He knows something I don’t. Weird.
I trudge out into the hallway and make my way to the stairs. The third floor is quiet, which is unusual for a house of hockey boys, but I’m not complaining. The silence is a gentle caress on my shattered eardrums.
I descend the stairs slowly because each step sends a jolt of pain through my still fragile body. When I reach the bottom, I peek around the corner and see the whole squad crammed into the living room.
Even Alex Donovan is here. As Coach’s son, he’s practically another member, though he prefers to watch rather than partake.
I shuffle into the room, and a wave of snickers and giggles washes over the team as all eyes turn toward me. “What’s so funny?”
“G, you, uh…got drool on your cheek.” Oliver gestures to his own with his index finger. But it’s the way he emphasizes the word “drool” that causes my stomach to clench.
Suddenly, my mind flashes back to my room. The opened tube of lube. Barry’s toothy grin. Oh, god.
Turning on my heel, I book it to the bathroom at the end of the hall and don’t return until my face has been thoroughly scrubbed.
I plop down on the couch next to Drew, who’s biting his knuckle to keep from laughing out loud. I glare at him, but all I get back is an innocent shrug .
Oliver stands and clears his throat. “Alright, now that Gerard’s back, let’s get started.” The room quiets down, though a few guys continue chuckling softly. “First order of business: groceries.”
Every week, we pool our money and send someone to stock up on essentials—mostly protein powder, eggs, and enough pasta to feed an army. It’s a thankless task.
“I’ll go.” I raise my hand, and the team stares at me in surprise. Usually, we have to draw straws for this kind of thing.
“Are you sure?” Oliver asks. “You don’t?—”
“I’m sure.” Anything to get me out of this room and away from whatever stupid thing everyone is laughing about.
Oliver nods slowly. “Alright. Gerard’s got groceries this week.”
I sink into the couch and close my eyes. Maybe if I pretend hard enough, I can will myself back to bed.
“Next,” Oliver continues, “the Halloween party.”
My eyes snap open. The Hockey House Halloween party is legendary—bigger than homecoming, bigger than Spring Fling. We’ve been throwing it for thirty years straight, and alumni still talk about their favorite parties from back in the day.
This year will be my third as a resident of the Hockey House. And if history is any indication, it will be epic . Not that I have any idea how we’re going to top last year’s Haunted Rink theme or the Zombie Apocalypse from two years ago.
“We need ideas,” Oliver says.
Suddenly, a slew of hands fly up into the air, my own included.
Oliver points to Nathan first. Nathan’s still in that eager-to-please phase where he thinks the older guys give a crap about his opinions. It’s cute.
“We should do a superhero theme!” Nathan bounces in his seat as he talks. “Everyone could dress up as their favorite hero or villain, and we could have a costume contest and?—”
“Lame,” Drew interrupts. “They did that five years ago.”
Nathan’s face falls, and I feel bad for the kid. “It’s not a bad idea, Nathan. Maybe the team can do that again in another couple of years.”
Drew leans back and puts his hands behind his head. “How about an orgy theme? Everyone comes in bedsheets with holes cut out for easy access. But privates are still covered for the prudes.”
The room erupts in hoots and hollers, and I roll my eyes. As ridiculous as Drew is, he sure knows how to play to his audience.
Oliver grimaces, mirroring my thoughts. “Orgy sounds like every other party we throw. Let’s keep it PG—for now.”
Kyle Graham raises his hand. “What about a toga party? It’s similar to the orgy idea but more traditional. Plus, we wouldn’t have to spend money on costumes.”
“Togas are so last century,” says someone from the back. I think it’s Jordan, but I’m not sure.
Oliver points at me. “Gerard, you had an idea?”
“Wait!” Alex Donovan cuts in, and the whole room goes silent. He rarely speaks during these meetings. “What if we did a retro theme? Say an ’80s or ’90s night? People could dress up in old-school stuff, and you could make a playlist with classic hits.”
Oliver glances around the room, gauging the team’s reactions. Most of the guys are on board, though a few have already checked out of the party planning and are scrolling through social media on their phones.
I clear my throat. “Or we could keep the music on a theme but let everyone dress up as whatever they want.”
The room buzzes with newfound excitement. Eyes glaze over as everyone imagines their costumes.
“I like it,” says Oliver. “That way, everyone can get creative without being restricted by a theme.”
I glance at Alex. “Props to Alex for the idea.”
Alex’s face lights up as he shoots me a grateful smile from where he sits between Kyle’s spread legs. Kyle nods approvingly, making me think I’ve finally measured up to his expectations.
“Then it’s settled.” Oliver makes a note on his phone. “We’ll need a playlist, decorations, and some themed drinks. But first, we’ve got to carve the pumpkins.”
Every year, we line the front yard with dozens of homemade jack-o’-lanterns. It’s a huge undertaking, but it’s tradition.
“Gerard.” Oliver points at me again. “You’re in charge of the pumpkins this year.”
I nod, accepting my fate. I skipped out on everything last Halloween because I spent all of my free time shopping for a rad costume. Figured I’d be paying my dues this year because of it.
“And Alex,” Oliver continues. “You’ll help him out.”
Alex’s eyes widen in surprise. There’s a hint of uncertainty in his expression. I reach out to ruffle his hair, but Kyle slaps it away. Rude.
“That’s all I have for this week.” Oliver claps his hands. “See you all here next Sunday. ”
Guys filter out of the room, discussing potential costumes and other plans for the party.
I follow close behind, my feet taking me to the kitchen, where we keep a whiteboard with our weekly needs scribbled on it.
As I take a picture with my phone, Drew comes up behind me and leans against the fridge. “Can you do me a favor, G-man?”
I sigh internally. Drew’s favors are never simple. “What is it?”
“I’m in a bind and can’t get to the store until later.”
“What do you need, dude?”
Drew’s lips curl into a mischievous grin. “Condoms.”
My stomach drops. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Ultra-thin and ribbed for his and her pleasure.” He winks.
“Can’t you just?—”
“Come on, dude. You’re going to the store anyway.” He stands up straight, confident I’ll cave. “I need them for tonight.”
“Why don’t you use one of Kyle’s?” I grasp at any excuse to get out of this.
Drew shrugs. “We’re different sizes.”
I blanch at that information. It’s way more than I ever wanted to know about either of them. Drew cackles, already halfway down the hall. “You should see the look on your face, G-man! Priceless!”
I flip him off, even though he can’t see it. The jerk always manages to put me in these situations. Why do I keep agreeing to his stupid requests? Probably because deep down, I know he’d do the same for me—though not with nearly as much complaining or blushing.
Storming out of the kitchen, I grab my slides from the hallway and walk out the front door. The cool air hits me like a splash of cold water, momentarily cooling my burning face. I take a deep breath and trot down the driveway to my car.
Once inside, I adjust my rearview mirror and back out onto the road. As I enjoy the fifteen-minute ride, I mentally brace myself for the chaos that awaits at the Berkeley Shore grocery store on a Sunday morning after church. And for the ultra-thin, ribbed-for-his- and- her-pleasure aisle.
The parking lot is a madhouse, as expected. I have to circle twice before snagging a spot in the back next to a rusted-out pickup. The walk to the entrance isn’t too bad, but it’s going to suck later when I’m pushing an overflowing shopping cart.
Inside, the store is pure chaos. Families swarm the aisles like locusts, stripping shelves bare of cereal and canned goods. Screaming kids filter in and out of earshot as they race around corners and collide with unsuspecting shoppers. Mischievous teenagers poke at produce and dare each other to chug bottles of sriracha. Elderly couples move at a glacial pace, creating human traffic jams as they deliberate over brands of cottage cheese.
I make a beeline for the stack of shopping carts near the entrance, only to find them completely wiped out. My heart sinks. There’s no way I can haul all the stuff we need without a cart. I scan the area, hoping someone will abandon theirs, when I spot a lone cart near the customer service desk.
I sprint and claim it just as another set of hands grabs the handle. I look down to see a kid who can’t be more than ten years old, wearing a Spider-Man hoodie that’s two sizes too big.
“Let go,” the kid commands, his voice cracking with prepubescent bravado.
“Where are your parents?” I ask, trying to sound authoritative but not mean. I’m not about to back down from a fifth grader, but I’m also not looking to scar the kid for life.
“They’re coming.” His eyes dart around nervously. Yeah, sure they are.
“Tell you what, I’m gonna borrow this until they get here.”
The kid tightens his grip and plants his feet. “No! We need it!”
I sigh and roll my eyes, contemplating my next move. Maybe I can bribe him with a candy bar or something. Before I can make an offer, the little brat takes matters into his own hands—specifically, he takes his foot and drives it straight into my shin.
Pain shoots up my leg as I yelp and hop on one foot like an oversized flamingo. The kid bolts, disappearing into the sea of shoppers. I half expect him to turn around and flip me off like a miniature Drew Larney, but he just runs for his life.
I rub my throbbing shin and inspect the cart. It’s mine now, but was it worth getting soccer-kicked by a ten-year-old? Absolutely. No way am I doing this trip with a handbasket.
I weave through the congested aisles, ticking items off the list in my phone while bopping my head to the One Direction song playing over the PA system. The Halloween section is a war zone, with parents and college kids ransacking the costume racks and clearance bins. I steer clear; I’ve already ordered my costume.
Halfway through my list, I realize I’ve been subconsciously avoiding one particular section of the store. I groan inwardly and make a hard left toward the pharmacy.
The condom display looms at the end of the aisle like a shrine to poor life choices. I slow my pace and pretend to be interested in the vitamins and first aid kits lining the shelves.
A couple stands in front of the condoms, giggling and making out as they deliberate on which box to grab. I recognize them as students from BSU—not anyone I know personally, but familiar enough that it makes my stomach clench.
I duck behind a display of cold medicine and peek around the corner like a stalker in a bad crime drama. The last thing I need is for them to see what I’m getting, even if they’re not for me. Will they judge the choice? Think I’m some kind of perv who needs extra sensation? My mind races with all the possible assumptions they could make, and none of them are flattering.
The couple finally decides on a box and saunters off, still attached at the lips. I wait a beat, then two, before creeping up to the now-deserted display. My eyes scan the gaudy packaging—colors and slogans screaming for attention like a bunch of horny peacocks. I locate the ultra-thin, ribbed-for-his- and -her-pleasure variety that Drew specified and take a deep breath.
As I reach for the box, another hand intercepts it—a tanned hand much smaller than mine. I freeze and look over to see Elliot standing next to me, his brown eyes widening in recognition behind his glasses.
“Oh.” He pulls his hand back quickly. “Gerard.”
My heart does this weird flop thing in my chest. “Elliot. Hey.”
We stand there for a moment, and neither of us says anything. The silence is loud .
“I didn’t know you—“ I start, but he cuts me off.
“They’re not for me.”
“Oh. Uh, same here. I’m shopping for a friend.”
We both look at the box I’m still holding. It’s the only one left. I shove it toward him. “You take it.”
Elliot hesitates. “No, really. You take it.”
I push it toward him again. “Seriously, it’s cool. My friend can wait. ”
He doesn’t take the box. Instead, he crosses his arms and looks at me with something like suspicion, or maybe it’s just confusion. “Gerard, it’s fine. I don’t even need them that badly.”
“Neither do I,” I say, probably too quickly.
We’re locked in this ridiculous standoff, each of us too proud or too scared to just take the darn thing and run. Part of me wonders if Elliot thinks I’m lying about them not being for me. Worse, I wonder if he’s telling the truth about them not being for him.
“Just take it,” I say again, but my voice lacks conviction now. I suddenly feel like a character in one of those old sitcoms where two people get stuck in an elevator and have to confront their feelings. Except we’re in a condom aisle, and there’s no laugh track to make this less excruciating.
“Are you sure?” Elliot uncrosses his arms but still doesn’t reach for the box.
“Yeah, I’m?—“
“Are you two children?” A female voice cuts in. I turn to see the woman from the library strolling up with a mischievous grin plastered on her face. “Give me that.” She snatches the box from my hand.
“Sarah,” Elliot says, and I can hear the mix of relief and annoyance in his voice as she holds the box above her head and closes her eyes.
“Eenie-meenie-minie-moe.” She sways her arm back and forth between us. “Catch a tiger by the toe.”
I glance at Elliot. He bites his lip and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I can’t tell if he wants to win this stupid game or if he’s as conflicted as I am.
“If he hollers, let him go. Eenie-meenie-minie…moe!” Sarah finishes with a flourish, pointing directly at Elliot. She opens her eyes and laughs. “Looks like you get lucky.”
She tosses the box to Elliot, who catches it awkwardly and stuffs it into his shopping basket. “Gee, thanks.”
“I’m just here for the show,” Sarah says, winking at me. “See you around.”
She saunters off, leaving Elliot and me in a wake of silence. I scratch the back of my neck. “Good luck with…your friend.”
I head down the aisle, my mind a swirl of thoughts about Elliot, about Drew, about how complicated everything has become lately. I’m not sure if I’m happy for Elliot or just bummed that now I’ll have to deal with Drew crying about not getting laid.
Probably both.
I’m nearly finished shopping when nature calls. I make a beeline for the restrooms, parking my cart outside the door. The fluorescent lights inside are harsh, and the white tile walls do nothing to muffle the sound of running water and hand dryers. I take care of business, finally ridding myself of the last of the alcohol from the weekend’s binge. It’s a relief, is what it is.
As I wash my hands, I check out my reflection in the mirror. The flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes have mostly faded; I’m starting to look human again. One of the perks of being a beefy guy is that I can process this stuff quicker than most. My hangover is nearly gone, and with it, some of the anxiety that’s been gnawing at me all morning.
I step back into the hallway and retrieve my cart. My eyes wander to the list on my phone, and I mentally prepare myself for Drew’s wrath when he finds out I wimped out on?—
Wait.
I do a double-take at the contents of my cart. Nestled on top of a bag of candy corn is the box of condoms, still unopened and undamaged. A slow realization dawns on me, and I glance around the store. Did Elliot…?
I picture him waiting outside the restroom, looking both ways before dumping and running. He must have done it while I was finishing up.
A warm feeling spreads through my chest, mixing with the residual flush from my hangover.
I pick up the box and turn it over in my hands, imagining Elliot’s face when Sarah played her little game. When he caught the box, and when he walked away. He’s hard to read, but today…today, I think I’m starting to figure him out.
Placing the condoms back in the cart, I head toward the checkout, where the line at the register snakes back into the frozen section. I take my place at the end and pull out my phone, scrolling through texts from Drew, Oliver, and even one from Mom checking in on me.
Once it’s my turn, I load my items onto the conveyor belt. The cashier, a tired-looking woman in her thirties, scans each item without comment. I almost want her to say something about the condoms so I can explain why they’re not for me, but she remains silent.
I pay and wheel my cart full of bags out into the lot. Despite the frigid temperature, the sun beats down mercilessly, beading my forehead with sweat. This is gonna suck.
Gripping the cart handle, I take a deep breath and step off the sidewalk. The wheels rattle and squeak as I push forward, each bag shifting and jostling with every bump in the pavement.
I’m halfway across the first row when a car comes screeching around the corner. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat as the vehicle barrels toward me. Time slows down, and I can see every detail of the approaching car—the sun glinting off the hood, the blur of the driver’s face behind the windshield, the hula girl jiggling on the dashboard.
At the last possible second, the car swerves, missing me by mere inches. The rush of air from its passing ruffles my hair and sends a chill down my spine. Holy snickers, that was close.
I’m still trying to catch my breath when I notice the passenger in the car. Sitting there, smirking at me through the window, is the little twerp from earlier. The one who kicked me in the shin over the shopping cart.
As I watch, he slowly raises his hand, extends his middle finger, and flips me off. The door partially obscures the gesture, but there’s no mistaking it. The kid has it out for me.
I knew I should’ve stayed in bed.