Chapter 15
15
ELLIOT
B y this point, it should be a no-brainer that I’ve been a bookworm since the day I was born. I love getting lost in the pages of a romance novel, imagining a handsome man sweeping me off my feet and whisking me away to live happily ever after.
But as the years have passed, I’ve had fewer flights of fancy. Life’s a bitch, not a fairytale with a happy ending.
Despite their supposed open-mindedness and progressivism, college students can be cruel in the most insidious ways. It’s not the outright slurs or blatant discrimination that cut the deepest. It’s the subtle digs and the microaggressions that burrow under my skin and fester like an untreated wound.
As a Hispanic gay man, I’m no stranger to prejudice. But experiencing it in an environment that’s supposed to foster higher learning and personal growth is uniquely demoralizing.
I lost count of how many times I’ve heard “diversity hire” whispered when working at the library or the word “gay” used as a replacement for “stupid” or “lame.”
You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now. But I never will.
Moreover, navigating the minefield that is the college dating scene as a gay man of color is an exercise in masochism. If I had a dollar for every “No fats, no femmes, no Asians, no Blacks, no Latinos” dating profile found online, I could pay off my student loans and afford a trip to Europe.
It’s abhorrent to have others boil down my worth to the color of my skin or how I express myself sexually.
Jackson does his best to use his privilege and popularity to call out the bullshit when he sees and hears it. But even he can only do so much. In the world of college sports, there’s an unwritten rule to not rock the boat. And as the face of BSU football, Jackson has to balance standing up for what’s right with not pissing off those who support the program with their overstuffed wallets.
That’s why it’s surprising that Gerard is giving me the time of day. I’d bet money that this is tearing the very fabric of the social hierarchy that governs life at BSU.
The popular jock isn’t supposed to fraternize with the socially awkward nerd. It’s no different than mixing oil and water or wearing white after Labor Day. It simply isn’t done…until now.
I’ve never been to Fraternity Row, but Jackson has. And his description of it made me picture a scene straight out of National Lampoon’s Animal House. A never-ending party filled with debauchery and excess. A place where the smell of stale beer and cheap liquor mingles with the pungent odor of vomit and sex. Where toga-clad frat bros chug from kegs, crush beer cans against their foreheads, and let out primal screams as they streak naked across the yard, their bits and pieces flapping in the breeze.
I imagined sorority girls stumbling out of houses in high heels and short skirts, mascara smudged and hair disheveled from whatever scandalous activities transpired behind closed doors. I expected the air to be thick with a haze of weed smoke and the ground vibrating from the constant thump-thump of bass from speakers cranked to eleven .
Homoerotic hijinks would be the norm, not the exception. Guys slapping each other’s asses. Chugging contests where the loser has to twerk naked on a table. Pranks involving shaving cream, icy hot, and unmentionable places. Measuring contests and towel snapping and all manner of testosterone-fueled idiocy.
But as I walk down the street lined with stately brick houses adorned with Greek letters, I realize how far off base my imagination was. Note to self: Never listen to Jackson when he has his beer goggles on.
The lawns are meticulously manicured, not littered with red solo cups and passed-out partiers. I smell freshly mown grass and fragrant flowers, not booze and sex. Frat boys stroll by in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops, despite the chill in the air, not togas and body glitter. The only naked thing I spot is a dog happily chasing a frisbee across the grass.
If it weren’t for the occasional raucous cheer from a backyard game of cornhole, Fraternity Row could be mistaken for a quaint suburban neighborhood. Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit disappointed by the lack of naked debauchery.
What can I say? Even bookish nerds have fantasies.
At the end of the street—the last house on the left ironically—is the Hockey House. It’s a hulking monstrosity, cobbled together from spare parts and held together with duct tape and sheer willpower. The paint is peeling, the shutters are hanging on by a thread, and the front porch is one strong gust of wind away from collapsing.
Despite its dilapidated appearance, the house is authentic in a way that the others on Fraternity Row aren’t. There’s no pretense or posturing here, merely a group of guys who love hockey and don’t give a damn about conforming to anyone’s expectations.
I find it funny that the Hockey House is even allowed to exist on Fraternity Row. It’s not as if the hockey team is an officially recognized fraternity. But I guess when you’re the darlings of the school and bring in more revenue than all the other sports combined, you can pretty much do whatever you want, wherever you want.
As I walk up to the driveway, a car comes screeching out of nowhere. The smell of burning rubber on asphalt fills my nostrils, and I barely have time to react before it’s almost on top of me.
Instinct takes over, and I leap to the side, landing hard on the grass as the car skids to a stop inches from my feet. Pain shoots through my body as my heart jackhammers in my chest. The pounding in my ears drowns out the sound of the engine idling.
“Shit! Are you okay?” a voice calls out, panicked.
The driver’s side door flies open, and a tall figure rushes to me. I sit up, dazed, and rub my elbow where I smacked it against the ground. The guy bends down, his bright pink hair unmistakable even in my disoriented state.
Nathan Paisley. Wonderful.
“I’m so sorry, dude,” he says, his face as pink as his hair. “I didn’t see you until the last second. I was…on my phone.”
Of course, he was.
Taking a deep breath, I place my hand on my chest and try to calm my racing heart. Once it’s under control, I tell him I’m fine, though I’m not entirely sure that’s true. At best, I’m a startled stoat.
Nathan extends a hand to help me up. I take it, wincing as I put weight on my sore elbow. “I’m such an asshole. I was in a rush because—well, it’s stupid—but I desperately have to pee.”
I bite my tongue to stop the crass joke about hockey players and tiny bladders from spilling out. “Go. Take care of your emergency.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He reminds me of a puppy that got scolded for chewing on the furniture. His eyes are big and shimmering with unshed tears. His brow is furrowed in concern. If he had a tail, it’d be tucked between his legs.
I nod. “I’ll live.”
Nathan bites his lip, nods, and then dashes toward the house, fumbling with his keys. He bursts through the front door, and I hear him shout something to whoever’s inside before the door slams shut.
I brush grass and dirt off my jeans and survey the damage to my clothes. Nothing is torn, thankfully. I glance at Nathan’s car—an old Camaro with more dents than a junkyard—and wonder how someone as supposedly kind and gentle as Nathan could drive with such reckless abandon.
With a sigh, I walk slowly up the driveway and think about why I’m here. I’m curious to know what Gerard sees in me that warrants an invitation to pumpkin carving. I’m also terrified that this will end like every other attempt at something real—with me hurt and alone.
I reach the front porch, and the screen door swings open, nearly smacking me in the face.
Gerard stands in the doorway, his tall frame filling the entrance. He’s holding a pumpkin in one hand, and his eyes are blown wide open. He quickly assesses me from head to toe, and it doesn’t escape my notice that his blue eyes linger on my elbow. “Nathan said he almost ran you over.”
“ Almost ,” I say. “I’m fine, though. A few grass stains, but I can Shout it out.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I’ve survived worse than an overzealous hockey player with a full bladder.”
Appeased with my self-assessment, Gerard cracks a smile and steps aside. “Good to know. Come on in.” He gestures toward my feet. “But take off your shoes. Oliver vacuumed the whole house last night, and he’ll kill me if he finds any shoe prints.”
I bend down to untie my sneakers, wincing slightly as my sore elbow protests, and that’s when I notice Gerard’s feet. This is the closest I’ve ever been to them. They’re even bigger than I remember them being.
But it’s not just the size that has me gobsmacked. It’s the socks he’s wearing, too.
They’re an assault on the eyes—bright yellow with cartoon smiley faces on the toes. They clash horribly with his otherwise rugged, athletic demeanor.
“Nice socks,” I say, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
Gerard wiggles his toes, making the smiley faces dance. “Thanks. They were a gift from my sister, Lily, two Christmases ago.”
The mental image of Gerard opening a present from his kid sister and finding these ridiculous socks is almost too much. It’s…cute.
“They suit you.” I surprise myself with how much honesty there is in my tone.
“Thanks. I like your socks, too. Classic.”
I glance down at my socks—plain black crew socks I’ve had for years. There’s nothing special about them, but Gerard’s compliment makes me weirdly proud for some reason. “Thanks. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to socks.”
The first thing I notice when I pull my gaze away from Gerard’s feet is the mismatched furniture strewn about the living room. Each piece appears to have been plucked from a different decade and haphazardly thrown together. A ratty plaid couch that belongs in a 1970s basement sits next to a sleek, modern leather armchair that wouldn’t be out of place in a Manhattan penthouse. The coffee table is an old door laid across two sawhorses, its surface littered with hockey magazines, empty Gatorade bottles, and what I pray to God are clean jockstraps.
The walls are lined with signed jerseys and framed photographs that chronicle the history of BSU hockey. I spot a few familiar faces, including Coach Donovan. His boyish grin is unmistakable, even with a few missing teeth.
A life-size cardboard cutout of Wayne Gretzky stands guard in the corner. His stick is raised as if he’s about to take a slapshot at an unsuspecting intruder. I briefly consider asking Gerard to take a picture of me next to it, but I don’t want to come across as a puck bunny .
Nathan bounds into the room, air-drying his hands. “Hey, Elliot. I’m really sorry again about earlier.”
I wave off his apology. “It’s fine, Nathan. No harm done except to my dignity, but that was already in short supply.”
Nathan grins, relieved. “Still, I owe you one. If you ever need a ride somewhere, let me know. I promise I’ll drive like a little old lady.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I glance around the room, taking in the rest of the eclectic décor. “So, where are we doing this pumpkin carving? Please tell me you have newspapers or something to put down. I don’t want to be responsible for getting pumpkin guts all over Oliver’s clean floors.”
“Don’t worry,” Gerard says as he shifts the pumpkin tucked under his arm. “We’ve got it covered. Follow me.”
Saying goodbye to Nathan—who, for his part, tears off more carefully than he came in—we make our way down the hallway toward the kitchen, and I realize that it’s way too quiet. For a house that’s home to almost thirty-plus college hockey players, there should be more noise and chaos. “Where is everyone?”
Gerard glances over his shoulder at me. “Most of the guys are in class or at the rink. A few went into town to run errands. So it’s just us and Alex. Oh, and Drew, but he’s passed out in his room.”
I nod, trying not to read too much into the “just us” comment.
The kitchen is living proof that this is a house full of dudes. The counters are cluttered with protein powder containers, empty pizza boxes, and what appears to be a tower of red Solo cups that almost reach the ceiling. The fridge is covered in a collage of magnets, holding up everything from takeout menus to a schedule for who’s in charge of buying toilet paper this month.
I snicker when I see that it’s Gerard. Something tells me he has no clue about 2-ply, 3-ply, or even 4-ply.
But what really catches my eye is the plethora of pumpkins scattered about. They cover every available surface, from the kitchen table to the top of the microwave. Some are massive, the size of beach balls, while others are small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
“Did you rob a pumpkin patch or something?” I ask, only half-joking.
Gerard rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Kyle may have gone a smidge overboard at the farmers market. But in his defense, they were having a sale.”
“A smidge overboard? Gerard, this is enough to decorate the entire campus.”
“We usually donate whatever we don’t carve to the children’s hospital. Spread some Halloween cheer, you know?”
My heart does a funny little flip at that. It’s becoming increasingly clear that there’s more to him—and the team—than hockey and good looks.
“That’s really sweet of you,” I say softly.
A hint of pink colors Gerard’s cheeks, and he busies himself by setting the pumpkin down with the rest of them and arranging the carving tools. “It’s nothing. Just trying to do my part to add some good in the world.”
I pick up a particularly warty pumpkin and examine it. “So, any ideas on what to make?”
Gerard’s eyes light up at my question. “Oh man, I have so many ideas! I was thinking about doing something like a spooky haunted house with bats flying out of the windows or a creepy tree with gnarled branches. Or maybe a portrait of a famous monster. Say, Frankenstein or Dracula? We could even…”
As he rambles on, gesturing animatedly with his large hands, I find myself charmed by his enthusiasm. It’s clear he’s put a lot of thought into this. “Those all sound amazing. You must be quite the artist.”
Gerard’s face falls slightly, and he lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Actually, I’m a terrible artist. Like, embarrassingly bad. When I was ten, we had to make hand turkeys in school for Thanksgiving. You know, the ones where you trace your hand and turn it into a turkey? Well, mine turned out to be more of a deformed claw with googly eyes. My teacher tried to convince me it was abstract art, but I knew the truth. It was an abomination.”
I burst out laughing at the image of a young Gerard proudly presenting his eyesore of a hand turkey to the class. “Oh my God, that’s hilarious. And oddly adorable. I kind of want to see it now.”
Gerard groans. “Trust me, you don’t. I think my mom burned all the evidence out of secondhand embarrassment. But the point is, I have grand visions. It’s my execution that leaves a lot to be desired.”
“Maybe we should stick to something simpler, then? How about triangles for eyes and a jagged mouth?” I ask.
“Sounds perfect to me.”
The sound of footsteps distracts me, and I turn around to see a petite redhead hovering in the doorway. He’s even shorter than I am, with delicate features and large hazel eyes that dart nervously between me and Gerard.
Gerard’s face breaks into a warm smile. “Alex! Come on in, buddy. I want you to meet someone.”
Alex tentatively steps into the kitchen, fiddling with the hem of his oversized BSU hockey hoodie. Up close, I see a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, giving him an almost cherubic appearance.
“Alex, this is Elliot Montgomery. Elliot, meet Alex Donovan. He’s Coach Donovan’s son and the team’s honorary little brother.”
“Hi Alex, it’s nice to meet you.” I give him a friendly smile. Yes, I can do such a thing.
Alex returns my smile shyly. “Hi, Elliot. It’s nice to meet you. Gerard said you’ll be helping us carve some pumpkins?”
“Yup. So, now that you’re here…shall we start?” I glance at Gerard for the go-ahead. He gives me a wink and a nod, and I nearly combust on the spot.