Icing on the Cake (The Barracudas #1)

Chapter 21

21

GERARD

S howers after a grueling practice are a godsend. The warm water does wonders for my sore muscles, and the steam never fails to unclog my sinuses, which have been clogged from spending all that time in a cold arena.

And it’s not only me who feels this way. All of my teammates enjoy taking their sweet time getting clean. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dean reprimanded us one day for using every ounce of hot water.

I’m in the middle of using a loofah in those hard-to-reach places when Nathan Paisley walks over to me and slaps me on my rear. “Hey, Gunnarson. We were thinking about grabbing a bite at the new pizzeria down the street. You in?”

Does a bear sneeze in the woods? “Heck yeah, I’m in! You know I never say no to food.”

“Sweet. Elliot in, too?”

“Uh…” I stand there in a stupor as I suddenly realize I have no idea what Elliot’s opinion on pizza is. I mean, I hope he loves it as much as I do. But he could absolutely hate it. He hates many things—irresponsible students in the library, messes, people in general. Or he could be lactose intolerant, and the tiniest bit of ch eese could have him on the toilet for the rest of the night. “I can ask.”

Some of the guys turn off their shower heads and walk out, but Nathan isn’t one of them. I shoot him a curious look. “Is there more?”

“Yeah, uh…could you maybe ask him now?”

“Now?” I glance down at my body covered in soapsuds. I’m not exactly in the most presentable state, but if time is of the essence…

“Yeah. Since it’s still relatively new, you have to make a reservation. Kinda need a head count for that, right?”

I hand Nathan my loofah, wipe the soap suds off my body, and leave the shower. Taking the first towel that I can find, I wrap it around my waist and head out of the locker room.

The Infinity Arena is a maze of corridors with sterile white tiles with blue accents. It reminds me of something out of a sci-fi movie where we’re training for the Space Olympics or something. I always expect to see a robot Zamboni whirring around the corner.

I feel bad for the janitor who’s going to have to mop up my gigantic wet footprints. I’m basically a walking puddle as I make my way toward the main hall, where Elliot is waiting with his hands stuffed in the pocket of my hoodie.

God, I can’t believe I almost let it slip that I thought he was cute in it.

The trophy case is massive and takes up an entire wall. It’s filled with decades’ worth of awards, from conference championships to national titles. Old, yellowing newspaper clippings and black-and-white photos are mixed in with the shiny hardware. The whole thing is a time capsule—one that my dad and Coach Donovan are lucky to be a part of.

I walk up to it and study the most recent addition—a golden statue of a hockey player with a plaque reading, “First Place—Frozen Four.” That was from last year, and it still makes me smile.

“Impressive, huh?” I say, breaking the silence .

Elliot pushes his glasses up his nose and shrugs. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”

I never know how to interpret his comments. Is he being dismissive? Jealous? Wistful? All of the above? I decide not to analyze them. “The guys want to check out that new pizzeria down the street. Do you want to come, or do you want me to drop you off at the library?”

He turns to face me, and I see him weighing something in his mind—probably wondering if he can tolerate being around a bunch of jocks for another hour or two.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I’ve got a lot of homework to do.”

“Come on, we won’t be there that long. And if you need to bail early, just let me know.”

He sighs and I brace for the no. But then he surprises me.

“Fine. Why not?”

Relief washes over me like a second shower. “Awesome. I wasn’t even sure if you ate pizza.”

“Who doesn’t eat pizza?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Elliot turns back to the trophy case, and I follow his gaze. He’s studying an old photo from the 1970s of a team lined up on the ice. They’re all wearing ridiculous mustaches and have shaggy hairdos. “They look like a bunch of porn stars.”

I laugh hysterically. “It was the style back then. There’s even a tradition on the team now where we grow out our facial hair during playoffs.”

“And your pubic hair, too?”

I choke on a gasp. “What?”

He gestures to a different picture. One that features a man with his shirt off and proudly displaying not only his hairy chest but also a prominent bush peeking out from his low-rise pants.

I blush from my head to my toes, and that’s when Elliot finally realizes I’m wearing nothing but a towel. Or he already noticed but is only now sizing me up as if I’m about to be sold at auction.

“Yes and no,” I say when I’ve finally recovered enough to speak. “It is a tradition, but not during playoffs.”

He tilts his head, clearly curious, and now I really wish I had gotten dressed before I came out here.

“At the start of every season, the entire team grows out their pubic hair.”

“For shits and giggles?”

“Uh…it provides extra warmth on the ice. You’d be surprised how much of a difference it makes when you’ve got a thick nest of pubes insulating your junk.”

His nose crinkles adorably. “I guess that makes sense…in a weird way. But there has to be more to it than that.”

Of course, he doesn’t believe me. He shouldn’t. The dude’s too smart for his own good—and mine.

“So, here’s the deal. In my freshman year, we made this big bet with another team. The wager was that the losing team had to grow out their pubes for the rest of the semester. We thought it was hilarious at the time…until we lost.”

Elliot snorts. “I bet that was a rude awakening.”

“You have no idea.” I scrub my face at the memory. “But here’s the kicker—that season, we ended up winning this hugely important game that ended up being what launched us into the playoffs.”

“Let me guess. You all decided it was because of your lucky pubes?”

I grin and point a finger in his face. “Bingo. Hockey players are a superstitious bunch. From that moment on, the Pube Pact became a sacred tradition. No one dares to break it for fear of jinxing the team.”

Elliot breaks out into a fit of laughter. “That is simultaneously the dumbest and most fascinating thing I’ve ever heard. So, you’re telling me that you’re rocking a vintage bush under your jockstrap? ”

My face grows warm as I realize what I’ve just revealed. “Uh, yeah. I mean, we all are. It’s a team thing.”

His eyes flicker down to my towel before meeting my gaze again. “Prove it.”

My mouth goes dry. Is he seriously asking me to flash him my pubes right here in the trophy hall? And am I seriously thinking about doing it?

I don’t know what it is about Elliot, but he’s quickly turning me into a boy with a schoolgirl crush who would do anything for him. Give him a proper home, a warm bed, and more food than he could ever want. And now…this.

God, I have it bad, don’t I?

I glance around to make sure we’re alone before hooking a thumb in the edge of my towel. With a deep breath, I tug it down to expose the top of my groin.

Elliot inhales sharply as he takes in the wild, untamed sprawl of blond curls. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”

Hastily, I hike the towel back up. My whole body buzzes with adrenaline and something else. I think it’s lust. “Told ya. So, uh, pizza?”

Elliot blinks, suddenly remembering why I sought him out in the first place. “Right. Pizza. Let’s do it.”

When Elliot and I agreed to share the bed with him under the covers and me on top, I figured it would be no big deal.

A piece of cake.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

I was wrong.

It’s the most torturous experience I’ve ever endured. And that’s saying something, considering I went on a road trip with my dad to the Grand Canyon last year, and he farted in the car .

Did I mention it was during the hottest summer on record, and the drive was ten hours long?

Elliot tosses and turns more than a dryer on steroids. I swear, the dude could power a small city with all that restless energy. And don’t even get me started on the snoring. It’s like having a foghorn blasting in my ear all night. I’m talking window-rattling, earth-quaking, wake-the-dead kind of snoring.

I’ve tried everything to drown it out—earplugs, Oliver’s white noise machine, even those fancy noise-canceling headphones. But nothing works. It’s as if Elliot’s snores have a direct pipeline to my brain, bypassing all defenses.

But that’s not even the worst part. No, the real torture is having to sleep right next to him, separated only by a thin layer of blanket. I’m used to sleeping in the nude and letting my boys breathe freely and easily. But with Elliot as my bedmate, I now have to wear boxers out of respect. And let me tell you, it’s pure agony.

Having to keep my junk all cooped up in a cotton prison is a special kind of hell that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I wake up every morning drenched in sweat and my boxers clinging to my thighs. It’s gross and uncomfortable, and I hate it.

The ultimate cherry on top of this crap sundae is the raging daily case of morning wood. I’m not talking about a semi or a slight chub, either. Oh no, this is a full-on, rock-hard, could-cut-glass kind of boner. The type that tents my boxers and makes me want to die of embarrassment.

Before Elliot moved in, I had a foolproof system. I’d wake up at the butt crack of dawn, take care of business with a sock, and then go about my day with a clear head and an empty ball sack.

But now, with Elliot snoozing away beside me, I have to shove my dick between my legs and squeeze to relieve the pressure in my groin. I’m at the point where I want to curl up in the fetal position and weep.

I can’t do that, though, because Elliot would know something was up. And I can’t have him knowing how much he’s affecting me. Or how much I want him.

I think I’ve died and gone to Heaven.

The place is packed wall-to-wall with college students in every costume imaginable. A sexy nurse chats up a guy in a gorilla suit. A festive group of Marvel superheroes do shots in the corner. And is that…? Yep, a dude strolling in dressed as a giant banana. Only in college.

As for me, I’m a murdered football player. I’ve gone all out, too—a slashed jersey, a gruesome gash across my throat, and even some artfully placed bruises and dirt smudges that really sell the costume.

I love being a hockey player. It’s my life, my passion. But sometimes, it’s nice to shed that identity for a night and be someone else. Someone darker, edgier. Someone who didn’t spend their entire childhood on the ice.

Oliver comes up beside me, and I do a double take. He’s the Incredible Hulk, but where I thought I went all out, he went all out and then some. His entire body has been painted green, and his hair is slicked back with gel.

“Dude, you really committed to the bit, huh? How long did that take you?”

Oliver flexes a gigantic green bicep. “Longer than I care to admit. Kyle had to help me with the”—he drops his voice to a whisper—“hard-to-reach places.”

“You mean…”

I point to his crotch, unsure if I want to know the answer.

He nods. “Between the cheeks, too.”

My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. “No way.”

“Way. But don’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill you in your sleep. ”

I nod solemnly. “Duly noted.”

Feedback erupts from the speakers, and my attention is pulled from Oliver to the DJ in the corner of the living room. He’s blasting out some excellent tunes, all of which Alex handpicked. I’m not entirely sure what the theme ended up being, but all the songs involve the word ‘magic.’

Selena Gomez’s “Magic” starts playing, and without realizing it, my body moves to the beat as I try to spot some familiar faces in the crowd. Given everyone’s altered appearances, it’s tricky, but I finally see Kyle and Alex making their way toward Oliver and me with drinks in their hands.

From the looks of it, they’re competing in the best duo costume category tonight. Kyle is Harry Potter, judging by the round glasses and the lightning bolt scar in the center of his forehead. Alex is Ron Weasley, no surprise there. The little dude’s hair is so red that you can see it from the International Space Station.

“Well, looky here,” I say as they approach. “If it isn’t the dynamic duo of Hogwarts themselves.”

“Hilarious, Gerard.” Kyle rolls his eyes, but I can see a hint of a smile. Even if he denies it till kingdom come, it’s there. “Nice costume, by the way. Let me guess, murdered football player?”

I spread my arms wide so he can get the full effect. “Got it in one, my dude. I figured, why not embrace being someone I’ll never be?”

Alex shifts from foot to foot, overwhelmed. “There’s, um, a lot of people here.”

I throw an arm around his shoulders and give him a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, don’t worry about it, little dude. Stick with me, and I’ll make sure you have a good time, alright?”

Before Alex can respond, Kyle bellows menacingly. “Expelliarmus!”

With a surprisingly forceful shove, he flings my arm off Alex’s shoulders and glares at me with the intensity of a thousand suns.

I raise my hands in surrender. “Whoa, easy there, Kyle. I was trying to be friendly. ”

“Well, don’t.” Kyle positions himself between me and Alex like a human shield. “Alex doesn’t need your brand of ‘friendly,’ Gerard.”

I roll my eyes, holding back a snarky retort. I get it. Kyle’s protective of his best friend, but does he seriously think I’m a corrupting influence? Puh-lease. I’m hardly the big bad wolf here. That would be Drew.

“Fine, fine. I’ll leave you two to your Hogwarts adventures. If you need me, I’ll be bobbing for apples in the kitchen or doing something equally as fun.”

With that, I walk away, leaving them to their own devices. Sometimes, I don’t know why I even bother including Alex. Kyle’s always gonna Kyle.

I head into the dining room and spot Drew setting up what appears to be a twisted game of truth or dare. He’s dressed up as Tom Cruise in Risky Business . He’s wearing sunglasses, a white button-down shirt, tighty-whities, and white socks.

Drew greets me with a wide smile. “G-man! Looking good, looking gruesome. Loving the blood splatters.”

I strike a footballer’s pose. “Thanks, dude. I figured if I’m going to be a dead football player, I might as well be the hottest dead football player at the party.”

“Only you could make a gory murder victim appear sexy, Gerard.”

I flash him an exaggerated wink. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

“I also appreciate your commitment to the spandex pants.”

“It wasn’t easy.” It really wasn’t. I had to do a lot of manhandling to avoid such a noticeable bulge. Elliot suggested I wear one of my jockstraps since football players wear them, too, but there was no way I was letting my hockey stuff touch another sport’s clothes. “But I hope it’ll get me a few extra votes for best costume tonight.”

“I don’t know, man. Have you seen some of the things people dressed up as? One of the baseball players came as an uncircumcised penis. ”

“How’d he manage that?”

“Nylon stocking over his head.”

Of course.

Leaning against the table, I take in Drew’s setup—a stack of index cards, a couple of pens, and an empty beer bottle on its side. Classic truth or dare essentials.

“So, what’s the plan here, Top Gun ? Planning to make everyone spill their guts in more ways than one tonight?”

Drew smirks. “Something like that. But I actually have a specific target in mind tonight.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Him.”

Following Drew’s finger point across the room, I realize he’s talking about Jackson, who—true to his word—came as a sexy Julius Caesar. The white fabric drapes itself perfectly over his broad shoulders, emphasizing his muscular chest and arms, and stops high on his thighs. A gold laurel wreath sits on his dark hair, and he’s wearing a pair of leather sandals laced up his calves.

I whistle softly. “Whoa. Jackson is…”

“Fucking boner-inducing,” Drew says huskily.

I burst out laughing. “Hate to break it to you, Drew, but I’m pretty sure Jackson’s straight.”

“Oh, he won’t be when I’m done with him.”

The dude’s got guts; I’ll give him that. “Alright, Casanova. Let’s see what you’ve got.” I call out Jackson’s name, and he walks toward us, his toga swishing with every step. Up close, his costume is even more impressive. “Jackson, my dude! Love the costume.”

Jackson grins and adopts a Roman stance. “Thanks, Gerard. I hope I nailed the sexy aspect.”

“You certainly did.” Drew eyes Jackson’s costume with clear appreciation. “I’ve never seen a toga that…appealing.”

Jackson’s ears turn pink. “What can I say? When in Rome, right? ”

“Indeed,” Drew replies. “Speaking of Rome, have you ever played truth or dare, Jackson?”

“Not since middle school. Why?”

“Care to test out my version?”

Jackson scans the truth or dare setup. He bites his lower lip, no doubt weighing the potential risks and rewards of playing Drew’s little game. After a brief pause, he nods. “Sure, why not? I’m always down to try new things.”

Drew’s face lights up. “Excellent! Let’s get started, shall we?”

Jackson’s toga lifts slightly as he leans over to spin the bottle, revealing some undercheek and letting us know he’s going commando underneath. It whirls for a good minute before finally stopping on the stack of dare cards. Jackson plucks one and silently reads it.

“Well?” Drew and I both lean in, curious to know what the dare is.

A faint blush creeps up Jackson’s neck. He clears his throat a few times before he speaks. “It says, ‘Choose someone in the room to suck your finger for one minute.’”

Oh, wow. One minute is a long time to have someone’s finger in your mouth.

I look down at Jackson’s fingers. They’re lean but thick, like a bundle of asparagus spears. I imagine what it would feel like to have one of those digits in my mouth, the taste of skin, and the slight pressure against my tongue. The thought sends an unexpected thrill through me.

Would I even want to suck on Jackson’s finger? I’m not so sure. But if it were Elliot in Jackson’s place, holding up his hand and offering me one of his slender, bookish fingers—I wouldn’t hesitate. I could suck on Elliot’s finger all day, tracing my tongue around his knuckle, feeling him twitch and shiver from the contact.

Jackson shifts on his feet, breaking my little fantasy. “So, uh…who wants to volunteer?”

The room goes silent. I glance around and see a few people averting their eyes, some with smirks, others with sheer terror. No one’s brave enough to step up for this dare, at least not in front of the whole party. But then Drew’s lips curl into a predatory grin.

“I’ll volunteer as tribute,” he says, almost too eagerly.

Of course, he will. This is exactly what Drew wants—an excuse to get physical with Jackson under the guise of a harmless game. Part of me wonders if Jackson knows what he’s getting into. If he even realizes how calculated Drew can be.

Jackson holds up his hand, and for a moment, I think he’s going to back out. Maybe make a joke of it and laugh it off. But then he extends his index finger toward Drew, who takes it gently in his hand and brings it to his mouth.

The whole room watches as Drew opens his lips and slides them over Jackson’s finger. He starts slow, sucking with a deliberate rhythm that makes my skin prickle. Jackson’s eyes widen, and he shifts uncomfortably, but he doesn’t pull away.

Drew closes his eyes and sucks harder, using his tongue in ways that are far too skilled for something as simple as a finger. Jackson’s breathing changes. It grows shallower, and I wonder if he’s starting to enjoy it despite himself.

Someone in the crowd calls out, “Thirty seconds!”

A few people laugh nervously as the tension crackles in the air like static on an old TV.

Jackson’s cheeks redden more, his eyes going half-lidded as he watches Drew work. His toes curl in his sandals, something that happens to me a lot. Guess we have something in common, huh?

This is way more intense than I expected, and it’s clear that Jackson is experiencing something beyond just awkward discomfort.

Then I see it. At first, it’s so subtle that I think I’m imagining things. But no—Jackson’s toga starts to tent at the crotch, a small peak forming like a mountain in the distance. The fabric stretches slowly, almost lazily, as if it has all the time in the world to reveal what’s underneath.

Holy snickers! Jackson is getting turned on .

The realization hits me like a slap. This isn’t just some innocent game for Jackson; his body is betraying a level of arousal that’s undeniable. And Drew—ever the opportunist—must notice it, too. He doesn’t break eye contact with Jackson, his lips and tongue working Jackson’s finger in a frenzied manner.

The room is dead silent now. No one dares to breathe or move, as if we’re all complicit in this erotic scene and afraid that the slightest sound will shatter it. I can’t tear my eyes away from Jackson’s growing erection, the way it strains against the thin fabric of his toga, demanding attention.

A mix of emotions churns in my gut. I’m fascinated by the sheer audacity of what’s happening; I’m also envious of Drew’s fearless pursuit. And then there’s the deeper, more confusing part—the one that wonders what it would be like if I were in Jackson’s place, feeling another man’s mouth on me for the first time.

“Time!” someone finally shouts, breaking the spell.

Drew releases Jackson’s finger slowly, almost tenderly. A string of saliva briefly connects them before snapping away. Jackson yanks his hand back and looks around the room. Everyone is back to their own conversations, not paying the three of us any mind.

He quickly adjusts his toga, trying to hide the obvious bulge, but it’s too late. Everyone has seen it.

“So, Jackson, how did it feel?” Drew asks as if he didn’t just sexually awaken a man in front of thirty people.

Jackson hesitates. He’s at a crossroads; I can see him weighing whether to play it cool or confess something deeper. “It was…interesting.”

Noncommittal but not dismissive. Smart man.

“Glad you found it stimulating,” Drew replies with a wink.

I expect Jackson to explode, to tell Drew off for making him uncomfortable, or to storm out in a huff. But instead, he nods slowly, seeming to come to terms with something inside himself.

“I think I’ll grab another drink.” Jackson turns away from us and heads toward the kitchen. The crowd parts for him like he’s royalty—or maybe they’re just scared he’ll smite them with his new sexual confusion.

I look at Drew, who’s positively glowing with triumph. “You’re playing with fire, dude.”

He shrugs. “No risk, no reward.”

I shake my head, unable to hide my smile despite the dicey situation. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“Yeah, too bad my name isn’t Dennis.”

I punch him lightly on the shoulder and head off to find Elliot. I’m dying to tell him everything.

The chances of him believing me, though? Slim to none.