Icing on the Cake (The Barracudas #1)

Chapter 24

24

GERARD

D inner the blog shouldn’t matter this much to me. But ever since the post where the Ice Queen speculated about my sexuality, I can’t help but feel a bit exposed.

I sigh heavily. “I don’t know. I’m just curious.”

Drew stands and stretches, then pats Jackson on the shoulder. “Come on, man. Let’s go dance.”

Jackson laughs and follows Drew toward the dance floor in the center of the hall as the band plays “Sugar” by Maroon 5. I stay seated, letting my thoughts swirl.

What would Elliot think? We’ve never talked about the Ice Queen, but I have a feeling he’d have some strong opinions. He probably reads the blog; it’s practically required reading for anyone associated with the team, and Elliot likes to stay informed. If he does read it, he’s kept surprisingly quiet about it all.

Maybe he’s waiting for me to bring it up. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Knowing Elliot, he’d likely scoff at the drama and speculation and at how seriously some of us take it.

But then again, he might be worried about what the blog will say regarding me and him. Especially now that the Ice Queen mentioned his name.

I pull out my phone again and check for messages. Fiddlesticks. Still nothing from Elliot.

My mind goes back to the reasoning I laid out for Drew—could the Ice Queen really be a guy? It’s not like I’d mind either way, but knowing who’s behind the words would make everything simpler.

The way they write about me—about my butt, my hands, even that kiss with Elliot—it’s all very flattering but also uncomfortably intimate. Like they know me better than I know myself.

Oliver comes over and takes Drew’s vacant seat. His lime green tux stands out like a highlighter in a stack of term papers. He’s the only one who decided to forgo dress socks, going barefoot in his loafers instead. It’s such an Oliver move.

I think back to earlier this evening before Elliot left for work. He watched with an intense focus as I slipped on my dress socks, his eyes tracking every movement of my hands and feet. At the time, I thought he was just zoning out, but now I wonder—does Elliot have a foot fetish, too? The thought makes me grin like an idiot.

“You look like you just won the lottery,” Oliver chuckles. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say, still smiling. “Just thinking about how ridiculous your suit is.”

He laughs. “You know you love it.” He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “So, how are you holding up?”

“Fine,” I say, maybe a bit too quickly.

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You seem… distracted tonight.”

I glance toward the dance floor. Drew is teaching Jackson how to twerk. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“Like whether Elliot will be mad if a cute guy gets to skate with you?”

I sigh. “He’s not going to be mad. He’s not that insecure.”

Oliver shrugs. “If you say so.”

I know Oliver means well—he always does—but sometimes his overprotectiveness can feel suffocating. Like right now, when all I want is to enjoy the last few minutes of dinner without worrying about the raffle or Elliot or the Ice Queen’s blog. “I appreciate your concern, but really, it’s all good.”

Oliver sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay.” There’s a pause before he changes the subject. “Did you hear that there’s been a switch-up to tonight’s routine? Instead of just calling out the names of the winners and which player they’ll skate with, now each player has to go up to the stage and take a professional photo with their winner.”

My stomach does a pirouette. “Seriously?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that awesome? More publicity for the team, plus the photos are going to be used in next year’s program.”

I glance down at my pink tuxedo and matching bowtie. What had seemed like a fun, ironic choice now feels like a glaring mistake. I suddenly wish I’d gone with something more traditional, like Oliver’s green getup—even that looks classy in comparison.

“Awesome,” I say, trying to match Oliver’s enthusiasm.

He stands and gives me a playful punch on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Gerard. You look fantastic. The fans are going to eat it up.”

I force a smile as he walks away, but my mind is already imagining Elliot’s face when he sees the picture of me in my ridiculous pink suit, grinning like an idiot next to some dude over the moon to be skating with Gerard Gunnarson. Skating is one thing; it’s innocent enough and can be written off as part of the event. But a photo makes it all so much more real.

My phone buzzes. Finally, it’s Elliot.

Elliot

How’s it going?

I step into the hallway, away from the clatter of dishes and hum of conversation, and text him back.

Me

Good. We just finished eating. About to do the raffle.

I picture him at the information desk, surrounded by towering stacks of books and the soft glow of his laptop. He pushes his glasses up his nose and types on his phone with that cute little frown he always wears.

Elliot

I wish I could be there.

Me

Me too. You sure you can’t sneak out?

Elliot

You know I can’t. Someone has to cover the night shift with Sarah.

I sigh. He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting him here. This is the kind of thing I want to share with him—the tradition, the excitement, the memories we could make together.

Me

I’ll come straight over after. Promise.

Elliot

Don’t forget your hockey stick ;)

I smile and slip my phone into my pocket, then run a hand through my hair. The guys all gave me crap for trimming it; they said I looked like a surfer who lost his wave. But Elliot loves it— says he can see my eyes better—and right now, what Elliot loves is more important to me than looking like a proper hockey bro.

I re-enter the banquet hall right as Coach Donovan takes the stage with a microphone. He’s wearing a powder blue tuxedo that looks like it walked straight out of a 1975 prom night.

It fits him like a second skin, and I can only hope I look that good when I’m his age.

I sit back down at the table. Drew and Jackson have rejoined us, and Drew’s ruby-red tux looks even more obnoxious next to Jackson’s understated black suit. They’re both grinning like kids who conned the ice cream truck driver out of a double scoop.

Coach Donovan taps the microphone, and the room gradually quiets. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for being here tonight. The ‘Dinner the large glass bowl is filled to the brim with tickets. My stomach does another pirouette.

“We started this event many years ago,” Coach Donovan continues, “as a way to connect with our community and give back. All the proceeds from tonight will go to local charities here in Berkeley Shore, so give yourselves a round of applause for your generosity.”

The room erupts, and I join in half-heartedly. My mind is already on the ice, on the photo, on Elliot’s potential reaction.

“And don’t forget,” Coach Donovan says once the noise dies down, “there’s even a chance to skate with me tonight.” He strikes a mock-heroic pose, and a few people whistle and cheer. “Alright, enough talk. Let’s get to the raffle!”

A woman in a sparkly silver dress joins Coach Donovan on stage. She holds what appears to be an oversized soup ladle, which she dips into the first bowl of twenty-six, stirring the tickets around with dramatic flair.

Drew leans over to me. “I stuffed like twenty tickets with Jackson’s name in yours. If he doesn’t get picked for me, odds are he’s gonna have to save your ass from some crazed fan.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, not entirely sarcastic.

My heart pounds as I think about who might get picked for me. Most of our hardcore fans know that I’m “something” with Elliot now—at least that’s what the Ice Queen’s last blog post implied—so I hope they’ll be respectful. Then again, fan crushes aren’t exactly rational.

The first number is read for Jordan Chase, and there’s a brief silence before someone in the back yells, “That’s me!” The room turns to see a teenage girl waving her ticket in triumph.

Jordan stands and adjusts his dark blue blazer. He’s one of the youngest guys on the team but already has the swagger of a seasoned pro. The teenage girl practically bounces out of her chair as she rushes to the stage, and Jordan meets her with a high-five.

A photographer snaps a few quick shots, the flash bursting like tiny fireworks. They both peek at an instant printout, and the girl’s face is full of joy.

“One down, twenty-five to go,” Drew says, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin.

The woman in the sparkly dress moves to the next bowl and swirls the tickets with her ladle. She hands one to Coach Donovan, who squints at it before reading into the microphone. “Nathan Paisley!”

As people check their tickets, a collective murmur ripples through the room. A voice calls out, “I won!”

An older man—maybe in his fifties—waves his ticket. He looks relieved and a little sheepish as he makes his way to the stage, where Nathan meets him with a handshake and an arm around the shoulder for the photo. They look like father and son in a weird, hockey-themed wedding picture.

I glance over at Oliver, who’s calmly sipping water. Out of all of us, he’s the most steady—both on and off the ice. Nothing seems to rattle him, which is probably why he’s our captain.

“Next up, Oliver Jacoby!” Coach Donovan announces .

A dozen people gasp and sit up straighter. Oliver has a huge following; he’s like the hometown hero since he grew up just two towns over. I brace myself for a riot when no one immediately claims the prize.

A petite woman with bright purple hair finally stands up and yells, “Yes!”

She brandishes her ticket like a dagger and a few people around her groan in defeat.

Oliver smiles. “Congrats, Tegan.”

Of course, he knows her by name; that’s Oliver for you.

When she reaches the stage, Tegan throws herself into Oliver’s arms, and he hugs her with genuine warmth. The photographer captures several angles as they pose together, and Tegan’s smile stretches wider with each click of the camera.

I tug at my bowtie. The room feels hotter than it should for November, and my pink jacket starts to itch around the collar. I take another look at the raffle bowls. Have they multiplied? Does mine have the most tickets stuffed inside?

“Alright,” Coach Donovan says. “Drew Larney!”

My eyes dart to Jackson. His face is a mix of hope and dread—the same cocktail of emotions I’m feeling. If he gets picked, it could be amazing for them. If he doesn’t, it could make everything horribly awkward. But also better for me.

Drew stands and adjusts his red tuxedo, looking every bit like Satan on Christmas morning. He saunters toward the stage as Coach Donovan digs into the bowl with Drew’s name on it.

I hold my breath.

“Jackson Monroe!” Coach Donovan reads.

Jackson’s jaw drops. He looks around in disbelief, then at Drew, then back at his ticket as if expecting it to morph into a losing stub. The whole room seems to hold its breath along with him.

“No way,” Jackson mutters, loud enough for half the banquet hall to hear.

I laugh, and the tension breaks. I clap for him, genuinely happy for both of them. This means Jackson won’t be saving me tonight, but maybe he won’t need to. Maybe I’ll get lucky and skate away unscathed.

Jackson rises from his chair with the goofiest grin; his earlier fear completely washed away. He high-fives Drew, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. They’re going to have a blast, and who knows—maybe this will finally push them into the same “something” Elliot and I are dealing with.

The woman in the sparkly dress stirs the next bowl as Jackson and Drew take their time returning to their seats. My heart resumes its frantic drumming.

“Gerard Gunnarson!” Coach Donovan calls.

Oh no. I stand on wobbly legs, towering over the seated crowd like an anxious flamingo. Every eye in the room turns to me, and I swear I can feel their collective fan energy sizzling my skin. I walk, then stop, then walk again.

I gulp. This must be how Carrie felt right before the bucket of pig’s blood tipped over.

The stage seems miles away. I pass tables filled with empty dessert plates and drained wine glasses. Remnants of a happier occasion.

Time stretches like taffy, and I imagine who might be waiting to claim me.

The obsessed freshman who cried when I signed her poster? The guy who runs the sports page on the BSU website?

I reach the steps of the stage and pause. The air up here is thinner and more fragile. I climb the last few steps and stand next to Coach Donovan, who gives me a reassuring pat on the back.

“One of our most popular players,” he says into the microphone, and I flinch at the volume. “There are a lot of tickets in this bowl. Whoever wins this one is very lucky.”

Lucky. Right.

Coach Donovan swirls the tickets around with his hand, taking his time like a chef mixing a delicate sauce. He pulls one out and holds it up to the light, squinting at the tiny print .

Please be someone sane. Please be someone kind.

“Alex Donovan,” Coach Donovan reads.

What?!

The room erupts in confusion. I look out into the crowd and see Alex shrugging, just as baffled as everyone else. Did he stack my bowl as a joke? No, that’s not like him. Did Kyle?

I glance over at him, and he nods. Holy snickers. Kyle Graham just saved my hide.

Coach Donovan leans into the microphone. “Looks like my son has thrown his hat in the ring for Gerard.” He chuckles, amused. “Do you want to claim this one, kiddo?”

All eyes shift to Alex, who takes a moment to stand. He smooths his white suit and clears his throat. “Okay.”

Alex makes his way to the stage with the hesitant steps of a man walking on hot coals. Next to the towering players and fans, he looks small and breakable.

I move toward him but remember we’re in front of a crowd and freeze. I also make a mental note to kiss Kyle’s feet for this—if I survive.

Alex reaches us, and Coach Donovan hands him the ticket. “We’ll frame it,” he says, half-joking. Alex gives a weak smile and stuffs the ticket in his pocket.

The photographer motions us together. Alex flinches when I put an arm around his shoulder but eventually relaxes into it the way a cat does when it finds a warm spot.

We pose, and I try to look happy while a thousand thoughts ricochet in my skull. The flash blinds me, and I see stars in the shape of hockey sticks.

“Got it,” the photographer says.

I step back, but Alex lingers, looking up at me with those huge, vulnerable eyes of his. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” I reply, though I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to.

We leave the stage, and I head straight for Kyle. He stands and interrupts me before I can speak .

“You’re welcome. Just…be careful with him. If he cracks his skull on the ice?—”

“I know. You and his dad will behead me.”

“No. His dad will behead you. I will castrate you.”

Yikes.

Infinity Arena sparkles under fluorescent lights, and the ice gleams like a freshly unwrapped gift. The stands are empty, creating an eerie stillness that contrasts with the usual game-night frenzy.

The winners have changed into skates provided by the team. Most are wobbly-legged and giddy as they take their first steps onto the ice. As per tradition, the players hold hands with their raffle mates. For their safety, or so they say.

I look at Alex. We’re standing outside the players’ bench, him in his delicate white suit and me still in my ridiculous pink tuxedo. I’ve unbuttoned the jacket, and it flares out like a gaudy superhero cape whenever I move. “You sure you’re up for this?” I ask.

Alex bites his lip and nods. “I’m not very good, but…yeah.”

I take his hand. It’s tiny and cold, like a porcelain doll’s. We step onto the ice together, and he immediately slips. I catch him around the waist and straighten him up.

“Easy, tiger,” I chuckle. “Let’s go slow.”

We start to glide—more of a shuffle, really—and I steal glances at Alex’s face. He’s concentrating so hard that his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth.

Holding hands is supposed to be intimate, but this feels like an awkward middle school dance where no one knows what they’re doing or who they should be with. I remember my first time holding Susie’s hand, and this is nothing like that.

We circle the rink slowly as the more skilled fans whizz past us with their player at breakneck speeds. I notice Kyle glaring daggers at us as he zooms by with a girl from the softball team.

She’s tall and muscular, and they make an imposing duo on the ice. For someone who just castrated me in words, he’s sure putting on a show. The whole scenario is absurd, considering this was Kyle’s doing in the first place.

“Will Elliot be mad?” Alex asks uncertainly. “About you skating with me, I mean.”

I squeeze his hand to reassure him. “Elliot will be fine. He knows it’s for a good cause. Plus, he trusts me.” I pause, seeing the worry still etched on Alex’s face. “He’ll be delighted that you got to skate with me.”

I hope that’ll be enough to ease his mind. The truth is, Elliot will probably tease me for days about the photo op and how cute Alex looks in his white suit.

We attempt another lap, and Alex finally finds a bit of rhythm in his stride. Halfway around, Alex speaks again. “What’s it like? Being famous?”

I laugh out loud at that. “Famous? Dude, we’re college athletes, not rock stars.”

“But still, everyone here knows who you are.”

“It’s weird,” I admit. “Mostly good weird, sometimes bad weird.” I think about the obsessed freshman and the Ice Queen blog posts. “You get used to it, though.”

We finish our second lap slower than we started, both of us lost in our thoughts. And that’s when it hits me. Elliot doesn’t care about my fame. He doesn’t care that I’m a hockey player. He’s in my life because he likes me for me.

Gerard Gunnarson, a boy from Elk Valley, Colorado.

“Alex, I’m going to hand you over to Kyle. There’s something I have to do.”

“Something…or someone?” he asks.

“Both.”