Prologue #2
“Campus coffee shop,” Oliver explains. “Best lattes this side of New England. Plus, they have these chocolate croissants that’ll make you weep.”
“I don’t cry over pastries,” Kyle says flatly.
“That’s because you don’t have a soul,” Oliver shoots back.
Kyle shrugs, neither confirming nor denying.
Gerard bounces on his heels again, those blue eyes sparkling with hope. “So? What do you say?”
What do I say? Three hockey players—one of whom could snap me like a twig, one who probably would snap me like a twig, and one who’d smile while the snapping occurred—are inviting me to coffee.
“Yeah, sure.” I grin. “Lead the way.”
Gerard fist-pumps, Oliver claps me on the shoulder, and Kyle gives me a single nod that I choose to interpret as acceptance rather than a death threat.
The Brew is a ten-minute walk from the quad, tucked between two elm trees. The moment we step inside, the smell of fresh espresso and baked goods wraps me up in a warm hug. Exposed brick walls, mismatched furniture, and fairy lights strung across the ceiling give the place a cozy, lived-in feel.
“Fair warning,” Oliver says to me as we make our way through the place. “The Brew is addictive. I spent so much time here this summer while my dad was helping Coach Donovan with shit that they threatened to make me an employee.”
“That’s because you were hitting on the guy behind the counter,” Kyle points out.
“Successfully hitting on the guy behind the counter,” Oliver corrects. “There’s a difference.”
We snag a corner booth—or rather, Kyle and Oliver squeeze into one side while Gerard and I take the other. I’m hyper-aware of Gerard’s thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space, radiating heat through his shorts.
“So,” Oliver says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
A server comes by—a cute guy with floppy brown hair and an eyebrow piercing—and takes our orders. Gerard gets a caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream, Oliver orders a black coffee, and Kyle asks for green tea, which is unexpected. I go for a vanilla latte because I’m basic and proud of it.
“What about you guys?” I ask once the server leaves. “Where are you from?”
“Colorado,” Gerard says, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Jersey,” Oliver adds. “Exit 82.”
We all turn to Kyle, who stares at his hands for a long moment before muttering, “Maine.”
“Maine,” I repeat. “That tracks, actually.”
Kyle’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing! Just that you have very…” I gesture vaguely at his entire being. “Stephen King energy.”
Oliver chokes on air, and Gerard’s baby blues dart between us with that confused again. “Stephen King writes books, right? About scary stuff?”
“Gerard, buddy, how do you not know who Stephen King is?” Oliver wheezes.
“I know who he is! I just don’t read much. Hockey takes up a lot of time!”
Our drinks arrive, and I watch in horrified fascination as Gerard dumps seven sugar packets into his already disgustingly sweet macchiato. Kyle sips his tea like a Victorian lady at a garden party. Oliver gulps his black coffee as though it’s water.
“So what made you want to play hockey?” Gerard asks me, licking whipped cream off his upper lip in a way that should be illegal.
I shrug, wrapping my hands around my mug. There’s a reason, and as much as I like these guys already, I’m not ready to spill my life’s story. So, I lie instead. “Saw the neighborhood kids play. I wanted to join them. Turns out I was actually good at it.”
Gerard’s eyes go wide. “That’s so cool! After BSU, my dad played in the NHL for like fifteen years. He’s retired now, but he still coaches the peewee team back home.”
The conversation flows more easily after that.
I learn that Oliver is an only child. Gerard has a younger sister whom he adores, and he shows me picture after picture of her in his camera roll, becoming sad when there aren’t any more.
Kyle…he doesn’t share much, but he does admit he likes to read, which earns him points in my book.
“What do you read?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Kyle’s jaw tightens. “Poetry.”
I wait for the punchline. It doesn’t come.
“Poetry,” I repeat slowly. “Like…sonnets and shit?”
“Among other things.”
Oliver and Gerard exchange a look that suggests this isn’t news to them, but they’re still surprised Kyle admitted it out loud.
“That’s actually really cool,” I say, and I mean it. “I had to read a lot of poetry in high school. Some of it was good.”
Kyle’s shoulders drop slightly, and when he takes another sip of his tea, he doesn’t look quite so much like he’s plotting my demise.
By the time we finish our drinks, the sun has painted the sky in shades of orange and pink. My cheeks hurt from laughing, and my stomach is warm from the latte and the unexpected sense of belonging settling into my bones.
“We should do this again,” Gerard says as we slide out of the booth. “Like, every day. Drew, you have to come to the Hockey House once you make the team!”
“If I make the team,” I correct.
“When,” Oliver says firmly. “Trust me, kid. You’ve got the vibe.”
“The vibe?”
“The vibe,” Gerard confirms, nodding sagely like he has any idea what Oliver means.
Kyle doesn’t say anything, but when our eyes meet, he gives me another one of those imperceptible nods. And somehow, that’s the biggest seal of approval of all.
We make our way back to the quad, which is now empty save for a few straggling volunteers dismantling the Ferris wheel.
The cotton candy machine is gone, and so is the dean in his Speedo, thank God.
Without all the chaos, the campus looks almost peaceful—just manicured lawns and old brick buildings bathed in golden hour light.
“Wait,” I say, stopping mid-stride. “What’s the Hockey House?”
Gerard’s smile nearly splits his face in half. “Oh! It’s the best! It’s where we’re gonna live!”
“The entire hockey team,” Oliver clarifies, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s tradition.”
“Each floor is a different class,” Kyle adds, his voice flat but informative. “Freshmen on the first floor. Seniors at the top.”
I blink, trying to process this. “So you’re telling me a whole bunch of hockey players live in one house?”
Oliver nods. “It’s a big house. Right on Fraternity Row, but we’re not technically a frat. Just a bunch of dudes who happen to play hockey and share a bathroom.”
“Only the seniors get their own bathrooms,” Gerard corrects helpfully. “But yeah, you’ll see a lot of dongs.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Dongs,” Gerard repeats, as if I simply didn’t hear him the first time.
“And butts. Like, so many butts. The BSU hockey team has no shame, Drew. Zero. My dad warned me about it before I came here.” He grins, that sunshine smile completely at odds with the words coming out of his mouth.
“He said the Hockey House is where shy boys become nudist men.”
Oliver snorts. “Your dad has a way with words.”
“He’s wise,” Gerard says solemnly.
My brain short-circuits as I try to reconcile the image of this golden retriever of a man casually discussing communal nudity.
Meanwhile, my body has absolutely no problem processing this information.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I have to adjust my stance to accommodate the sudden tightness in my jeans.
“So,” I manage, clearing my throat, “it’s just…dicks out all the time?”
“Pretty much,” Oliver confirms. “You’ll get used to it after the first week. By the second week, you’ll stop noticing. By the third week, you’ll be the one walking around naked.”
Gerard throws an arm around my shoulders, nearly sending me stumbling with the weight of it. “Don’t worry, Drew! It won’t be weird. We’re all brothers, you know? And we all have a penis, so there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. They came in all shapes and sizes.”
Easy for him to say. He’s built like a Greek god.
But even as nerves twist in my gut, there’s something else there too.
Anticipation. Excitement. The idea of living in a house full of hockey players—naked hockey players, apparently—is terrifying and thrilling.
This is exactly the kind of college experience I signed up for.
The chaos. The camaraderie. The potential for extremely poor decisions.
“I can handle it,” I say.
Oliver raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because you look like you’re about to pass out.”
“That’s just my face.”
Kyle makes a sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. It’s hard to tell with him.
“You’re going to fit right in,” Gerard declares, squeezing my shoulder. “I can feel it. This is going to be the best four years ever!”
I glance between the three of them, and something settles in my chest. It’s not quite confidence, but it’s close. It’s the feeling of standing at the edge of something new, something bigger than myself, and choosing to jump anyway.
And if joining the hockey team and living in the Hockey House means getting to see Gerard Gunnarson’s ass on a daily basis, well…I’m willing to make that sacrifice.