Chapter 2
DREW
Mickey’s Diner is my go-to place after Coach’s soul-mangling practices for three reasons.
First, the pancakes—if you’re in the mood for breakfast at dinner time—are made with real buttermilk, none of that “light and fluffy” shit from a box.
Second, every booth has an electrical outlet for recharging phones or doing homework. And third, the staff know me by name.
The place itself is equal parts retro shrine and accidental refuge for the local oddballs: linoleum counters, cracked pleather seats, a jukebox that only plays oldies, and at least one professor grading papers in the corner.
My teammates think it’s hilarious I’ve claimed this place as my own, since most of them opt for the other diner down the street, but I’ll take a bottomless mug of Mickey’s coffee over lukewarm bullshit any day.
The glass door swings shut behind me, and my legs all but tremble as I scan the room.
That’s when I spot him. My best friend.
Jackson Monroe sits in a corner booth, and my pulse does this stupid skip that has nothing to do with hunger.
The lamp swinging gently above his table catches his perpetually messy light brown hair, turning some of the strands golden.
His plain gray tee stretches across his chest, and when he laughs at something that his booth partner says, that crooked smile appears.
The one that can only be described as sexy.
I pretend to study the “Please Wait to be Seated” sign because the last thing I need is someone noticing me gawking at Jackson like he’s the juiciest slab of meat.
Truth be told, it’s been three months of casual run-ins and hangouts at the Hockey House, of me trying hard not to notice how his brown eyes shimmer.
Three months of telling myself that the flutter in my chest whenever he texts me is nothing more than friendly excitement.
I honestly have no idea how I developed a crush on Jackson Monroe.
One minute, he was just my friend. This carefree quarterback, who happened to be in my life because our best friends’ grumpy/sunshine romance became the talk of campus last semester.
And then, fuck me sideways, I’m masturbating to mental images of Jackson in criminally tight football pants.
The funny thing is, this isn’t my first rodeo with inconvenient crushes on friends.
Gerard’s world-class ass had me dizzy freshman year before I realized he was straighter than a ruler…
at the time. Back in high school, there was Roger with the swimmer’s build and Emmett, who was dumber than a box of rocks but had the most wondrous dick-sucking lips.
Whatever’s happening with Jackson, though, is not the same as those other crushes.
It sits in a different part of me. A deeper part.
Maybe it’s because the whole world seems to disappear when we talk, or that he texts me random memes in the middle of the night when he’s up late studying.
Or, and this is more likely, it’s the way he unconsciously licks his lips when he’s concentrating, and I yearn for that tongue to be licking me instead.
Unfortunately, no amount of analysis will yield a finite answer. It’s a mystery that I’m trying to convince myself doesn’t need solving. Because nothing will ever happen between us. Jackson Monroe is straight. I’ve seen his browser history. No gay guy is watching the things he’s watching.
“Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac plays from the jukebox at one of the tables. A couple shares a milkshake with two straws, while the old guy at the counter methodically works through a slice of pie. The guy sitting across from Jackson shifts, and I realize that it’s Ryan Abrams, his roommate.
The contrast between them is comical. Where Jackson sprawls, Ryan sits with perfect posture.
He’s in dress pants and a button-down shirt that’s been ironed within an inch of its life.
His brown hair is neatly combed, not a strand out of place, and he’s cutting his food into precise, equal pieces like some kind of psychopath.
I should leave. Turn around, grab takeout from the Chinese restaurant across the street, and avoid this whole situation. Because Jackson doesn’t know about my feelings. Nobody knows. Not Gerard, not Oliver, and certainly not Kyle.
Jackson throws his head back and laughs. The sound carries across the diner, waking up my dick. The sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing has my toes curling as I zero in on the spot on his neck that I’ve never thought about kissing.
The hostess clears her throat. “Going solo tonight, hon?”
“Yeah,” I say, then catch myself. “Oh, I see my friends over there.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk toward their booth, weaving between tables laden with comfort food. Jackson looks up when I’m about ten feet away, and his face shifts from surprise into something warmer. I bang my knee into the back of a chair as my brain shuts down.
“Drew! Hey, man!” He holds up one large hand for a high-five, which I gleefully accept.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I say, going for casual but overshooting into British butler. “Mind if I join? Or is this a roommate bonding thing? I don’t want to intrude.”
Ryan studies me with hazel eyes that never stop analyzing. “It’s hardly a bonding experience. Jackson needed sustenance after his workout, and I required a change of scenery from our dorm room.” His voice has a formal quality, as if he had learned English by reading Jane Austen novels.
“I’ll scoot over.” Jackson slides up against the wall and pats the spot where his ass just was.
I do my best not to stare at the impression it’s left and instead let my brain do a happy dance because sitting next to him means our thighs might touch.
“You look like death warmed over. Let me guess—Coach Donovan?”
I sit down, unsure of whether I should be happy or perturbed that my ass easily settles into the impression of Jackson’s, like a puzzle piece slotting perfectly into place. “I’m pretty sure it’s against the Geneva Convention what he had us do today.”
“Drama queen,” Jackson teases, and his knee bumps mine under the table.
A waitress appears at our booth, smacking gum and wielding a notepad. Her name tag reads Darlene, and her hair is half gray. “What’ll it be, Drew?”
“Double bacon cheeseburger, extra fries, and a chocolate shake.” After today’s practice, I could eat a horse and still have room for dessert.
“Coming right up.” She shuffles away, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the sticky floor.
I turn back to Jackson and suck in a breath at the sight of his eyes. The low lighting has turned them into melted chocolate. “What were you two talking about before I crashed?”
Jackson’s face lights up with infectious enthusiasm. “I was trying to convince Mr. Stick-in-the-Mud here to do the Berkeley Shore Polar Bear Plunge with me this weekend.”
“The what now?” I ask, stealing one of Jackson’s fries. He doesn’t protest; he simply pushes his plate closer to me.
“It’s this thing where a bunch of people run into the freezing ocean for charity. All the entry fees are going to the children’s hospital this year. I figured it’d be fun.”
“And as I’ve explained to Jackson ad nauseam, I will not voluntarily plunge my body into the Atlantic Ocean. It’s January, which means the water is only a few degrees above freezing.”
“Come on, buddy,” Jackson cajoles. “Live a little.”
“I prefer to live with all my extremities functioning, thank you very much.”
An image of Jackson in swim trunks with water clinging to his skin appears unbidden in my mind. “That doesn’t sound half-bad. Mind if I invite the hockey team? Those idiots will be all over this.”
“Hell yeah! The more people who come, the more tickets are purchased, and the more money that goes to charity. Plus, it’ll be hilarious watching all of you guys run into the ocean.”
“Hilarious will be seeing Gerard run in with his pink socks still on his feet,” I say.
Jackson laughs, warming me more than any amount of diner coffee ever could.
Ryan sighs heavily. “I suppose I could attend to document this act of mass stupidity. And someone will need to be able to call 911.”
“Elliot won’t do it,” Jackson says. “So, at least you’ll have company on the beach while the rest of us turn into human popsicles.”
Darlene returns with my food. The burger is large enough to feed a small village, and there are enough fries to build a fort. The chocolate shake is thick enough to stand a spoon in. “Anything else, boys?”
“We’re good, thanks,” says Jackson.
I grab my burger and work on eating, but my mind betrays me, conjuring images of the weekend ahead.
Jackson peeling off his shirt. Jackson bending over to take off his shoes and revealing the slightest hint of ass crack from low-hung swimming trunks.
Jackson leaving footprints in the sand as he runs into the water, ass cheeks jiggling all the way.
“Drew?” Ryan’s voice pulls me out of my naughty thoughts. “Are you alright? Your face is flushed.”
I choke on my burger. “Hot food.”
“You sure? Because I dare say—”
“I’m fine!” I shove three fries into my mouth. “I was thinking about how Kyle’s going to react when I tell him about the plunge.”
From the way Ryan studies me, I have the distinct impression that he sees right through my lie. He takes a sip of his water before returning to his dinner. Jackson talks about the logistics of the plunge—when to meet, what to wear—and I let his voice wash over me as I demolish my dinner.
“Do you suppose the Ice Queen will make an appearance?” Ryan asks, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “If the hockey team does participate, I could see her documenting the spectacle on her blog.”
“You know about the Ice Queen?” My words come out garbled through a mouthful of beef and cheese. I swallow hastily. “Wow! Color me surprised. Mr. 1950s-Throwback knows about our resident anonymous blogger.”