Chapter 2 #2
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I am aware of current events. Her posts are also featured in the Berkeley Shore Gazette.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jackson asks as he steals one of my fries.
“The campus newspaper,” Ryan explains with the patience of someone teaching kindergarteners their ABCs. “It’s been in publication since 1923. They have print and digital editions now.”
“There’s a campus newspaper?” I ask, genuinely shocked. With two and a half years at BSU under my belt, this is somehow news to me.
“Of course there is. Elliot’s friend Sarah is the lead journalist for both the sports and gossip columns. She mentioned to Elliot, who told me when he visited Jackson the other day, that the Ice Queen has been conspicuously silent since Gerard and Elliot became official.”
I process this information while I drag a fry through a dollop of ketchup. The Ice Queen’s first blog post last semester was about Gerard’s ass. It broke the internet and snowballed from there.
“Perhaps this event could mark her return to form.” Ryan scratches his nose and finishes his glass of water. “Maybe she’ll find a new subject to follow, if anyone catches her fancy.”
I lean back in the booth, considering. “You know what? That’d be pretty cool. Why should Gerard get all the fun and attention? I mean, sure, my ass isn’t quite as massive, but it is bubbly.”
Jackson violently chokes on his soda, sputtering and coughing as it goes down the wrong pipe. I pound his back.
One of Ryan’s eyebrows rises as he eyes me with newfound interest. “I wasn’t aware you had such confidence in your backside, Drew. Or that there’s a hierarchy of posterior quality on the hockey team.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of confidence.” I grin, enjoying the way Jackson’s ears turn pink.
“These hockey glutes didn’t build themselves, bud.
It’s been hours of skating and squats in the gym.
Hell, everyone on the team has a derriere worth talking about.
Gerard’s is obviously number one, but Oliver’s close behind, thick and muscular, and Kyle’s is a boulder. ”
“Please stop,” Jackson strangles out.
“What? All I’m saying is that if the Ice Queen wants new material, there are options.
” I pop another fry into my mouth and watch Jackson become laser-focused on his fingers.
“And if the Ice Queen wants to write about me diving into freezing water for charity, more power to her. I can only hope she captures my best angle.”
The conversation soon drifts to other topics. Classes starting soon. Jackson’s depression over the football team not getting into the playoffs. Ryan’s theory about the dining hall using expired milk. But eventually, we circle back to the Polar Bear Plunge.
“You really think the hockey team will do it?” Jackson asks.
“Fuck yeah. When have we ever backed down from doing something wild and crazy?”
Darlene appears again, slapping the check down on the table.
“I’ve got it,” I say, reaching for the slip of paper at the same time as Jackson.
Our hands collide, and for a second, neither of us moves.
His fingers are warm against mine, and I can feel the calluses from throwing footballs.
I fleetingly wonder what it’d be like to have his hand wrapped around my cock, cupping my balls, squeezing my ass.
Ryan clears his throat loudly, and we jerk our hands back as if we’ve been burned. Jackson’s ears are pink again, while heat creeps up my neck. I yank out my wallet and throw down enough cash for everything plus a tip.
I slide out of the booth, and my legs protest the movement, still sore from practice.
We file out of the diner into the crisp January night.
The temperature has dropped since I arrived, and our breath forms clouds in the air.
The parking lot is mostly empty except for a few cars and one couple making out against a Toyota Corolla.
“Saturday morning. Berkeley Shore Beach?” Jackson confirms, sliding his gloves on.
“I’ll tell the team tonight,” I promise. “Prepare for an invasion of beefy hockey players.”
“I’ll bring the first aid kit,” Ryan adds. “And some thermal blankets.”
“Thanks for joining us, Drew. This was fun.” Jackson smiles at me, and something warm bubbles up in my chest, making my steps lighter as I head toward my truck.
“See you soon, Jacky,” I say, throwing in his nickname so I can watch him blush one more time.
I park my truck in front of the Hockey House and sit there for a minute, basking in the phantom pressure of Jackson’s thigh against mine.
The porch light flickers, threatening to die as it has been for the past two years, and music thumps from inside.
Not just any music—“Holding Out For A Hero” at maximum volume.
What fresh hell awaits me inside tonight?
Getting out of my truck, I jog up the walkway, push through the front door, and freeze. Gerard, Oliver, Kyle, and Nathan are in the living room, holding Wii remotes, trying to follow the Just Dance 2015 choreography on our fifty-five-inch TV. It’s like watching bears try to perform Swan Lake.
Gerard throws his whole body into every move, arms windmilling with the enthusiasm of a dog chasing a tennis ball. His coordination is surprisingly poor, but his commitment is outstanding. When the screen shows a hip thrust, he humps the air, pink socks sliding on the hardwood floor.
“Work those hips, Gerard!” Elliot shouts from the couch, where he’s sprawled with a bowl of popcorn. “Pretend I’m standing behind you!”
Oliver, slightly more coordinated but still resembling a malfunctioning robot, tries to match Gerard’s energy. When he spins, he nearly takes out our coffee table with his legs.
Nathan’s doing better than the others, probably because freshman eagerness hasn’t been beaten out of him yet. His pink hair catches the light as he nails about 60 percent of the moves, which, for a hockey player, is downright impressive.
And then there’s Kyle.
Our grumpy goalie stands in the corner, moving only his arms in the most minimal interpretation of dance I’ve ever witnessed. His face maintains its usual scowl.
“Come on, Kyle!” Alex calls from his spot next to Elliot, his voice bright with encouragement. “You’re doing great! Feel the music!”
A few seconds later, Bonnie Tyler starts singing about a fire in her blood, and the choreography demands a split.
Gerard attempts it and gets about a quarter of the way down before his quads give up.
Oliver doesn’t even try, just keeps flailing his arms. Nathan makes a valiant effort only to end up in a wide squat.
Meanwhile, Kyle drops into a perfect split, holds it for the required amount of beats, then rises back up, his expression never changing. The room goes silent.
“Holy shit!” Elliot exclaims. “Kyle, you flexible motherfucker!”
“That was amazing!” Alex beams at his best friend. “See? I told you dance was another form of athletic expression!”
I smirk as Kyle gives Elliot the middle finger but neglects to do the same to Alex.
The song ends, with Gerard collapsing dramatically onto the floor, Oliver bent over with his hands on his knees, and Nathan pleased with his three-star rating. Kyle crosses his arms and glares at the TV.
“Alright, before round whatever-number-this-is starts,” I announce, stepping in front of the screen, “I’ve got something way more interesting than watching you guys pop, lock, and drop it.”
“Nothing is more interesting than Gerard’s interpretive hip thrusts,” Elliot says, throwing popcorn at his boyfriend.
“Not even a Polar Bear Plunge for charity this Saturday?”
Gerard bolts upright, swaying slightly as the blood drains from his face. “A what now?”
“Polar Bear Plunge. A bunch of people run into the freezing ocean for the children’s hospital. Jackson invited me at the diner, and I figured the team might want in.” I try to keep my voice casual when I say Jackson’s name, but based on the way Oliver’s eyebrows rise, I’m not entirely successful.
“Running into freezing water?” Gerard’s eyes light up as if I’ve offered him free puppies. “For charity? That sounds incredible!”
“Count me in,” Oliver says immediately. “Any excuse to see you fuckers shriek when that water hits.”
“Me thinks he’ll be shrieking too,” Elliot stage-whispers to Alex.
Nathan nods thoughtfully. “Could be fun. Good team bonding, right?”
All eyes turn to Kyle, who’s already shaking his head. “Fuck no. Absolutely not. I don’t do voluntary hypothermia.”
“Come on, Kyle,” Gerard wheedles. “It’s for sick kids!”
“Sick kids can have my money. They can’t have my body temperature.”
Oliver pulls out his phone. “Let me text the group chat. See who else wants in.” His thumbs fly across the screen, and within seconds, the house fills with the disembodied voices of my other teammates.
From somewhere upstairs: “FUCK YES! POLAR BEAR PLUNGE!”
From the kitchen: “Hell yeah, brother!”
From the basement: “I’m so fucking in!”
Kyle stares up at the ceiling with a weary expression.
“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Alex says softly.
Kyle’s jaw works for a moment. Then he glances from Alex and the rest of us to the TV showing the Just Dance menu and lets out the longest, most put-upon sigh I’ve ever heard. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But if I die of hypothermia, I’m haunting all of you assholes.”
“That’s the spirit!” Gerard pulls Kyle into a bear hug, lifting the goalie off his feet. “This is going to be legendary!”
“Put me down, Gunnarson, or I’ll make sure you can no longer bust a move and a nut,” Kyle threatens, but there’s less venom in it than usual.
“So, what’s the deal, Drew?” Oliver asks as Gerard releases Kyle. “Saturday at what time and where?”
“Ten a.m., Berkeley Shore Beach.” I lean against the entertainment center and process the fact that I’ve now committed to freezing my balls off for charity. For Jackson.
“We should make team shirts,” Nathan suggests. “Something obnoxious.”
“Pink shirts,” Gerard says immediately. “Hot pink. With ‘Barracudas Do It Wetter’ on the back.”
Elliot almost chokes on his popcorn laughing. “That’s terrible. I love it.”
“We are not wearing shirts that say that,” Kyle protests.
“How about Ice Ice Maybe?” Oliver suggests.
“Frozen Pucks?” Nathan adds.
“Shrinkage Squad?” Elliot offers with a wicked grin.
“I hate all of you,” Kyle announces while fighting a smile.
More teammates pile into the living room, drawn by the commotion. Soon, we have half the team crowded around and talking over each other about the plunge. Someone suggests we do it in Speedos. Gerard’s still pushing for pink everything.
“How are we getting there? Who’s driving?” Alex asks, ever the pragmatist.
The conversation shifts to transportation and timing. As plans solidify around me, my traitorous brain keeps thinking about Jackson in swim trunks.
I can only hope like hell that I’ll be too frozen to pop an erection in front of my best friend and everyone I know.