Chapter 6 #2
“I saw!” Elliot’s voice carries across the shore. “Now get out before your balls fall off.”
We don’t need to be told twice. Those who didn’t chicken out of submerging themselves scramble toward shore. I can’t feel anything below my knees. I’m shaking more than a guy who’s been Tasered.
Jackson stumbles, and I grab him without thinking. His skin is ice against mine, but I hold on anyway, steadying him as we wade up the beach. His hand finds my waist, fingers digging in for balance, and even in my hypothermic state, my stupid heart skips a beat.
“Thanks,” he gasps.
“C-can’t let my favorite quarterback drown,” I sputter through numb lips. “Who else would I steal fries from?”
Volunteers swarm us with towels and thermal blankets. Someone shoves a cup of hot chocolate into my hands, and I nearly cry at the warmth seeping through the paper cup.
Gerard has wrapped himself in approximately seven blankets and is still shivering violently. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced,” he announces. “And I once tried to do a split and pulled my groin.”
“How long did it take to heal?” Nathan asks, huddled next to him.
“Ten days,” Gerard says as solemnly as he can when his teeth are clacking together.
Oliver appears, a blanket draped over his shoulders, steam rising from his skin. “Everyone accounted for? Nobody died?”
“Kyle’s still in the water,” someone reports.
We all turn to look. Sure enough, our menacing goalie is standing exactly where we left him, waist-deep, arms crossed, glaring at the ocean like he’s trying to intimidate it into warming up.
“KYLE!” Oliver bellows. “GET OUT OF THERE!”
“I’M CONTEMPLATING MY LIFE CHOICES!”
“CONTEMPLATE THEM ON LAND!”
With the world’s heaviest sigh, Kyle finally trudges toward shore.
Jackson and I find a spot near my truck, where Ryan and Elliot have set up a makeshift warming station. Alex is handing out hand warmers like they’re candy.
“That was insane,” Jackson says, teeth still chattering. He’s wrapped in a blanket, but his hair is dripping onto his shoulders, and his lips have a distinctly blue tinge. “I can’t believe we did that.”
“I can’t believe I still have all my extremities,” I reply, checking my fingers before guzzling down my hot chocolate.
“Your penis okay?”
I choke on the scalding drink. “What?”
Before he can repeat himself, Ryan appears with additional blankets. “The human body can survive in water that temperature for approximately fifteen minutes before hypothermia sets in,” he informs us. “You were in there for three. Congratulations on not dying.”
“Thanks, Ry-guy. Real comforting.”
Gerard bounds over, somehow already recovered. The man is a furnace, I tell you. “That was amazing! We should do this every year!”
“Absolutely not,” Kyle growls, finally joining the group. He’s dripping wet and radiating murderous energy. “If anyone suggests this again, I’m transferring schools.”
“But it was for charity!” Gerard protests.
“The children can have my money. They cannot have my will to live.”
The beach is slowly returning to normal. Athletes are getting dressed, volunteers are packing up, and the sorority girls are congratulating everyone on their bravery. The ocean continues its assault on the shore, completely indifferent to the trauma it just inflicted.
Jackson shifts closer to me, our blanket-wrapped shoulders touching. “Hey, Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for doing this with me. It was way more fun with you here.”
The warmth that spreads through my chest has nothing to do with the hot chocolate. “Anytime, Jacky. Someone has to make sure you don’t Leonardo DiCaprio yourself.”
He laughs, and the sound wraps around me like another blanket. I let myself enjoy it—the closeness, the easy comfort between us, the way he still looks beautiful even as an ice sculpture.
Then I remember that he’s straight, and I’m an idiot, and this is exactly the kind of moment that’s going to haunt me later when I’m alone in my room.
But for now, surrounded by my shivering teammates, my best friend pressing himself further into my side, and the distant sound of Gerard lamenting his temporarily diminished penis, I let myself have this.
The wind picks up, sending another round of shivers through the crowd. In the distance, I watch the onlookers uploading videos of the plunge to social media. By tonight, the entire campus will have seen us in our frozen glory, including the Ice Queen.
My balls are still recovering from yesterday’s arctic baptism when I drag myself into the administration building at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m.
The lobby stinks of old papers that should have been shredded by now, and the lingering smell of industrial cleaner.
My sneakers squeak on the polished floor as I navigate the maze of hallways, following signs designed by someone who hates students.
I’m on my way to the third floor, Office 312.
Academic Advising. The place where schedule fuck-ups go to die.
I take the stairs two at a time, partly because the elevator’s been broken since freshman year, and partly because standing still makes me think.
And thinking leads to remembering Jackson’s body pressed against mine in that blanket cocoon yesterday.
The way his skin felt, cold and smooth except where goosebumps raised like braille spelling out all the things I’ll never get to do to him.
Sex has always been my favorite distraction.
When Mom calls asking why I haven’t visited, I find someone to fuck.
When my brother texts about his perfect grades and perfect new girlfriend, I download Grindr. When the memories of being six years old and watching Dad walk out creep in, I let some stranger worship my body until I forget I ever needed anyone to stay.
Each encounter is a temporary fix, a band-aid over wounds that probably need stitches. But stitches require sitting still, and I’d rather keep moving, keep touching, keep pretending that physical connection is the same as emotional intimacy.
Office 312 has a frosted glass door with “Academic Advising - Mr. Trevor Banks” etched in a pretentious font. I knock once and enter without waiting because patience isn’t my strong suit today.
And there he is. Trevor fucking Banks.
Twenty-nine years old, master’s degree in Higher Education Administration, and owner of a mouth that once made me see God in his parents’ basement.
He’s wearing a crisp white button-down that does absolutely nothing to hide the body I remember mapping with my tongue.
His dirty blond hair is styled professionally now, not the messy bedhead I created by gripping it while he deep-throated me for twenty minutes straight.
“Drew.” His voice cracks on my name. Professional Composure: 0, Shared History: 1. “Please, have a seat.”
I drop into the chair across from his desk and spread my legs wide because I’m an asshole who enjoys watching him squirm. His eyes flick down for a millisecond before snapping back to his computer screen. The tips of his ears turn pink.
“So, Trevor—”
“Mr. Banks,” he corrects, fingers flying across his keyboard with the desperation of someone attempting to appear busy.
“Right. Mr. Banks.” I lean forward and say the mister part as sultry as possible. “I’ve got a problem with my schedule. Seems I’m registered for Advanced Calculus twice. Unless this is some new thing that BSU has implemented, I don’t think I need to take that class more than once.”
He pulls up my file, and I watch his jaw clench.
Two summers ago, that jaw was slack with pleasure as I worked him over in a room that was nothing but wood paneling and shag carpeting.
It was his parents’ annual luau. He’d been visiting from grad school, and I’d been someone’s plus-one.
We locked eyes over the roasted pig, and three hours later, I had him begging in ways that would make his academic credentials weep.
“I see the issue,” he says, still not looking at me. “Let me fix that for you.”
“Take your time.” I lean back, making the chair creak. “Nice office, by the way. It’s…professional. Nothing at all like that basement in—where was it? Westport?”
The pencil in his hand snaps.
“Greenwich,” he mutters, face flushing deeper. “And that’s not…we’re not discussing that.”
“Discussing what?” I say, blinking at him with all the faux innocence of a puppy caught with its nose in the trash.
“I’m just making conversation, Mr. Banks.
Unless you’re thinking about something specific?
Say something involving your tongue and my…
” I let the sentence dangle as my hand drifts down to palm my crotch through my jeans.
My thumb blatantly rubs along the ridge for dramatic effect.
It’s not just for show. I’m packing, and the only person who’s ever expressed outright awe is currently sitting across from me, fingers twitching on his mechanical keyboard.
The thing about Trevor is that he was a bottomless pit of thirst and admiration. “God, Drew, it’s a fucking python,” he’d moaned once, mouth full and eyes rolling. “You’re going to kill me.”
Spoiler alert: I very nearly did. With Trevor, I learned that all I had to do to make him weak in the knees, to beg until I filled him up with my seed, was to come at him with equal parts girth and charm.
Judging by the quiver of his Adam’s apple, it’s about to happen again.
The begging that is. As hot as he is, I’m not looking to bang anyone today. My penis is still in recovery mode.
Trevor finally tears his gaze off my lap and glares holes into his monitor. “This is a professional setting, Mr. Larney,” he says, voice brittle as uncooked spaghetti. “I expect you to act accordingly.”
I flash him a wolfish grin. “C’mon, Trev—Mr. Banks. We’re all adults here. All I’m saying is while you set a pretty high bar for academic performance, it wasn’t my GPA that you were most impressed with.” I waggle my eyebrows for added effect.
He freezes with his lips parted and air caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan, then types even faster. If the keyboard had feelings, it would be filing a restraining order against him.
I chuckle at the deep red blooming across his cheeks and ears, and down his throat. His eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilated with want even as his jaw clenches in panic. He’s a drowning man fighting the urge to grab the life preserver that once dragged him under.
The wall clock counts each unspoken moment with mechanical clicks. Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead like angry wasps. And Trevor’s breath catches in his throat with tiny hitches that betray everything his professional facade tries to hide.
Finally, he rips his eyes away, makes a show of adjusting his posture, and shoves his monitor in my direction. “Your schedule is fixed!” he practically shouts. “You’re now registered for Advanced Calculus and Modern American Literature, which fulfills your humanities requirement.”
“Modern American Lit?” I grin. “Lots of sexually charged novels in that curriculum, right? Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Tropic of Cancer…”
“Lady Chatterley’s Lover is British and—never mind. Is there anything else?”
I stand slowly, taking my sweet time stretching out all of my muscles. Trevor’s breathing almost ceases to exist. My shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin, and I catch his eyes darting down before snapping back to his computer screen. When I reach the door, I pause and glance over my shoulder.
“You know, if you ever want to not discuss that night again, you have my number.” I wink. “Unless you deleted it along with those photos you begged me to send.”
Another pencil snaps. “Get out, Mr. Larney.”
“See you around, Mr. Banks.”
I saunter out, high on the adrenaline of sexual tension and my own audacity. His secretary peers up from a pile of paperwork, and my swagger falters.
Marla Kensington. Pre-med student, killer smile, and owner of a tongue piercing that did incredible things to my—
She’s pregnant.
And not first-trimester pregnant. We’re talking watermelon-under-the-shirt, any-day-now pregnant.
“Drew?” She blinks at me, hand moving instinctively to her belly. “Oh. Hi.”
My heart stops beating. When did we hook up? It had to be freshman year because I remember her dorm room had that poster of the periodic table where someone had replaced all the elements with Nicolas Cage faces. But freshman year was…I count backward.
Two and a half years ago.
My shoulders drop three inches, my lungs empty in a whoosh, and a sound bursts from my throat—half-bark, half-giggle—that makes Marla’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “Congrats on the…” I gesture vaguely at her midsection.
“Thanks. It’s been a journey.”
“I bet. Well, good luck with everything.”
I sprint away, not stopping until I’m outside in the January cold. Sweat rolls down my back despite the temperature. Jesus Christ. For thirty seconds there, I thought my habit of using sex as emotional bubble wrap had finally caught up with me.
That’s what I get for fucking with Trevor.
I pull out my phone to text the group chat about my near-death experience, then freeze. There are messages from Jackson.
Jackson
Hey, pal! Thanks again for yesterday. Even though my dick still hasn’t forgiven me.
Want to grab lunch at The Brew?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Lunch with Jackson. Sitting across from him, watching him eat, pretending I don’t want to crawl across the table and lick the crumbs off his lips.
This is why I fuck around. Because wanting someone you can’t have hurts worse than any childhood trauma. At least with random hookups, I control the narrative. I’m the one who leaves. I’m the one who doesn’t get attached.
But Jackson? He makes me want impossible things.