Chapter 10
JACKSON
The barbell crashes back onto the rack, sending a shudder through my body, and I immediately regret adding those extra plates.
“Damn, Monroe. Trying to impress someone?” Arthur grunts from the bench next to me, his newly shaved head glistening with sweat under the harsh lighting of the BSU athletic center.
“Trying to stay in shape,” I wheeze, sitting up and grabbing my water bottle.
Outside, it might be North Pole weather, but in here, it’s a sauna of testosterone and poor ventilation.
The place reeks of rubber mats, sweat, and determination, with the slightest hint of that boy funk that never quite goes away.
After half an hour of working out, my BSU football T-shirt is soaked through with sweat.
Tyrell appears in my peripheral vision, dumbbells in hand, moving with that fluid grace that makes him deadly on the field. “Speaking of impressing someone…” He sets the weights down and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Y’all see what the Ice Queen posted?”
My stomach drops faster than a failed fourth-down conversion. I keep my face neutral, focusing on the fascinating task of removing the added plates from the bench press. “I don’t read that gossip blog.”
“Bullshit.” Arthur snorts, swinging his long legs off the bench to face me. His eyes drill into me like he’s trying to read the playbook on Drew I have tattooed on the inside of my skull. “Everyone reads the Ice Queen. She’s the TMZ of BSU.”
“Well, I don’t.” I’ve read her latest post twenty-five times since it went up this morning.
“Seriously? Because this is golden.” Tyrell settles onto a bench across from us and scrolls through his phone with obvious glee. “She says y’all were ‘eye-fucking’ each other. Her words, not mine.”
“We were cold!” The protest bursts out of me louder than intended, drawing curious glances from other gym-goers. I lower my voice. “It was survival. Basic human warmth preservation.”
“Uh-huh.” Tyrell’s grin widens as he continues reading. “‘The chemistry is undeniable.’ Oh, and check this part—‘Drew’s chat history suggests he’s been sampling the entire Eastern Seaboard’s dating pool.’”
“How does she even know that?” Arthur wonders aloud.
“And here”—Tyrell’s voice takes on a dramatic tone—“‘Jackson gives off straight-boy energy.’”
Straight-boy energy. If only they knew about the experiments I’ve conducted over the past three years.
Discreet encounters in dorm rooms with the lights off, fumbling hands in dark corners of house parties, downloaded apps quickly deleted.
Each time, I told myself I was curious, exploring, making sure.
And I am sure…now. My pulse races when I see certain guys. Dreams leave me tangled in sweaty sheets. It’s a constant effort to keep my eyes at appropriate heights in locker rooms.
I’m bi. I’ve known it for months—maybe longer if I’m being honest with myself.
But knowing and doing something about it are two entirely different things.
“She’s wrong,” I say, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my face. “Drew and I are friends. Even if I were interested in him—which I’m not—Drew wouldn’t look twice at me. Have you seen the guys he hooks up with?”
“What do you mean?” Tyrell asks, genuinely curious now.
I shouldn’t elaborate, but the words fall out anyway. “They’re all confident. Sexy. Carefree. They crack jokes that make everyone laugh and never second-guess themselves.”
They’re everything I’m not. Where Drew is built for hockey—thick and solid with those large hands that could palm a basketball and feet that power him across the ice—I’m lean muscle and agility.
My hands are narrower, with longer, more delicate fingers, better suited to threading a football through tight coverage than to gripping a hockey stick.
My feet are smaller too, made for quick cuts on grass, not carving across frozen water.
Drew appreciates guys who match his energy, who can keep up with his boasting and give as good as they get.
I’ve watched him with them—the effortless way he touches them, how naturally they fit against his broader frame.
Meanwhile, I’m the guy who still gets tongue-tied when he smiles at me, who rehearses conversations in my head before saying anything.
“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” Arthur observes, and I realize I’ve been rambling.
“I notice things. So what?” I grab a twenty-five-pound plate and slide it onto the bar with more force than necessary. “The point is that everyone needs to mind their own business. Nothing is going on between Drew and me.”
“If you say so.” Tyrell shrugs, but his expression suggests he’s not buying it. “Did you know someone’s already selling ‘Drackson’ merch outside the student center?”
“They’re what?” My voice cracks.
“T-shirts, man. ‘Drackson Forever’ with little hearts.” Arthur pulls up a photo on his phone. “They’re pretty cute. I might get one for my girlfriend…as a joke.”
I stare at the image of cheap cotton shirts with our names mashed together like we’re some celebrity couple. This can’t be real life. “This is insane.”
“This is BSU,” Tyrell corrects. “Remember when everyone thought Professor Foxworth was secretly married to that TA? They had a whole wedding registry going before anyone bothered to check if it was true.”
“How did that end?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.
“Turns out they’re cousins,” Arthur supplies helpfully. “Really killed the vibe.”
Great. So I’m either going to have to pretend to be dating my best friend or reveal we’re secretly related. Neither option appeals to me.
“Ignore it,” Tyrell advises, standing up and heading toward the squat rack. “It’ll blow over when the next scandal hits. Everyone forgot about that professor who got caught skinny-dipping in the lake after a few days.”
He’s probably right. This will pass. It has to. Because the alternative—that people keep pushing this narrative until something cracks—isn’t something I can handle.
I position myself under the bar again, needing the burn in my muscles to distract me from the turmoil in my head.
As I press the weight up, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirrored wall.
Lean arms straining, face flushed with exertion, definitely giving off what the Ice Queen eloquently called “straight-boy energy.”
If she only knew the truth—that when I close my eyes at night, it’s Drew’s calloused hockey hands I imagine tracing my collarbone, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
That I deliberately sought out guys who looked nothing like him, who played different sports, who laughed differently, because I knew anyone who reminded me of Drew would be dangerous territory.
My “experiments” weren’t random at all; they were calculated decisions to keep my heart intact.
“Yo, Jackson!” Arthur’s voice breaks through my spiral. “Spot me?”
“Yeah, coming.” I rack the bar and move to help him, grateful for the distraction.
By the time we hit the showers, I’m exhausted in more ways than one.
The hot water pounds against my shoulders, and I let my head fall forward, closing my eyes.
Drew’s face appears immediately. I sigh at the image of his smile on the beach, the water droplets that clung to his eyelashes when he emerged from the ocean.
The memory of his body pressed against mine, seeking warmth on the sand, causes all the blood in my head to rush south.
If Arthur and Tyrell weren’t two feet away, scrubbing their asses with loofahs, I’d take myself in my hand, right here, right now.
It’s been a few days since I’ve rubbed one out.
I usually do it when I have the dorm room to myself, but Ryan has spent the last few nights inside rather than out stargazing.
“You good, Monroe?” Arthur calls, spinning around to rinse the soap off his pasty-white ass.
“Perfect,” I lie as I crank the water to cold before my teammates can see my painfully hard predicament. My teeth chatter as the chill assaults my overheated skin.
Minutes later, I’m toweling off with too much aggression, as if I can scrub my feelings away with the dead skin. It doesn’t work. It never does.
“Same time Thursday?” Tyrell asks once we’re all dressed and headed for the locker room exit.
“Yeah,” I say, slinging my gym bag over my shoulder.
They head off for The Brew, while I take the path back to the dorms. I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over Drew’s contact. We usually text after workouts. Stupid stuff about protein shakes or playfully arguing over whose coach is more psychotic—his, by a mile.
But I can’t do it. Not with the Ice Queen’s blog post rattling around in my skull. Not with Arthur and Tyrell’s knowing looks burned into my retinas.
I breathe in the sharp and cleansing winter air, letting it freeze the frenzied thumping in my chest.
One day, I’ll figure out what to do about my massive crush on Drew Larney. Just not today.