Chapter 12
DREW
Hot water sluices over my sore muscles after another grueling practice.
All I want is to enjoy some quiet and think about what’s for dinner.
But no, Gerard has to shout from the top of his lungs, even though he’s only three shower heads away from me, “Drew’s got a boyfriend!
Drew’s got a boyfriend!” He’s singing—if you can call that warbling a song—while soaping up his massive frame and shaking his ass for good measure.
“Shut the fuck up, Gunnarson.” I grab my shampoo bottle and consider chucking it at his head. “Jackson is not my boyfriend.”
“The Ice Queen thinks otherwise,” Oliver chimes in from the other side of the communal shower. His voice echoes off the tiles and slams itself into the migraine building in my head.
Why did I foolishly think this was going to blow over? Just because nobody said a damn thing about it to me since her post went live this morning doesn’t mean they weren’t thinking about it.
“The Ice Queen can suck my left nut,” I mutter, working shampoo through my hair with more aggression than necessary.
“Ooh, kinky!” Gerard laughs, waggling his eyebrows for emphasis. “But seriously, Drew. You tend to stare at Jackson as if he hung the moon and then offered to let you lick it. And you did a lot of staring at the beach.”
“I was cold. My eyes were simply frozen in his direction.”
Kyle’s gravelly voice drifts from nearby. “That’s the dumbest excuse I’ve ever heard, and I once heard Nathan claim he ‘accidentally’ sat on a cucumber and that was the moaning that was coming from his room.”
“Hey!” Nathan protests from somewhere to my left. “That was a legitimate accident!”
“Sure it was,” Kyle deadpans. “Buy yourself a dildo like the rest of us, you freak.”
I rinse the shampoo out of my hair and ignore the tightening in my chest.
“I think it’s sweet,” Gerard continues, clearly enjoying discussing my nonexistent love life with a bunch of naked dudes. “You and Jackson make a cute couple. Oh! We can double-date now! You and him, and me and Elliot.”
“There will be no double-dating, because Jackson and I are not a couple. I don’t know why everyone is so insistent that we are.
Since when did best friends become code for boyfriends?
” I turn the water temperature up until it’s almost scalding.
Perhaps if I boil myself alive, this conversation will end.
“Right,” Nathan says with a roll of his eyes. “That’s why you spent the entire day staring at his abs.”
“Everyone was staring at everyone’s abs. It was a fucking abdominal parade out there.”
“But you were only staring at one specific set of abs,” Gerard points out unhelpfully. “Jackson’s abs. Which, to be fair, are very nice. Not as nice as Elliot’s, obviously, but—”
“Elliot doesn’t have abs,” Kyle interrupts.
“He has the perfect amount of abs for his body type!” Gerard defends. “They’re subtle abs. Sophisticated abs. The kind of abs that whisper instead of shout.”
I squeeze way too much body wash onto my loofah because if I don’t squeeze something, it’ll end up being Gerard’s neck.
“Even if I did have the hots for Jackson—which I don’t—it wouldn’t matter because he’s straight.
End of story. The Ice Queen and the rest of the campus can speculate all they want, but they’re barking up the wrong tree. ”
“I don’t know,” Oliver muses. “The Ice Queen was pretty spot on about Gerard when it came to his crush on Elliot.”
“That was different,” I argue. “Gerard’s about as subtle as a neon sign. Everyone could see he was gone for the guy. He stalked him across the campus, chased after flying papers, and even waited for him outside of his class with lunch.”
“Uh…I’d like to think I was subtle,” Gerard protests, turning around with his hands on his hips and his monster dick swinging into his thigh. “Everything about me is subtle.”
We all burst out laughing. Even Kyle snorts.
“G, you hired the theater department to help you convince Elliot to move into the Hockey House.”
“I was being strategic!”
“If that was strategic, then slap my ass and call me Sally,” Nathan heckles, turning around to present his ass to Gerard.
Gerard knows when he’s been beaten. His whole body deflates, and he turns back to his shower. “Fine. Maybe I’m not the most subtle dude. But I’m telling you, Drew and Jackson will admit it and be Facebook official by the end of the semester. Mark my words.”
I turn off the shower and grab a towel from the shelf nearby. “I love how none of you are noticing the obvious—I don’t do relationships. Since when have you known me to be tied down to someone?”
“But you want to be,” Gerard says, turning off his shower and following me into the locker room without a towel because he’s Gerard. “I can tell. The way you stare at Jackson is how I stare at Elliot.”
My chest constricts even more, and I focus on digging clean clothes out of my locker, rather than face the truth. I do want more with Jackson. But wanting something doesn’t make it instantly possible.
I drop my towel and pull on my underwear. “Can we please drop this?”
“If you say so,” Gerard says, shrugging. “But if you ever change your mind. I’m happy to help. I’m a love expert now.”
“You’ve been dating Elliot for three months,” Kyle points out, walking into the locker room with a towel wrapped around his waist.
Gerard beams and nods like a bobblehead. “That’s three months of perfect, beautiful, life-changing love!”
“I’m going to throw up,” Kyle mutters.
I finish getting dressed and push all thoughts of Jackson from my mind. It only works for five seconds because the more I try not to think about him, the more he invades my thoughts.
Sometimes, I wish that Gerard and Elliot had never gotten together. At least then, Jackson would never have entered my orbit. But then again, if I didn’t want to know the guy at all, I never should have gone to that goddamn game freshman year.
Two Years Ago
Homecoming games at BSU are a far cry from the ones back home.
Here, the energy crackles throughout the entire stadium.
Noise levels are at an all-time high. It’s surprising, really.
The football team is nowhere near as stellar as those at the other nearby colleges. Yet, everyone has shown up tonight.
“Holy snickers!” Gerard exclaims as we climb the concrete steps. “Can you feel that, dudes? The excitement, the team spirit, the—”
“Fact you look like a demented Smurf?” Kyle interrupts.
I have to agree with him on this one. Gerard’s face is painted half in navy blue, half in white. It’s split perfectly down the middle, turning him into some kind of Berkeley Shore Two-Face.
“I’ll have you know that this took me three hours.” Gerard puffs out his chest proudly. The movement makes his BSU jersey ride up, revealing a strip of painted skin at his waist.
Wait. Is his entire torso painted too?
Gerard grins maniacally, which means we’re about to witness something spectacular or horrifying.
Knowing Gerard, it’s going to be both. He stops right there on the stairs, causing a traffic jam of annoyed students behind us.
Before anyone can stop him, he yanks up his jersey to reveal his entire beefy chest painted in the same split pattern as his face.
Even his nipples have gotten in on the action.
“Jesus Christ.” I shake my head, but I’m laughing too. “You’re certifiable, G-man.”
“That’s not even the best part,” Gerard says, waggling his eyebrows.
Kyle narrows his eyes. “What do you mean that’s not the—Gerard, no. Tell me you didn’t paint your—”
“My entire body!” Gerard announces proudly, emulating Michael Buffer. “I am a walking, talking model of school spirit!” Then, because he has zero shame, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants. “Want to see?”
“No!” we all shout in unison. But Gerard’s already spinning around and yanking down his pants and boxers to moon the entire section of bleachers.
And there it is. His left ass cheek is painted blue; his right is painted white. It’s the world’s most disturbing yin-yang symbol.
“I did it all myself!” Gerard declares over his shoulder. “Had to use two mirrors and fold myself into some creative yoga positions, but I managed!”
The crowd behind us has gone from annoyed to amused, with several people pulling out their phones to capture the moment for posterity. Someone wolf-whistles. A girl shouts, “Go Barracudas!”
“Pull your pants up before security arrests you,” Oliver hisses, though he’s fighting a smile, same as the rest of us.
Gerard complies, turning back around with the satisfied expression of someone who has finally shared their magnum opus with the world. “Total dedication.”
“Total insanity,” Kyle corrects, but even he appears impressed.
We finally make it to our seats near the top of the bleachers, and the view from up here is breathtaking.
Fifty yards of emerald stretches below us, white chalk lines razor-sharp against the grass.
The brass section of Berkeley Shore’s band catches the floodlights, sending gold flashes into my eyes with each sway.
A tuba player stumbles slightly, while the drumline’s synchronized arms rise and fall in perfect unison.
The fight song’s familiar notes hit me in the chest before they reach my ears.
A saxophone wails, and a chill runs up my spine. I’ve always loved a good sax solo.
“This is amazing,” I breathe, taking it all in.
The bleachers themselves are packed to the brim.
There are other people with painted faces, though I doubt they went as far as to give their asses the same treatment.
A foam finger gets passed around. Homemade signs wave in the air.
One says, “Monroe throws touchdowns and steals hearts,” with little hearts drawn around it.
“Who’s Monroe?” I ask, nudging Oliver.