Chapter 17
DREW
Professor Grieco’s psychology lecture is in one of those massive auditoriums that fit three hundred students and reeks of coffee and despair. It’s also the perfect place for discussing my impending doom.
I run my hands through my hair, turning it into a wild bird’s nest. “She’s not letting up. It’s pissing me off.”
“She will,” Sarah says, taking the open seat beside mine.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because. Friday’s game.” She turns her laptop screen toward me. It shows the hockey team’s schedule. “Home game against Boston College. The arena will be packed.”
“So?”
“Jackson will be there, wearing your jersey and screaming his head off every time you have the puck.” She grins wickedly. “He used to go feral for Gerard, but now he gets to be your puck bunny. There’ll be no way for the Ice Queen to spin that as fake.”
Every muscle in my body locks up tight. Jackson as my puck bunny. I don’t know whether to be elated or mortified.
When we rang in the new year, Jackson Monroe was the guy I texted multiple times a day, and the only person who could beat me at Mario Kart.
We’d spent most of last year downing Red Bulls and rewatching each other’s playoff highlights.
I never considered him as anything other than the sort of friend you’d rescue from a well or mortgage your own future to bail out of a casino jail.
However, over the last few weeks, something changed.
It wasn’t dramatic, like a musical number or a slow-motion movie kiss.
It was small, like noticing the way Jackson can quote entire scenes from The Mighty Ducks but somehow make it sound deep.
It was how, on the snowiest day of winter break, he shared his thermos of hot chocolate with me.
Soon, I was counting on those little gestures, and when they didn’t happen, I missed them like hell.
Now, here I am, sitting in class and trying to come to terms with the fact that pretending to date Jackson isn’t the hard part. The hard part is pretending that it’s only pretend.
Sarah closes her laptop with a decisive snap, yanking me out of my inner turmoil. “Trust me. Friday’s game will shut everyone up. No one who sees Jackson watching you play will believe that Ice Queen bitch.”
I sink lower in my seat as Professor Grieco writes something on the board. I should be paying attention, but how can I when I have all of this weighing on me? Between the game and Jackson, I’m this close to plunging myself back into the ocean.
When I walk into the locker room, I’m hit by the familiar stench of Bengay with an aftershock of feet, hockey pads, and jockstraps drenched in baby powder.
Most of the guys are naked, but a few are half-dressed, half mad, and performing rituals that would get them banned from any reputable house of worship.
Kyle and Jonas Patterson, our backup goalie, are locked in their usual pregame telepathy, staring at each other until one of them blinks.
Mason Bay, one of our defensemen, sits on the end of the bench, untying and retying his laces with the precision of an old lady crocheting a scarf.
Will Dixon, a second-line right winger, is reading a battered paperback, oblivious to the rampant nudity and epic wedgies being committed all around him.
Taylor Colson, one of our most impressive forwards, is in his compression shorts, doing interpretive yoga in the middle of the floor. He’s trying to get me to laugh by mouthing the lyrics to “Barbie Girl” in time with the locker room playlist, and it’s almost working.
Francisco and Sebastian, the two freshmen, are bickering over who used the last bit of toilet paper. In the far corner, Gerard’s leading the sophomores in an off-key rendition of Ariana Grande’s “Problem,” complete with twerking.
Needless to say, the place is a beautiful, smelly, testosterone-soaked circus. And through it all, Oliver stands by the whiteboard with his arms folded across his beefy chest, watching us with fond exasperation.
I’m lacing up my skates when he clears his throat, ready to mother-hen us into something we’ll regret. The pregame energy shifts—guys stop taping their sticks, and Taylor pauses mid-stretch with his leg behind his head.
“Before we destroy Boston College,” Oliver announces, “I need everyone’s attention.”
“If this is about the jockstraps in the freezer again—” Nathan starts.
“It’s not about the jockstraps.” Oliver pulls out his phone. “We’ve been invited to participate in a charity event next weekend. A roller disco competition at the Spinfinity Roller Rink.”
The groans are immediate and theatrical. Kyle’s head whips back with such force, I swear I hear his vertebrae crack. “Roller disco? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Twenty bucks entry, all proceeds go to charity.” Oliver’s using his captain voice now, the one that makes freshmen piss themselves. And sometimes me. “The entire team will be there. This is nonnegotiable.”
“But I can’t skate,” Sebastian protests, genuinely distressed. “I mean, on ice, yeah, but wheels? I’ll die.”
“You won’t die,” Oliver says, though he doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “We all have to pair up. Winner gets a trophy.”
My brain races. Who am I going to partner up with?
My gaze darts around to see that the locker room has turned into a speed-dating event on steroids.
Guys are claiming partners left and right, and I realize with growing horror that my options are disappearing faster than Gerard’s modesty at a team bonding event.
“I call Gerard!” Nathan shouts.
“Fuck off, he’s taken,” someone else yells back.
“By who? Elliot’s not on the team!”
“I’ll go with Jonas,” Kyle mutters, and Jonas turns red. Out of fear or embarrassment, I couldn’t say.
“I’m with Will!” Tyler high-fives Will.
“Francisco and Sebastian!”
“Oliver!” Mason grins at our captain, who nods approvingly.
More and more names get called out, and then…silence.
I count heads, and my stomach drops through the floor and keeps going until it hits the Earth’s core.
“I’m sure Jackson would love to roller skate with you,” Nathan says giddily. “Hold your hand, gaze into your eyes…”
Still completely naked and immune to the concept of shame, Gerard belts out how he thought love was only true in fairytales. It isn’t until he gets to the chorus that I realize he’s singing “I’m a Believer” by the Monkees. He gyrates his hips, his dick helicoptering with each movement.
“Put some fucking clothes on, Gunnarson!” Kyle yells while laughing.
“You guys believe this shit?” Will asks, crossing his arms. “Drew Larney, the guy who’s fucked half the campus, is suddenly in a committed relationship with Jackson Monroe of all people? I’m with the Ice Queen on this one. There’s no way.”
“Love is a many-splendored thing,” Gerard says sagely, finally wrapping a towel around his waist, thank God. “I fell for Elliot, didn’t I?”
“That’s different,” Will argues. “We all saw that coming from a mile away. This?” He gestures at me. “This is suspicious as fuck.”
“Look,” I say, trying to sound casual even though my heart is pounding. “Jackson and I—it just happened, okay? Sometimes you meet someone, and everything changes.”
“Do you think the judges will score based on chemistry?” Tyler asks with a shit-eating grin.
Chemistry. Right. Because that’s exactly what I need—to be judged on how well I can fake being in love with the guy I’m in love with.
“Maybe Drew and Jackson will skate to ‘Endless Love,’” Nathan says with a snort. “They can stare into each other’s eyes while Diana Ross croons about—”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, too busy panicking about how I’m going to explain this to Jackson.
“Alright, guys,” Oliver claps his hands, shifting back into captain mode. “We have a game to win. Save the relationship drama for after we destroy Boston College.”
The team disperses, returning to their pregame rituals, but I catch the looks. Some are supportive, like Gerard, who gives me a thumbs up that’s somehow both encouraging and slightly obscene. Others are skeptical, like Will, who mouths, “I don’t buy it,” when he thinks I’m not watching.
I focus on taping my stick, wrapping the black tape around the blade with mechanical precision. It’s something I can control, unlike the shitstorm my life has become. But when the subtle glances and expressions of disbelief become too much, the words burst out before I can stop them.
“You all think this is fake? Some kind of joke? Jackson’s the best thing that’s happened to me, and if I have to prove it in purple spandex while dipping him to ‘Xanadu,’ then that’s what I’ll fucking do.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Even Kyle appears mildly concerned, which, for him, is a full-blown emotional breakdown.
“Purple spandex is a bold choice,” Gerard finally says. “Very 1980.”
Will, who’s apparently becoming my biggest detractor, snorts. “Now, this I can’t wait to see.”
Coach Donovan strides into the locker room, his presence filling the space as much as his voice.
“Listen up! Boston College is coming in here thinking they own us. They’ve been running their mouths all week about how we’re soft, how we’ve lost our edge.
” He pauses, letting that sink in. “Tonight, we show them what Berkeley Shore hockey is about. We play smart, we play hard, and we leave everything on that ice. Gunnarson, I want you to set the tone early. Larney, I need you sharp on those breakaways. Graham, you’re a fucking wall tonight, got it? ”
“Yes, Coach!” we respond in unison.
“Good. Now get out there and remind them why we’re defending champions.” His hazel eyes sweep over us one more time. “And remember—this isn’t about winning. It’s about respect. Make them earn every inch of that ice.”
As we file toward the tunnel, adrenaline pumping through my veins, a familiar figure appears in the doorway, his BSU Sports Medicine polo hanging loose on his delicate frame. His red hair catches the fluorescent lights as he clutches a medical bag.
“Sorry, I just—first night,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Wanted to wish everyone good luck.”
Gerard immediately engulfs him in a bear hug, lifting Alex clear off the ground. “Our new sports therapist! Guys, be nice to Alex, or Kyle will murder you in your sleep!”
Kyle’s death glare could melt steel, but there’s something protective in the way he hovers near Alex as the team filters past. Most guys offer friendly nods or fist bumps, treating him as the team’s collective little brother.
I hang back, adjusting my gloves for the third time. Alex approaches me, those huge hazel eyes—so similar to his dad’s but softer somehow—fixed on my face.
“Drew? Can I talk to you for a second?”
My stomach clenches. Does he know? Can he tell I used to fantasize about his father? That would be a new level of awkward, even for me. “Sure, what’s up?”
He glances around, making sure we’re relatively alone, then leans in closer. The scent of vanilla and something floral hits me—probably whatever fancy shampoo he uses. “I wanted to say…about the roller disco thing? I think you and Jackson will be amazing together.”
The words hit differently than when the other guys tease because he genuinely believes what he’s saying.
“I mean it.” He fidgets with the strap of his medical bag. “I’ve seen how you two are together. It’s…” He blushes, pink spreading across porcelain cheeks. “It’s sweet. And roller skating is all about trust, right? Holding onto each other, moving in sync. You guys already do that without wheels.”
Christ. The kid has more insight than half the psychology majors on campus. My chest tightens, but not in a bad way. More like when you’re at the top of a roller coaster, knowing the drop is coming but excited anyway.
“Thanks, Alex. That means a lot.”
“Plus,” he adds with a shy smile, “Elliot says that Jackson talks about you constantly when they hang out. Like, even before you two got together. It was always ‘Drew said this’ or ‘Drew did that.’ Kyle and I used to take bets on when you’d figure it out.”
My heart does this stupid stuttering thing.
Jackson talks about me? To other people?
The possibility that this might not be as one-sided as I thought sends warmth flooding through my chest. But no—I can’t let myself go there.
This is fake. Temporary. Spring break will come, we’ll stage some amicable breakup, and I’ll go back to meaningless hookups while he finds some nice girl who deserves him.
“Earth to Drew?” Oliver’s voice snaps me back. “We’ve got a game to win. You can moon over your boyfriend later.”
“I’m not mooning,” I protest, but Alex’s knowing smirk suggests otherwise.
“Good luck out there,” he says softly. “I’ll be watching from the bench. Try not to get too banged up on my first night, okay?”
“No promises,” I grin, then impulsively ruffle his hair. He squeaks in protest but doesn’t pull away.
As I jog toward the tunnel, the familiar pregame energy crackling through my veins, Alex’s words replay in my mind. Jackson talks about me. We move in sync. We…
No. Focus, Drew. Hockey first, emotional crisis later.
The roar of the crowd hits me as I burst onto the ice, and somewhere in those stands is Jackson Monroe, wearing my jersey, my name across his back.