Chapter 18
JACKSON
“Is that girl seriously taking a panoramic shot?” I mutter to Elliot, who’s wearing Gerard’s massive jersey that threatens to swallow him whole.
“Amateur. Last semester, someone brought a DSLR with a telephoto lens. Sat two rows behind me for three games straight before security finally kicked them out.”
“Jesus.” I pull the jersey up, which only makes things worse. “How did you not lose your mind?”
“Spite, mostly.” He pockets his phone and surveys the growing crowd with the expression of someone who’s seen too much. “Also, Gerard kept doing this thing where he’d turn around and blow me kisses from the bench, which made everyone around me uncomfortable.”
Ryan, who’s been silent since we sat down, suddenly pipes up. “I should probably mention I know absolutely nothing about hockey.”
“We can make up our own commentary then,” Elliot says.
“That sounds reasonable.” Ryan adjusts his glasses to peer at the ice.
Three rows down, a group of sorority girls turns around in unison to stare at me. One of them waves. I pretend to be fascinated by the Jumbotron, which shows ads for campus pizza.
“This is weird,” I say when she finally turns away. “Like, deeply weird. I’m the quarterback of the football team, and I’ve never gotten this much attention.”
Elliot snorts. “That’s because no one’s jealous of you.”
“Thanks for the ego boost.”
“I’m serious. With Gerard and me, half the campus wanted to be the one wearing his jersey.
They were furious that some random library gremlin snagged their golden boy.
” He gestures at the people still stealing glances at us.
“But you and Drew? You’re both hot, popular athletes.
It’s like George and Amal Clooney—no one’s mad about it; they’re just fascinated that he’s no longer a bachelor. ”
“We’re dating. Normally. Like everyone else does.”
Except, unlike everyone else, we’re a flat-out lie.
Twenty minutes later, the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen! Please put your hands together for the Berkeley Shore Barracudas!”
The Barracudas explode onto the ice in a blur of navy blue and white. They move with a predatory grace that makes the crowd go silent for half a second before erupting.
Gerard bursts onto the ice first, even though he doesn’t wear the captain’s C.
He carves his initial lap with the confidence of someone who believes the entire arena belongs to him.
A couple of feet behind him glides Oliver, his skates barely whispering against the ice.
Kyle follows, skating with the barely contained fury of someone who’s already three fights deep into the game.
His eyes are fixed on some invisible target beyond the rink.
Nathan floats along in his slipstream, smiling at the crowd, simply happy to be here.
Last on the ice is Drew. He skates to center ice, takes a tight turn, and stops dead in front of our section.
The entire arena holds its breath as he stares straight at me, cutting through eight thousand faces as though he’s got a GPS tracker on my dumb soul.
He points his gloved hand at me, and my brain shuts off for a second.
By the time I reboot, he’s blowing a kiss, complete with a grandiose wrist flourish.
Drew in full battle armor is stupid sexy. The pads make him impossibly broad, and I suddenly want to experience having a hundred and ninety pounds of Larney momentum pinning me in place.
I panic and cross my legs before anyone notices the very real, very inconvenient situation developing in my lap.
I place my jacket over my thighs for good measure and clap as the game commences with a face-off.
Drew wins it cleanly, sending the puck back to Gerard, who immediately goes on the attack.
Even though half my brain is still processing the kiss-blowing incident, I can’t help but watch Drew work. He moves powerfully but also with grace, setting up plays before the defense even realizes what’s happening.
“So that’s good?” Ryan asks as the Barracudas score within the first two minutes.
“Very good,” I confirm, joining in the crowd’s roar.
The first period is all Barracudas, all the time, skating circles around the competition—literally and figuratively. I planned to keep tabs on the entire team, but that plan has gone out the window because I physically cannot stop watching Drew.
It’s not that he’s the best player on the ice, in my opinion.
It’s the way he plays faster than anyone else and is always three or four moves ahead.
He weaves through defenders with an upright, arrogant posture—never hunched, chest always out.
And every time he gets near the net, the crowd’s volume triples. Simply put, Drew is putting on a show.
When he shoulder-checks a guy and then smoothly sends the puck over the goalie for a top-shelf goal, the whole bench erupts. Drew glances up at me and winks. My thigh vibrates as my phone blows up with texts from everyone who saw it happen.
Elliot leans over. “You good, Romeo?”
“Shut up,” I whisper, but it’s not even a good comeback.
“I have a question,” Ryan says during a break in play. “Why does that one keep sitting in that box?”
“That’s the penalty box,” I explain. “Nathan slashed someone.”
“Is that bad?”
“Very bad. But also kind of his thing.”
Elliot nods sagely. “Gerard says Nathan’s trying to set a record for penalty minutes. It’s good to have goals.”
My phone buzzes.
Sarah
The Ice Queen posted about Drew blowing you a kiss. The comment section is FERAL.
I groan, which prompts Elliot to lean over and read the text.
“Want to know what she said?” he asks, pulling up the blog on his phone.
“Absolutely not.” I read it anyway.
The second period kicks off with Boston College coming out swinging, not ready to go down without a fight. Their forwards throw their weight around as though they’re in a WWE match, and I find myself gripping the armrests every time someone gets near Drew.
“Okay, what’s happening now?” Ryan asks as players crash into each other near center ice.
“That’s called forechecking,” I explain. “Basically, Boston College is trying to put pressure on our guys to win back possession of the puck.”
The play continues, and Drew receives a pass, skating backward while controlling the puck.
“Why is he skating backward?” Elliot asks.
“He’s searching for an open teammate while keeping the puck away from—fuck!” I jump up as a Boston College player slams Drew into the glass right in front of us. The impact rattles the entire section. “That’s boarding! Where’s the fucking call, ref?”
The referee skates by without even glancing at the play, and I cup my hands around my mouth. “Are you blind?! That’s a penalty, you fucking imbecile!”
Drew pushes himself off the glass, shaking his head, and rejoins the play as if nothing happened.
“You’re passionate about this,” Ryan observes.
“That should have been a penalty,” I insist, sitting back down. “When you hit someone from behind into the boards like that, it’s dangerous.”
“Gerard’s doing something,” Elliot announces, and we all turn to watch number 7 execute what can only be described as a pirouette while carrying the puck.
“That’s called a spin-o-rama,” I explain. “It’s a pretty advanced move.”
“That’s it, baby! Shake that massive ass!” Elliot suddenly screams at the top of his lungs.
The entire section turns to stare. Gerard, mid-spin, clearly hears his boyfriend, because his skates go in opposite directions. What follows is a spectacular wipeout that has him sliding across the ice on his aforementioned massive ass like a starfish on a slip-n-slide.
The arena goes silent for a heartbeat before erupting in laughter. Gerard, still on his ass, raises one arm in a triumphant fist pump, which only makes people laugh harder.
“Oh my God,” Elliot says, covering his face with his hands. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“That was incredible,” Ryan says, giggling. “His reaction when he heard you!”
Even the players are trying not to laugh as Gerard gets back on his skates, dramatically dusting off his ass while staring directly at our section. He blows Elliot a kiss before skating away.
“I’m never yelling anything again,” Elliot mutters.
“Maybe save the ass compliments for after the game.”
The play resumes with a face-off in our defensive zone. Oliver lines up for it, and I notice Ryan leans forward slightly. His cheeks have gone pink, and he’s staring at Oliver with an expression I recognize all too well.
Elliot notices too. “Ryan, are you…”
“I hope Oliver wins the check-off,” Ryan interrupts, his voice an octave higher than usual.
“Face-off,” I correct.
Oliver wins it cleanly, sending the puck to his teammate. But Ryan’s eyes stay glued to the captain.
“He seems very capable,” Ryan says, adjusting his glasses.
“Ryan,” Elliot says slowly, “do you have a crush on Oliver?”
“That’s absurd,” Ryan says immediately. “I’m simply observing that he appears to be skilled at his position.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, recognizing the denial spiral. “So you definitely didn’t stare at him during the Polar Bear Plunge?”
Ryan’s face morphs from pink to crimson. “I was cold. Everyone looks at everyone when they’re cold. It’s a survival instinct.”
“Sure,” Elliot drawls. “And you’re watching him now because…”
“Because he’s the captain, and I’m trying to understand the game better.”
Right on cue, Oliver gets slammed into the boards by a Boston College forward. The hit is clean but vicious, and Oliver’s helmet smacks against the glass with a crack that makes everyone wince.
“Eeek!” Ryan squeals before slapping a hand over his mouth.
Elliot grins like the Cheshire Cat. “You were saying?”
“I was concerned for his safety,” Ryan says with as much dignity as he can muster while being the color of a fire truck. “Head injuries are serious.”
“Oliver’s fine,” I assure him as the captain delivers a retaliatory shove. “He’s tough. Played through a separated shoulder last year.”