Chapter 40
THE ICE QUEEN
The thing about being a ghost is that nobody ever sees you.
I type another sentence into my laptop, the satisfying click of keys punctuating the frenzy erupting around me.
The Hockey House living room has transformed into a veritable circus this morning, and I’ve got a front-row seat to the greatest show on campus, all while crafting my next masterpiece for the masses.
Chapel of Love, I type at the top of the document. The title feels right. Saccharine enough to make my readers gag, but accurate enough that they’ll devour every word.
“He didn’t come home,” Drew is saying for approximately the seventeenth time, pacing in front of the television like a man possessed. His dark hair is still rumpled from sleep, and he’s wearing sweatpants that have seen better decades. “Oliver. Captain of the team. Didn’t. Come. Home.”
Jackson leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like the cat who swallowed the canary and then asked for seconds. “And where do you think he spent the night, Drew?”
Drew whirls around, gesturing wildly. “What if something happened? What if there was an accident? What if—”
“He spent the night with Ryan.” Jackson’s grin is as large as the house. “Which is why I slept here, remember?”
I type faster, capturing every delicious detail. Sources confirm that the hockey captain and his longtime friend finally took their relationship to the next level. The sheets, reportedly fresh for the occasion, will never be the same.
“You mean—” Drew’s voice drops to a whisper that’s somehow louder than his normal speaking voice. “They actually—”
“Consummated their love? Sealed the deal? Made the beast with two backs?” Jackson ticks off options on his fingers. “Yes to all of the above. Ryan texted me this morning. Three exclamation points and a series of emojis I’m choosing not to interpret too closely.”
“What were the emojis?” Drew asks.
“A hand. An eggplant. A tongue. A peach. Rain droplets. Oh, and the shocked face emoji. The one that looks like this.” Jackson slams his large hands to the sides of his face and imitates Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone.
The thundering of footsteps on the stairs announces Gerard’s arrival before he even appears.
He bursts into the living room, his wavy blond hair flying in every direction.
“I heard commotion,” he announces at a volume that reminds us he’s never encountered the concept of indoor voices.
“What’s happening? Is someone getting married? ”
“Oliver and Ryan had sex,” Drew says flatly.
The sound that emerges from Gerard’s throat is high-pitched enough to shatter glass, long enough to require supplemental oxygen, and enthusiastic enough to wake the dead.
“THEY DID IT?!” He grabs Drew by the shoulders, shaking him like a maraca.
“OMG! I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY FINALLY DID IT! OUR BABIES ARE ALL GROWN UP!”
I add a note to my document: The team’s response to the news ranged from barely contained glee to sounds previously thought impossible for the human vocal apparatus.
The front door opens, and Elliot shuffles in, his glasses slightly askew and his expression suggesting he’s already regretting coming over. He’s still wearing his library name tag, the plastic badge pinned to his chest as he stops dead at the threshold.
“Gerard.” His voice is flat as a frozen pond. “Stop squealing.”
Gerard releases Drew, spinning toward his boyfriend with arms outstretched. “But Elliot! Oliver and Ryan—”
“I heard you from outside. Hell, I’m fairly certain the entire campus heard you.” Elliot removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Some of us have been working since seven and would appreciate not having our eardrums perforated.”
“But they consummated!”
“Congratulations to them.”
I’m so focused on typing—The team’s librarian-in-residence offered his characteristic brand of enthusiasm—that I almost miss the real entertainment walking into the room.
Nathan Paisley emerges from the hallway in all his glory.
And by “all his glory,” I mean every single inch of it, because the man is wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his head like a turban.
His bright pink hair spikes out from beneath the terry cloth at odd angles.
His green eyes are half-closed with post-shower/post-masturbation contentment.
And everything below the neck is on full display, including an ass that could be classified as a sight for queer eyes.
“Morning, everyone,” Nathan says cheerfully, completely oblivious to his state of undress. “What’s all the noise about?”
Kyle chooses this exact moment to emerge from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, looking like a man at peace with the world.
That peace lasts approximately 0.3 seconds.
“Jesus Christ, Nathan!” Kyle’s coffee sloshes dangerously as he stumbles backward, his brown eyes going wide with horror.
“Put some pants on! I can see your entire ass!”
Nathan glances down at himself with mild curiosity. “Oh. Yeah, I forgot a towel for the body. Only grabbed one for the hair.”
“How do you forget a towel for your body?!”
“I was distracted! Gerard was squealing about something, and I wanted to know what!”
“So you walked out here naked?!”
“The towel’s on my head!”
I’m typing so fast my fingers are practically smoking. This is gold. No, this is platinum. It’s content like this that keeps my readers coming back week after week, desperate for another hit of Berkeley Shore University’s finest drama.
In related news, I write, the team’s resident pink-haired defenseman has begun his campaign to traumatize his teammates through casual nudity. Sources report that Kyle Graham may require therapy.
Kyle, still averting his eyes from Nathan’s retreating form, shuffles over to the couch. He collapses beside me. “I’m scarred,” he mutters. “Permanently scarred. I’m going to see that ass every time I close my eyes for the rest of my life.”
“There, there,” I say, not looking up from my screen. “You’ve seen it plenty of times in the locker room.”
“But that’s different,” he whines. “I’m meant to see it there.
Not in the comfort of my own home.” He takes a long sip of coffee, seeming to center himself.
Then his eyes drift to my laptop, and I feel a familiar spike of adrenaline—the thrill of almost being caught, the delicious danger of operating in plain sight.
“What are you typing so intently about over there?” he asks, leaning slightly toward my screen.
My fingers move before my brain fully engages, alt-tabbing with the speed and precision of someone who has practiced this exact maneuver hundreds of times. The blog document vanishes, replaced by a Google search page I keep open for exactly this purpose.
“Movie showtimes,” I say smoothly, angling the screen so Kyle can see. “Thinking about catching something this weekend.”
Kyle squints at the screen, clearly not suspicious enough to question it. Why would he be? I’m just Alex.
Quiet, unassuming Alex, who hangs out in the background, who listens more than he talks, who definitely isn’t running the most notorious gossip blog on campus.
“Anything good playing?” Kyle asks, already losing interest.
“A few options. Still deciding.”
Gerard, who has somehow migrated across the room without my noticing, peers upside down at the screen. “Movies?” His eyes light up. “Alex, we should go see the new Zac Efron movie! We Are Your Friends. It came out Friday, and I’ve been dying to see it!”
My heart does a traitorous little flip at the mention of Zac Efron. I have a problem. I’m aware of the problem. The problem involves a specific pair of blue eyes and a jawline that could cut glass, and I’ve made my peace with it.
“That could work,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral despite the internal screaming. “I’ve heard good things.”
“It’s supposed to be about DJs or something,” Gerard continues, practically vibrating with excitement. “But honestly, who cares about the plot? It’s Zac Efron. That man could read the phone book for two hours, and I’d pay full ticket price.”
“Same,” I admit, because some truths are worth sharing.
Gerard beams at me, completely unaware that he just bonded with the person who has been chronicling his ass for the past three years.
The Ice Queen, sitting right in front of him. Hiding in plain sight.
“It’s a date!” Gerard declares, clapping me on the shoulder. “Well, not a date-date, obviously. Elliot would kill me, as would Kyle. But a friend-date! A bro-date! A—”
“Please stop saying ‘date,’” Elliot calls from across the room at the same time that Kyle growls menacingly.
“—a completely platonic outing between two people who appreciate cinematic excellence and also Zac Efron’s abs!”
Jackson snorts and shakes his head. I save my blog document to the cloud, close the laptop, and allow myself a small, private smile.
Three years I’ve been doing this—attending their parties, listening to their conversations, watching their dramas unfold from the best seat in the house. They invite me to movie nights. They include me in group chats. They consider me a friend.
None of them has ever suspected.
The Ice Queen isn’t some mysterious figure lurking in the shadows. She’s not a disgruntled ex, a rival journalist, or any of the theories that have circulated over the years. She’s just Alex Donovan.
And that’s exactly how I like it.
“So,” I say, tucking my laptop into my bag, “what time works for you?”
Gerard launches into an enthusiastic breakdown of his schedule. I listen with half an ear, too busy mentally drafting the rest of my post about Oliver and Ryan’s big night and wondering when it’s going to be my turn to tell my story.
To find my happily ever after.