Page 11 of Icing on the Cake

Puck bunnies from my sociology class spot me and giggle. One beckons me over, but I don’t stop to flirt. Instead, I flash a smile and keep on running.

My teammates would slap me across the face for not givingthem the time of day. They’re beautiful with long hair and breasts you could get lost between, but I don’t want to lead them on. Other guys might be fine with hump-and-dumps, but not me. I want my first time to be with someone special. Someone I care about for what’s on the inside, not the outside.

Sappy? Maybe.

As I pound the pavement, a pair of solid-looking dudes cross my path, nearly making me stumble. I recognize them immediately—they’re from the BSU rugby team. These guys are built like brick houses, with shoulders as wide as doorways and hands that could crush coconuts.

“Whoa, there!” the taller one says, steadying me with a meaty paw. “Where’s the fire, Gunnarson?”

I catch my breath, feeling like a puny mortal in the presence of demigods. “Just trying to get to the library before my toes fall off.” I bounce on the balls of my feet to keep warm.

The shorter one, who’s still a good six inches taller than me, chuckles. “Aren’t you hockey guys supposed to be used to the cold?”

“Normally, yeah.” I grin sheepishly. “But I’m not wearing a hundred layers.”

Their eyes travel the length of my body, and for some odd reason, it feels nice. They’re not checking me out the way puck bunnies do. They’re appreciating what I bring to the physique table.

“I can’t find my hockey stick.” I continue. “I think I may have left it at the library.”

Their eyebrows shoot up in unison.

“Dude, that sucks.” The tall one shakes his head sympathetically. “I’d be lost without my rugby ball.”

“Totally,” his buddy agrees. “It’s like a part of you, you know?”

I nod, feeling a surge of brotherhood. These guys get it. They understand the bond between an athlete and their gear.

“Well, good luck finding it, man,” the tall one says, holding his fist out for a bump. “I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

I stare at his outstretched fist, marveling at its size. If my fists are considered big, his are downright colossal. Each knuckle is like a small boulder with the skin stretched taut over solid muscle and bone.

The shorter guy goes in for a high-five, and I brace myself for impact. His palm collides with mine, and the force of the impact reverberates up my arm and into my shoulder. I wince, trying to play it off as a grin, but holy snickers, that stung!

“Thanks, guys,” I say, feeling a renewed sense of determination. “I appreciate the support.”

As they walk away, I flex my hand to check that all my fingers are still attached. It’s no secret that hockey players are built differently—we’re tall, broad, and packed with muscle. But these rugby guys? They’re in a league of their own.

I’ve seen them in action on the rugby pitch, barreling through opponents like a herd of rampaging bulls. It’s a wonder anyone survives those matches without being flattened like a pancake.

In a way, I envy them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my hockey team. They’re my family, my brothers-in-arms. But there’s something about the rugby guys that just seems…different. Like they’ve tapped into some primal force of nature that the rest of us can only dream of.

I chuckle to myself as I continue my trek to the library. Look at me waxing poetic about a bunch of dudes in short shorts. If the guys could hear my thoughts, they’d never let me live it down.

But I can’t help it. There’s just something about being in the presence of raw, unbridled strength that gets the blood pumping. It’s like standing at the foot of a mountain and feeling utterly dwarfed by its majesty.

As I walk, I rub my still-stinging palm against my thigh to try and erase the tingling sensation.Note to self: never challenge a rugby player to a high-five contest. You will lose, and you will regret it.

Breadcrumbs crunch under my feet, and I glance down in confusion. “What in the world?”

Suddenly, it hits me. Last night, an email blast went out to the entire student body stating that we can feed breadcrumbs to the pigeons. I think some people went overboard, though.

My feet crush the breadcrumbs into nothing more than dust, and the pigeons take notice. They turn their beady little eyes on me, and the next thing I know, they’re soaring high into the air, wings flapping like a thousand wet towels, before aiming straight for my devastatingly handsome face.

I shriek like a girl. “Gah! Shoo! Get away from me, you flying rats!”

As if on cue, their attack intensifies. Beaks and claws swipe at my hair, my ears, my nose. I throw up my hands to fend them off, but they’re too quick. Too determined.

“Come on! I didn’t mean to—” A sharp pain lances through my scalp as one of them yanks on a tuft of my hair. “—trample your stupid bread!”

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