Page 154 of Icing on the Cake

Tears well in the corners of my eyes, and I blink rapidly to hold them back. “Elliot, you didn’t have to do that. The guys just want you to be happy and feel at home with us.”

His brown eyes glow warmly under the Christmas lights. “I know, Gerard. And that’s exactly why I want to do it. Because the Hockey House…itismy home. You guysaremy family. And getting this ridiculously overpriced tree is my way of showing that. Of saying thank you.”

A single tear runs slowly down my cheek. I don’t wipe it away because I’m too busy kissing the ever-loving crap out of my boyfriend. The love of my life.

ICE QUEEN BLOG POST #9

’Tis the Season to Be Jelly

Hey there, puck bunnies! Ice Queen here, your go-to gal for the coolest takes on all things Barracudas.

It’s that time of year again. When everyone’s all coupled up and cozy, sipping hot cocoa by the fire, and making goo-goo eyes at each other. And here I am, drowning my sorrows in a vat of eggnog and wondering where it all went wrong.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m thrilled for Gerard and Elliot. They’re clearly endgame, and I’ve never seen our hockey hunk this disgustingly happy. But where does that leave little old me? Without my muse, my reason for being, the light of my life, and the fire of my loins?

I know what you’re all thinking. “Ice Queen, you’re being too dramatic. Surely there are other hockey butts out there for you to obsess over.” And you’re right, of course. The Barracudas are a veritable smorgasbord of athletic perfection.

But it’s not just about the physical, my dear friends. Gerard wasspecial. He had that certainje ne sais quoithat made him the perfect subject. How am I supposed to find another man who can inspire me to such heights of literary greatness?

Fret not, though. I may be down, but I’m not out. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, and I promise that come the new year, I’ll be back, better than ever, and writing about someone new.

So, go ahead and make your guesses in the comments. Who do you think will be the next lucky recipient of my undivided attention? Will it be Oliver Jacoby, with his boyish charm and killer pecs? Or maybe Kyle Graham, with his brooding intensity and smoldering gaze? Or could it be a dark horse, someone who’s been flying under the radar but is about to take the hockey world by storm?

Only time will tell, my pretties. But one thing’s for sure—the Ice Queen will rise again, and you’d better be ready when she does. Because I’m coming for you, Barracudas, and this time, I’m playing for keeps.

Merry Chrismukkah and Happy New Year!

Ice Queen skating off!

35

ELLIOT

Drew and Jackson bicker in the kitchen over who should have the honor of baking this year’s Christmas cookies while Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me” blasts at an ear-splitting decibel.

“I called dibs first!” Jackson insists, his puppy-dog eyes wide and imploring. “You know how much I love baking, Drew. It’s like, my thing.”

Drew scoffs, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Oh please, you just want an excuse to eat the cookie dough. I’m the one with actual baking skills here, Jacky. Remember whatyoudid to the pumpkin pie?”

Jackson’s ears turn an adorable shade of pink as he sputters indignantly. “That was a fluke! And your oven was set to Celsius!”

When Gerard and I returned from Colorado, we heard all about the “Great Pumpkin Pie Debacle.”

Apparently, Drew and Jackson hosted an impromptu Thanksgiving feast at the Hockey House for the players who couldn’t make it home for the holiday. It was a noble idea, fueled by a desire to create a sense of family and togetherness, but their execution left much to be desired.

Ever the enthusiastic but culinarily challenged friend, Jacksonvolunteered to tackle the pumpkin pie. He found a recipe online and dove headfirst into baking it with the same enthusiasm he brings to the football field. Little did he know, Oliver cooks in metric units despite being an All-American boy.

As the story goes, Jackson proudly placed his creation in the oven and waited for the magic to happen. Within minutes, smoke filled the kitchen, setting off the smoke alarm and sending the guys into a frenzy.

Alex captured it all on video and showed it to me. Jackson was a deer caught in headlights. He was wearing only a thin white T-shirt and red plaid boxers. His hair was tousled, and his face was full of fear as he stared helplessly at the chaos.

I still have questions. Where were his clothes? Were they stolen? Were they in the wash? And if they were in the wash,whywere they in the wash?

The guys stumbled out into the chilly November air, huddling together on the front lawn as the distant wail of sirens grew louder. Poor Jackson shivered violently, his thin T-shirt and boxers no match for the biting wind.

The fire department arrived in a blaze of flashing lights and blaring horns. Firefighters swarmed the house, firehoses at the ready, searching for the source of the smoke. It was all very dramatic, like something out of a movie. Alex said he expected Jackson to faint into the arms of a hunky firefighter, but alas, he managed to stay upright, even as his lips turned an alarming shade of blue.

In the end, the damage was minimal. The pie had turned into a charred, smoking ruin, but the house was still standing. The firefighters gave the all clear to go back inside, but not before they sternly lectured Jackson about kitchen safety and wearing sensible clothing so he doesn’t get sick.

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