Page 19 of Icing on the Cake

“Yes, Jackson.” I roll my eyes, which is something I seem to be doing a lot of today. “And no, we didn’t talk about you—wait. Actually, we did.”

“What?!” Jackson squeals, shooting to his feet and eliciting curious stares from the other gym rats, who are a specific breed of student.

They wear cut-off tanks and compression shorts, and their skin is perpetually sheened with sweat. Veins pop like overfilled water balloons, and their necks have all but disappeared into their traps. They communicate in grunts and the occasional bro-speak, a language Jackson has become fluent in.

I, on the other hand, am completely out of my element here. My wiry frame and bird-like limbs make me look like a stick figure someone’s plopped into a Renaissance painting. I’m dressed in my usual workout attire: an oversized BSU sweatshirt and track pants that do nothing to hide my lack of muscle.

Jackson knows better than to ask me to lift with him. The one time I tried, I couldn’t manage more than a five-pound dumbbell without my arms giving out like wet noodles. Instead, I usuallyjust watch him work out and read whatever book I’ve got on hand.

Today, it’sThe Picture of Dorian Gray. I’m halfway through the chapter where Dorian starts his downward spiral when Jackson interrupts with more of his squealing.

“Calm down,” I hiss, stuffing the book into my tote bag. “All he said was that he’s been to a few of your games and knows that you have a killer arm.”

Jackson’s eyes glaze over as if he’s replaying every moment he’s spent on the football field, searching for the exact times Gerard might have been there. “He talked about my killer arm?”

“Yep. Congratulations. You’re famous.”

Jackson flops back onto the bench with a dopey grin plastered on his face. “Wait. Why was Gerard talking to you anyway?”

I ignore the way that it sounds like Gerard wouldn’t be caught dead talking to me without a reason because that couldn’t be farther from the truth. “He lost his hockey stick and came to the library looking for it.”

“And you helped him find it,” Jackson states as if it’s an undeniable fact of nature, such as gravity or the anabolic window.

“I had nothing better to do.”

“Sure.” Jackson starts loading plates onto the barbell, far more than any human should be able to lift without mechanical assistance. “We’re still on for the game tonight, right?”

I hesitate. “Maybe.”

“Elliot.” Jackson gives me a stern look. One that’s comically serious, considering it’s coming from someone who usually radiates goofiness. “You said you would. I know you love watching them play, even if you never admit it.”

He’s right, of course. Watching hockey is one of the few concessions I’ve made to jock culture. But what Jackson doesn’t know is that I love watching it because there’s something erotic about the speed and violence of the sport.

Seeing beefy college guys get slammed into the boards, pulloff their helmets after the game, and have blood and sweat dripping down their faces does something to me.

Sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I imagine myself in the thick of it. Not as a player—because who are we kidding? I’d last all of two seconds on the ice—but as some kind of perverse athletic trainer.

I’d have my little first aid kit filled with gauze and antiseptic, dabbing at split lips and swollen eyes. My hands would linger longer than necessary, feeling the heat of their exertion radiate through their skin.

In my fantasy, they’re grateful for my attention, but it’s not enough to be healed. They need an outlet for their pent-up aggression, and I’m all too willing to oblige.

One by one, they’d take turns roughing me up in the locker room—throwing me against the lockers, delivering body checks that rattle my bones. I’d go home every night with a new constellation of bruises, each one a souvenir from a different player.

I know it’s twisted, but the pain would make me feelalive.

But now that I’ve met one of the Fearless Foursome, that changes things.

“Earth to Elliot.” Jackson waves a hand in front of my face. “You totally zoned out. Were you thinking about Gerard?”

“No,” I lie. “I was thinking about whether I have time to finish my statistics homework before the game.”

Jackson shrugs. “You’re a nerd. You’ll get it done in like ten minutes.”

Again, he’s right. Most of my coursework is laughably easy at this point, which leaves me with an abundance of free time that I usually spend reading or brooding—or, as of today, fantasizing about Gerard Gunnarson’s ass.

“You know what? Fine.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off the second migraine of the day. “I’ll go to the game.”

“Yes!” Jackson pumps a fist in the air. “It’ll be awesome to see Gerard in action after you guys bonded.”

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