Page 22 of Icing on the Cake

As I hurry towards the Hockey House, seeking refuge from the relentless ogling, fragments of hushed conversations reach my ears.

“...Ice Queen’s latest post...”

“...all about Gunnarson’s butt...”

“...I can’t believe how big it is...”

Ice Queen? A post about my butt? What the heck is going on?

My cheeks burn with embarrassment and confusion as I pick up the pace, practically speed-running across the quad.

I need answers, and I need them now. But first, I need to find a mirror and check out this apparently newsworthy butt of mine. If it’s causing this much of a stir, it must be even more spectacular than I thought.

I scan my surroundings, and The Brew catches my eye. At this hour, it should be pretty deserted since most students—well, the ones who aren’t out here salivating over my rear—are in class.

Yanking the door open, I slip inside. The aroma of coffee beans and warm spices wraps around me in a comforting hug. I don’t get the opportunity to appreciate it, though, because the place isn’t as dead as I’d hoped it would be.

The sight that greets me is something straight out of a cartoon. Every single person in The Brew is frozen in place. Muffins are suspended halfway to mouths, mugs paused at lips, all eyes fixed on me with a mix of curiosity, amusement, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.

I give them a polite smile—the kind you’d offer an elderly neighbor who just told you she’s taken up pole dancing—and beeline for the restrooms in the back.

This day keeps getting stranger, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

This level of attention on my butt is ridiculous. Did I wake up in some alternate universe where buttocks have replaced faces as the primary focus of human interaction?

I walk up to the mirror above the sink, turn around, and crane my neck to get a look at my reflection. My butt looks the same as it always does: big, round, and muscular. The tight athletic shorts I’m wearing leave little to the imagination, but there’s nothing obscene about them.

No stains, no rips, no rogue toilet paper trailing behind me.

I head to a stall for some privacy, pull out my phone, and open my social media accounts. Maybe there’s some clue there.

A notification pops up—ten new friend requests. All girls, all from BSU. That’s typical for me.

I scroll through my feed and find what I’m looking for. One of the girls from the fountain posted a status a few minutes ago:

Just saw Gerard Gunnarson’s butt IRL! Even more epic than in the pics! #HockeyButt #GunnarsonGlutes

Pics? What pics?

A gentle voice sounds from the stall next to mine when I thump my head on the stall door. “Hey, are you okay in there?”

I freeze.Fiddlesticks.How did I not check to make sure I was alone first? Some guy probably heard me groaning like a crazy person.Great, just great.

I debate whether to respond. Maybe if I stay completely silent, he’ll think he imagined the noise and leave me alone. But I’m desperate for answers, and unless this guy has been living under a rock, he might know what the heck is going on. I figure I have nothing to lose at this point.

“Uh, not really.” My voice echoes slightly, and I talk softer. “This is going to sound weird, but have you noticed anything…different happening on campus today?”

There’s a pause, and for a second, I think the guy left without me noticing. But then he speaks again, realization dawning in his tone. “Wait a minute. You’re Gerard, aren’t you? The hockey player?”

I blink in surprise. “Yeah, that’s me. Do I know you?”

“No, but I know of you. Everyone does after that blog post.”

“Blog post? What blog post?” My brows knit together in confusion.

“You haven’t seen it? The one by the Ice Queen? It’s all anyone’s talking about on campus this morning.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, dude. Can you fill me in?”

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