Page 3 of Icing on the Cake

But for everyone else? It’s a whole different story.

Think of it as an extreme team-building exercise—the freshmen, sophomores, and juniors sharing one full bathroom on the first floor. It’s practically a nightmare during the morning rushor before bed when nobody wants to be up till midnight waiting to brush their teeth.

You learn a lot about your teammates when fighting for mirror space or negotiating time to shower. And God forbid you need the toilet five minutes before a house meeting.

Thankfully, this year will be different. And that’s all thanks to Oliver.

At our first house meeting this semester, Oliver presented us with a bathroom schedule that breaks down each player’s shower time, a designated towel hook, and color-coded towels.

Mine is a lovely shade of periwinkle—I know, very manly.I’d have preferred pink, but apparently, Walmart was out of stock.

The only part of the bathroom schedule that made me blush harder than a nun in a cucumber patch was Oliver’s addition of “private time” slots.

I mean, I get it. We’re dudes; we masturbate. But seeing it officially listed on the schedule, in Oliver’s precise handwriting no less, is almost more than I can take.

I’m scheduled for a 6:30 a.m. shower and a 6:45 a.m. “private time” session. Thankfully, I’m not one of those guys who can only do it standing up. Since we got this schedule, I’ve been jerking off nightly in my bed.

Sure, I go through more socks now than ever before, but it’s a small price to pay than to have the guys know what I’ve been getting up to at a quarter to seven.

Masturbation slots notwithstanding, I have to hand it to Oliver. He’s thought of everything, including a sign-up sheet for “Emergency Poops” because when you gotta go, you gotta go.

The entire system is ingenious, and that’s precisely why the team elected him captain this year. He’s not simply crafty; he’s the type of dude who wants us to live in peace and harmony.

A knock on my doorjamb startles me. I glance over my shoulder, wondering who else could be up at this godawful hour.

It’s Oliver, who is nothing short of a sight for sore eyes. His short black hair is mussed from sleep, and his green eyes have thathalf-lidded drowsiness of someone who doesn’t want to be awake right now.

He’s also shirtless, and I can’t help but notice how ridiculously jacked he’s gotten over the summer. Seriously, his arms are as thick as logs, and his pecs are gigantic fluffy pillows.

My eyes linger longer than they should, and I make a mental note to do more bench presses next time I hit the gym.

“You okay?” He rubs the back of his neck as he crosses the threshold into my room. The motion makes his shoulder muscles ripple, and I force my gaze back to his face.

“Do I look okay?”

Oliver cocks his head to the side, and I can see the moment it clicks for him. His eyes widen just a fraction, then narrow with amusement.

“Dude!” He stifles a laugh. “You look like you’re making love to your mattress.”

I roll over onto my back, letting it all hang out, and flip him the bird. “Jealous?”

He chuckles and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, whatever gets you in the zone for the big game.” He pulls out my desk chair, turns it around, and sits. “What’s going on, G? You’re usually the last to rise, not the first.”

A knot of anxiety twists in my gut as I blurt out, “It’s gone. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“What’s gone?”

“My stick!”

He quirks an eyebrow as his gaze drops to my lap. I roll my eyes, knowing exactly where his mind went.

It’s not something I’m embarrassed about, per se. But it’s also not something I wave around like a flag at a parade. It’s simply another body part, such as my nose or ear, that the good Lord gifted me with.

Again, I know what you’re thinking. “Gerard, stop beating around the bush and tell us what you’re talking about.”

And to that, I say, “Fair enough.” While I love beating around my bush, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable truth.

So…here goes nothing.

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