Page 7 of Icing on the Cake

The current team is considered nothing short of legendary. They’ve taken home the Frozen Four championship two years running, and everyone expects them to three-peat. What makes this season even more remarkable is who’s playing on the first line: Gerard Gunnarson, Oliver Jacoby, Drew Larney, and Kyle Graham.

The Fearless Foursome.

Of the four of them, Gerard Gunnarson is the most popular. Almost every student in here right now is rocking his jersey. His nickname is Gunnarson the Great, and he certainly lives up to it.

Gerard’s a right winger; with his size and strength, he’s a powerhouse on the ice. I’ve been to a few games with Jackson, and I’m always left gobsmacked at how Gerard can bulldoze through the other team’s defensemen like they’re made of sticks.

He’s not only brawn, though; his puck control and ability to read the game make him deadly in offensive plays.

Then there’s Drew Larney, playing center. He’s the strategist and a real playmaker. His ability to predict where players will be before they know it themselves makes him indispensable. He sets up plays that most of us can barely follow with our eyes.

The one thing about Drew that everyone knows is that he’s a total sleaze. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen him sneaking out of random janitors’ closets in different buildings on campus, followed by girls—and sometimes guys—who look thoroughly fucked.

I don’t get the appeal. Sure, he’s conventionally attractive with his chiseled jawline and perpetual bedhead, but who in their right mind would want to be just another notch in someone’s belt?

“Earth to Elliot.” Jackson waves a hand in front of my face. “You spacing out on me?”

“I just don’t understand how one person can sleep with halfthe campus and still have time to practice,” I say, more to myself than to Jackson.

“Who are we talking about now?”

“Larney. I swear that dude has an actual harem.”

Jackson shrugs. “Some people are just super efficient with their time.”

I glare at him. “You’re not defending him, are you?”

“Different strokes for different folks. Not everyone wants the same thing.”

“Yeah, well, some of us want more than a quickie in a broom closet.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t press further because two girls in skintight leggings and crop tops approach the circulation desk with a stack of books.

I recognize them immediately as two of Oliver Jacoby’s puck bunnies. Their type is easy to spot: doe-eyed, gossipy, and dressed to kill.

I swipe the first girl’s student ID and note the barcode on the top book. “Chemistry for Non-Majors. Sounds riveting.”

Jackson hops down from the desk, and I can practically see his tail wagging. “Hey, ladies.”

Unfortunately for him, they’re too absorbed in their hushed conversation to even give him a cursory glance.

“Do you think he’ll notice me if I wear his jersey?” says the first girl.

The second girl scoffs. “He’ll notice me more if I paint his number on my cheek.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Jackson leans over the desk, trying to insert himself into their line of sight. “You guys talking about the game tonight?”

The girls pause, blink at Jackson like confused kittens, then return to their chirping.

“Oliver is just so dreamy,” says the first girl with a sigh that could power awind farm.

“Yeah, I can’t wait until he scores and points up at us,” says the second.

I finish scanning the last of their books and slide them across the desk. “Due back in two weeks.”

The girls take their haul and strut off, still babbling about Oliver like he’s the second coming of Wayne Gretzky.

Jackson scratches his head, genuinely baffled. “What was that? Did I lose my touch or something?”

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