Page 8 of Icing on the Cake

“They’re not interested in you, Casanova.” I start organizing a stack of returned books. “They have their sights set on bigger prey.”

Jackson pouts. “I thought hockey and football ran in the same circles. Like, shouldn’t we be allied jocks or something?”

“Maybe if this were a bad 80s teen movie.” I glance over at Jackson, who’s still sulking. God, he has such a fragile ego. “Don’t take it personally. Those two are obsessed with Jacoby.”

“Isn’t he…?” Jackson trails off, but I know what he’s getting at.

“Yup. As gay as a musical number inGlee.”

“So why?—”

“Because they’re delusional,” I cut in. “They think he’ll magically switch teams if they throw themselves at him hard enough.”

Jackson shrugs again. He does that often when he has nothing useful to add but still wants to seem agreeable.

I think about telling him how stupid it is for them to pin their hopes on a guy who isn’t even interested in their gender, but then I remember how many times people have tried to give me “helpful” advice about things they don’t understand.

“They’re just wasting their time,” I finish lamely.

Oliver Jacoby holds down the fort as the left winger and team captain. His leadership isn’t as loud or extravagant as the captains before him, but he can still command the team. Partially because of his booming voice, partially because of his beefy body, and partially because of his kind eyes.

And yet, despite his insane build and masculine energy on the ice, it should be pretty apparent that he’s gay.

The way he carries himself off the ice is a dead giveaway—not that most people seem to notice.

Maybe it’s because they’re too blinded by his rugged good looks and the mythos of heterosexuality that surrounds jock culture. Or they’re just as delusional as those girls, refusing to see what’s right in front of them.

I see it because he reminds me of my high school ex. An athlete who every girl wishes was straight.

But who am I kidding? Even if someone like Oliver gave me the time of day, it’s not like anything could happen. I’m nobody special.

“Elliot?” Jackson interrupts my thoughts again. “You’re staring.”

“I was thinking about how Jacoby balances everything,” I lie. “School, practice, and now the captaincy.”

“Yeah, Ollie’s got a lot on his plate,” Jackson says, and I’m momentarily surprised that he calls Oliver by a nickname—as if they’re friends. But then again, Jackson loves the BSU Barracudas as much as the puck bunnies do.

I remember how Jackson nearly burst an eardrum screaming when Kyle Graham, the goalie, did the splits to block the shot that netted our school another Frozen Four win.

It’s his signature move, and no one ever expects it. Watching a beefy, six-foot hockey player stretch his legs wide like a gymnast is something else, especially when he does it with that amount of precision and speed.

The puck ricocheted off his pad and sailed harmlessly into the corner, and the crowd went ballistic.

Hockey players, especially goalies, are surprisingly flexible. With all that muscle, you’d think they’d be stiff as boards, but nope. They’re limber as fuck.

It’s one of those hidden aspects of the sport you don’t appreciate until you see it up close. The agility and balance are almostlike watching a ballet if the ballet includes high-speed collisions and missing teeth.

Kyle’s save played continuously for weeks on every TV in town, including the one in Jackson’s dorm. Every time I visited him, his eyes were glued to the TV, and his mouth hung open in pure, unfiltered fanboy joy.

If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he had a crush on Graham. His ears turned pink when I asked him what he thought of Kyle stretching out like a Cirque du Soleil performer.

“It was an impressive save,” he muttered.

Uh-huh. Sure.

“So, would this be a bad time to tell you I have tickets to tonight’s game and wanted to see if you’d be my plus one?” Jackson crosses his fingers and shuts his eyes.

I want to say no and tell him I have plans, but he and I both know I never have plans.

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