Page 89 of Icing on the Cake

When we get to the storage unit, I’m grateful that Gerard doesn’t comment on the fact that all my clothes fit into only a few duffel bags. It’s embarrassing enough as it is.

We store everything in the trunk, and before I know it, we’re back at the Hockey House.

Gerard helps me carry my bags up the driveway, which is stuffed with more cars than a fucking car lot. As we step through the front door, I’m hit with déjà vu. That is until I see the welcoming committee in the living room.

The BSU hockey team is spread out over the living room, their expressions ranging from mildly annoyed to disgruntled. A few of them perk up when they see Gerard, but their faces fall when they notice me trailing behind him like a lost puppy.

I can practically hear their collective internal groan of displeasure. My moving in probably wasn’t a request as much as it was a royal decree handed down by their fearless star player.I wouldn’t be surprised if they started kissing his purple-socked feet.

They’re peeved, and I don’t blame them. I’m the antithesis of everything they stand for. In my world, the gentle rustle of book pages and the occasional clack of a keyboard is considered soothing. I thrive in the realm of ideas and exploring the depths of literature. Of savoring the nuanced beauty of a well-crafted sentence and enjoying the classics.

Hockey players, on the other hand, thrive in a universe of chaos and testosterone. They’re wired to love adrenaline rushesand eat every food known to mankind, regardless of if it’s questionable.

And now, I’m going to be the newest member of the Hockey House, all because a blond golden retriever man-child followed me “home.”

As I walk further into the living room, I recognize the overwhelming scent of Axe body spray before I realize how crazy it is that the entire hockey team can fit in this room. They’re all wearing hoodies and sweatpants. A few are barefoot, but most have socks or Ugg slippers on.

I’m oddly grateful that no one is naked or in their underwear, but I’m sure I’ll be subjected to that particular brand of torture soon enough.

“I want to thank everyone for getting here on such short notice,” Gerard says, stepping up beside me, completely oblivious to the tension brewing in the room. “I know we have practice soon, so I’ll make this quick. You all remember Elliot, right? I introduced you to him a couple of weeks ago.”

A burly guy with a neck thicker than my thigh grunts in acknowledgment. He’s sitting on the couch, his massive frame taking up two cushions. His dark hair is buzzed short, and his nose appears to have been broken one too many times. He eyes me with suspicion, trying to determine whether I’m a threat or an annoyance.

I think back to the hundreds of jerseys I’ve seen around campus, and if memory serves, his name is Taylor Colson.

Next to him is a skinny redhead—Will Dixon, I believe—with a spattering of freckles across his cheeks. He’s slumped low enough in his seat that he’s practically horizontal. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, and he gives me a halfhearted wave before returning his attention to his phone.

Perched on the arm of the couch is a blond with a chiseled jawline that could cut glass. He’s the only one who’s genuinely happy to see me. He hops to his feet and bounds over with his hand outstretched.

“Welcome to the madhouse, Elliot!” He pumps my hand enthusiastically. “I’m Jordan Chase, but everyone calls me Jordan.”

I wince as he crushes my fingers. I’m also afraid that he’s going to rip my arm out of its socket.

“Nice to meet you,” I mumble, trying to extricate my hand from his vise-like grip.

The rest of the team remains where they are, making no move to greet me the way Jordan did. They all have the same beefy, muscular builds as Gerard, with broad shoulders and thick, powerful legs. I’ve stumbled into a meeting of the Incredible Hulk fan club.

A large hand shoots up into the air, and Gerard says his name—Mason. “Who is he going to room with? We’re all doubled up already.”

“Some of us tripled,” another guy scoffs.

“He’ll be rooming with me,” Gerard says, and I swear I hear a hint of excitement in his voice. “And before you ask, he’ll be sharing my bathroom slot and doing chores, same as the rest of us.”

The players exchange glances. Some shrug, while others are still unconvinced.

“I dunno, man,” a Hispanic guy named Francisco Ruiz says as he runs a hand through his shaggy black hair. “No offense to Elliot, but we don’t know him. What if he’s a total slob or something?”

I open my mouth to assure them I’m probably the neatest person they’ll ever meet, but Gerard is faster.

“Guys, come on.” His voice takes on a firm edge. “Elliot is my friend, and I’m vouching for him. He’s a good guy, and he needs a place to stay. I have the biggest bed because I’m the biggest guy here. It makes sense for him to move in with me—I mean, us. I know this is unexpected, but I’m asking you to trust me and do me a solid. Okay?”

Slowly, the players nod, and their expressions shift as they look at me anew.

“Okay, G.” Nathan Paisley steps forward to clap Gerard on the back. His hair is still as pink as the last time I saw him. “I know he’s a good egg.”

I smile gratefully at him before Gerard steers me out of the living room and up the staircase to the third floor and my new home.

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