Page 9 of Icing on the Cake

I live and breathe school. If I’m not studying, I’m here working at the library. And if I’m not working, I’m still at the library, getting lost in romance novels and wondering when I’ll fall in love with the man of my dreams.

“I don’t know,” I hedge. “The last time I went to a game with you, you ended up giving me a bloody nose.”

Jackson’s eyes pop open and turn wide with alarm. “That was an accident, Elliot, I swear! I was…too into the game and, you know, had a few too many beers.”

I smirk. “Sure, Jackson. ‘Too into the game.’ That’s one way to put it.” But inside, I’m not as unforgiving as my tone might suggest.

The incident at the hockey gamewasan accident—a chaotic intermingling of excitement, alcohol, and bad luck that ended with my nose bleeding and a trip to the emergency room.

Jackson had been ecstatic. The Barracudas had scored a winning goal, and in his booze-fueled jubilation, he turned too quickly, and his elbow connected squarely with my face.

Despite the pain, I found the situation somewhat humorous.After all, how often do you end up in the ER with your best friend over a celebration gone wrong?

“I promise it won’t happen again.” Jackson clasps his hands together, an earnest expression on his face. “So, what do you say? I’ll even buy you nachos and your favorite overpriced Slurpee.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly pleased with the offer. “Okay, fine. But if you elbow me again…”

Jackson’s smile lights up his face, and he holds up three fingers. “Not gonna happen! Scout’s honor.”

And there you have it. We’re set for tonight’s game.

Despite my reservations, one thing is undeniable: There’s nobody else I’d want to see a BSU hockey game with.

The first time we met, I was sure it would be a disaster. A month into my freshman year at BSU, I had to interview a football player for a journalism assignment. Of all the players on the team, Jackson was the only one willing to sit down with me.

I was a fish out of water searching for Jackson in the locker room, which smelled distinctly of sweaty jockstraps and cheap cologne. All I had to go by was a blurry picture I found on the school website.

“Hey! You must be Elliot.” Jackson’s voice had this melodic lilt that quickly put my nerves at ease. He was sporting an easy grin and wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.

My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage as I approached him. It wasn’t the setting that unnerved me. I was worried I’d make a fool of myself.

Jackson didn’t mind my nervousness, though. Or that I could barely meet his eyes without blushing. He chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, man, we’ll keep it chill. Pretend we’re best buds catching up, yeah?”

It was bizarrely easy talking to Jackson. He had this knack for breaking down walls without you even realizing what he was doing. As we wrapped up, him still in that ridiculous towel and me with pages of surprisingly good notes, he clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“See? Not bad for your first sports interview.” He winked, and somehow, I knew we’d end up friends.

The sound of books crashing to the floor pulls me back to the present. “For fuck’s sake.”

I storm off for the history aisle, where I find a tangled mess of limbs and paperbacks sprawled beneath a now-disheveled bookcase.

“Seriously?” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose as frustration bubbles inside me.It’s always something.

Jackson follows hot on my heels. His smile falters as he surveys the scene. “Guys, come on.” His tone is light but edged with enough authority to make the culprits pause mid-scuffle.

The tallest one, a guy with a mustache reminiscent of a porn star, grins sheepishly at Jackson from the floor. When his eyes land on me, he snickers. “Oh, chill, librarian.”

He stands up and brushes off his shirt, unconcerned that he nearly destroyed library property.

My patience, which has been on thin ice all morning, finally snaps. “Out. Now.”

This ismydomain—books, order, and quiet—and I’ll defend it more fiercely than Kyle Graham defends the goal.

The group doesn’t move until Jackson steps forward. His presence looms large, even without pads and a helmet. His hands find my shoulders in a gesture that steadies my simmering anger. “Yeah, you heard him. Clear out…andapologize.”

One by one, they mumble apologies that sound more amused than sincere as they shuffle past us. Silence resettles over the aisle the second they’re gone, and the tension bleeds away from my shoulders under Jackson’s reassuring grip. He gives them a slight squeeze before letting go.

“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the scattered books. Their titles blur before my eyes—histories of wars and revolutions momentarily trivial after our tiny skirmish.

---