Page 92 of Icing on the Cake

“I know, I know.” I wave off his concerns. “But I couldn’t very well sleep in there with it looking like a frat house after a kegger, now could I?”

The memory of tidying up Gerard’s room plays through my mind like a montage in a movie. Me, gathering up all the dirty clothes before sorting them into piles. Me, wiping down every surface with disinfectant wipes until they gleamed. Me, organizing his desk and finding a stack of adorably terrible poems he’d written about hockey hidden beneath a pile of statistics homework. Gerard, watching me work while chowing down on a cheeseburger…times seven.

Being in his space was weirdly intimate, especially when I discovered what he does with old socks. That was where I drew the line.

As I dug through the piles of clothes on Gerard’s bedroom floor, a colorful lump caught my eye. I picked it up gingerly between my thumb and forefinger, only to recoil inhorror when I realized what it was—a sock, crusty and stiff with some suspect white substance.

“Gerard!” I exclaimed, holding the offending article at arm’s length. “What the hell is this?”

Gerard glanced over from where he was lounging on the bed, cheeseburger number five in hand. When he saw what I was holding, his cheeks flushed an adorable shade of pink.

“Oh, um, I can explain…” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

I raised an eyebrow. “Please do. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like evidence of your private playtime sessions.”

If possible, Gerard turned even redder. “Look, I’m a guy, okay? We have needs. It’s perfectly natural!”

“Uh-huh. And I suppose using a sock as a personal spank bank is also ‘perfectly natural’?”

“Hey, it’s convenient! And it keeps things…contained.” He gestured vaguely at his crotch with his burger.

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “Contained? Gerard, this thing is practically a biohazard. When was the last time you washed it? Or do I even want to know?”

Gerard had the decency to look ashamed. “I, uh…I can’t remember.”

“Of course, you can’t.” I sighed heavily and tossed the sock in the hamper with a shudder. “Look, I get it. You’re a strapping young man with a healthy libido. Choking the chicken is par for the course.”

“Wow, how many euphemisms for jerking off do you know?” Gerard asked, equal parts impressed and mortified.

“More than you, apparently.” I fixed him with a stern look. “The point is, while I figured you engage in the five-finger shuffle from time to time, I don’t need to see the aftermath. Especially not when it’s encrusted on your socks like some kind of raunchy barnacle.”

Gerard held up his hands in surrender, nearly dropping his burger in the process. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll be more discreetwith my ‘personal time.’ And I’ll do my own laundry from now on.”

“Damn right, you will.” I turned back to the pile of clothes with a huff. “I may be living with you, but I draw the line at handling your crusty cum socks. That’s a bridge too far, even for me.”

Gerard chuckled as he finished off the last bit of his cheeseburger. “Understood. I promise, from now on, my masturbation habits will be as invisible as the Invisible Man’s jockstrap.”

“So, now it’s all clean and organized?” Alex asks, pulling me from the memory of Gerard and his masturbation habits.

I nod, a satisfied smile on my face. “Yep. You could eat off those floors, although I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Alex opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a booming voice echoes through the arena. “Alright, boys, let’s get started!”

I turn my attention to the ice, where Coach Donovan stands with the team. They’re fully dressed in their practice gear and taking their positions on the ice.

While they practice some drills, I take stock of Coach Donovan. He’s an imposing figure, tall and solidly built, with fiery red hair that matches the intensity of his coaching style. He barks out orders and corrections, and I’m impressed at how his voice carries effortlessly across the rink.

I glance over at Alex and realize that the resemblance between father and son is uncanny. They have the same high cheekbones, the same flaming hair, and even the same ears.

“You know, I’m kind of surprised you don’t live in the Hockey House with the rest of the team,” I remark. “Especially since your dad is the coach. I would’ve thought you’d want to be in the thick of it all.”

Alex’s smile falters slightly, and he glances down at his laptop open to Microsoft Word. “I did want to. I begged my dad to let me move in this year. I thought it would be so much fun gettingto hang out with the guys all the time and being a part of that brotherhood. Being with Kyle…”

He trails off, and I frown, sensing there’s more to the story. “But he said no?”

Alex nods solemnly. “He insists that I live with him in the faculty building. Says it’s ‘for my own good.’ That I need to focus on my studies and not get caught up in ‘hockey shenanigans,’ whatever that means.”

“Hockey shenanigans?”

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