Page 94 of Icing on the Cake

Yet, on the other hand, I pride myself on being a queen of my word. If I say I’ll keep a secret, I aim to stick to that promise. Plus, let’s be honest—there’s something undeniably sexy about a man with an air of mystery surrounding him. It adds to the allure, the intrigue, theje ne sais quoi.

So, my lovelies, I’m turning to you and putting the power inyourhands. Should I spill the beans and reveal the identity of our mystery man? Or should I keep you all deliciously in the dark, allowing your imaginations to run wild with the endless possibilities? After all, BSU may be a small campus, but its student body reaches far and wide.

I can see it now—the heated debates in the comments section and the impassioned pleas from both sides. Some of you will be desperate for knowledge and willing to do almost anything to get a taste of the truth. Others will relish the mystery, the not knowing, and the delicious torture of being kept on pins and needles.

And me? Well, I’ll be watching it all unfold with bated breath. My finger will hover over the “publish” button, ready to unleash the revelation or keep it locked away, depending on the people’s will.

So, what’ll it be? To spill or not to spill, that is the question. The fate of the mystery man’s identity rests in your hands. Choose wisely, and let the games begin!

Until next time.

Ice Queen skating off!

21

GERARD

Showers after a grueling practice are a godsend. The warm water does wonders for my sore muscles, and the steam never fails to unclog my sinuses, which have been clogged from spending all that time in a cold arena.

And it’s not only me who feels this way. All of my teammates enjoy taking their sweet time getting clean. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dean reprimanded us one day for using every ounce of hot water.

I’m in the middle of using a loofah in those hard-to-reach places when Nathan Paisley walks over to me and slaps me on my rear. “Hey, Gunnarson. We were thinking about grabbing a bite at the new pizzeria down the street. You in?”

Does a bear sneeze in the woods?“Heck yeah, I’m in! You know I never say no to food.”

“Sweet. Elliot in, too?”

“Uh…” I stand there in a stupor as I suddenly realize I have no idea what Elliot’s opinion on pizza is. I mean, I hope he loves it as much as I do. But he could absolutely hate it. He hates many things—irresponsible students in the library, messes, people in general. Or he could be lactose intolerant, and the tiniest bit of cheese could have him on the toilet for the rest of the night. “I can ask.”

Some of the guys turn off their shower heads and walk out, but Nathan isn’t one of them. I shoot him a curious look. “Is there more?”

“Yeah, uh…could you maybe ask him now?”

“Now?” I glance down at my body covered in soapsuds. I’m not exactly in the most presentable state, but if time is of the essence…

“Yeah. Since it’s still relatively new, you have to make a reservation. Kinda need a head count for that, right?”

I hand Nathan my loofah, wipe the soap suds off my body, and leave the shower. Taking the first towel that I can find, I wrap it around my waist and head out of the locker room.

The Infinity Arena is a maze of corridors with sterile white tiles with blue accents. It reminds me of something out of a sci-fi movie where we’re training for the Space Olympics or something. I always expect to see a robot Zamboni whirring around the corner.

I feel bad for the janitor who’s going to have to mop up my gigantic wet footprints. I’m basically a walking puddle as I make my way toward the main hall, where Elliot is waiting with his hands stuffed in the pocket of my hoodie.

God, I can’t believe I almost let it slip that I thought he was cute in it.

The trophy case is massive and takes up an entire wall. It’s filled with decades’ worth of awards, from conference championships to national titles. Old, yellowing newspaper clippings and black-and-white photos are mixed in with the shiny hardware. The whole thing is a time capsule—one that my dad and Coach Donovan are lucky to be a part of.

I walk up to it and study the most recent addition—a golden statue of a hockey player with a plaque reading, “First Place—Frozen Four.” That was from last year, and it still makes me smile.

“Impressive, huh?” I say, breaking the silence.

Elliot pushes his glasses up his nose and shrugs. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”

I never know how to interpret his comments. Is he being dismissive? Jealous? Wistful? All of the above? I decide not to analyze them. “The guys want to check out that new pizzeria down the street. Do you want to come, or do you want me to drop you off at the library?”

He turns to face me, and I see him weighing something in his mind—probably wondering if he can tolerate being around a bunch of jocks for another hour or two.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I’ve got a lot of homework to do.”

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