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“No problem.” He flashesme a big smile.

With practiced hands, I put the books back where they belong. Jackson quietly helps.

“You’re always rescuing me.” I focus intently on aligning spines perfectly on the shelf, knowing I’ll break if we make eye contact.

“That’s because I always have your back.”

“Yeah.” I smile faintly. “I know.”

3

GERARD

Running across campus in shorts and slides isn’t one of my brightest ideas. By the time I reach the quad, I’m pretty sure I’ve developed frostbite.

The weather in Berkeley Shore is as unpredictable as the winning lottery numbers. Yesterday, it was hot enough to tan my butt cheeks, but today, I’m afraid my dick will be an icicle by the time I make it to the library.

But that doesn’t mean I’m miserable, far from it. I love this time of year. The trees are all sorts of colors, from red and orange to yellow and shades of brown. The leaves crunch under my feet as I hustle past the old brick buildings that make up most of the campus.

Even the lampposts get into the spirit, with little pumpkin and scarecrow decorations tied around them. It’s cheesy, but in a way that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Well, maybe not warm—I’m still freezing my penis off—but you get the idea.

Bulletin boards plastered with a million different flyers dot the walkway like colorful confetti, and I screech to a halt to scan the more interesting ones.

There’s one for a poetry slam this weekend at The Brew, another for the knitting club, and even one for a weekend trip toBoston to see the aquarium. I linger a bit longer on that last one; I’ve always wanted to see the penguins.

As fun as everything sounds, hockey takes up most of my time. Practices, games, and the occasional team bonding session leave me with a schedule tighter than a new pair of skates.

I think about tearing down the flyer for the poetry slam. Oliver would probably like that kind of thing, and it could be an excuse to hang out with him outside of the Hockey House. Then again, he might think I’m trying to bribe him to get out of bathroom cleaning or something. I leave it up and keep moving.

If Coach finds out that I misplaced my hockey stick, he’ll have my head. Dad will probably have something to say about it, too. He’s the reason I’m here, after all.

An alum of BSU, he made a name for himself as the Barracudas’ star center in the early 90s. Growing up, our house was a shrine to his college days—framed jerseys, team photos, and his collection of hockey sticks taking up every inch of available wall space.

My earliest memories are of him holding my hand as I wobbled around like a newborn giraffe on the frozen lake behind our house. From that moment on, I was hooked.

There’s something about being on the ice—the way it glides beneath you, the sharp bite of cold air in your lungs, the sound of blades carving paths. It makes me feel alive.

A gust of wind cuts through my shorts, and I run faster. The library is so close I can almost feel its warmth seeping into my bones.

It wasn’t a huge surprise when BSU offered me a scholarship. The Gunnarson name still carries weight here, and I know a big part of it is Dad’s legacy. But I’m not naïve; having a famous last name will only get me so far. I need to prove myself on the ice and in the classroom if I want to make him proud—and if I want to make a name for myself.

But lately, I’ve found myself at my wit’s end with two full-time jobs—hockey and school. While the former comes easily for me, the latter one-hundred percent does not.

Calling me studious is as accurate as saying a hockey puck is soft. My sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Henley, bless her soul, spent more time with me than her crossword puzzles, trying to drum the mysteries of fractions into my dumb blond head.

“Remember, Gerard,” she’d say, pointing at the numbers as if they were positions in a play. “The bottom number is your team—it decides how you play.” It made sense when she put it that way.

In English class, I was the student who always struggled to stay on topic. I’d be writing about my summer vacation and somehow end up with three paragraphs about why dogs chase their tails. Or how clouds sort of resemble marshmallows if you squint hard enough.

As the years have passed, I’ve continued to be stumped by the world of education.

Take last semester, for example. Statistics was kicking my butt harder than a mule in a temper tantrum. I was this close to flunking when Oliver sat me down and showed me how to calculate averages using our season stats.

It clicked like a well-oiled gear, and I scraped by with a C-minus.

Now, I do that with all my classes. I find a way to relate them to something I care about—usually hockey—and muddle through as best I can. Sure, it’s more effort than coasting, but nothing worth doing is ever easy.

I round the corner of a building and see students sitting on benches, enjoying their morning coffee and huddling close together to stay warm. The smell of wet leaves and espresso fills the air, and I take a deep breath, savoring it.