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The photographer motions us together. Alex flinches when I put an arm around his shoulder but eventually relaxes into it the way a cat does when it finds a warm spot.

We pose, and I try to look happy while a thousand thoughts ricochet in my skull. The flash blinds me, and I see stars in the shape of hockey sticks.

“Got it,” the photographer says.

I step back, but Alex lingers, looking up at me with those huge, vulnerable eyes of his. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” I reply, though I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to.

We leave the stage, and I head straight for Kyle. He stands and interrupts me before I can speak.

“You’re welcome. Just…be careful with him. If he cracks his skull on the ice?—”

“I know. Youandhis dad will behead me.”

“No. His dad will behead you.Iwill castrate you.”

Yikes.

Infinity Arena sparklesunder fluorescent lights, and the ice gleams like a freshly unwrapped gift. The stands are empty, creating an eerie stillness that contrasts with the usual game-night frenzy.

The winners have changed into skates provided by the team. Most are wobbly-legged and giddy as they take their first steps onto the ice. As per tradition, the players hold hands with their raffle mates. For their safety, or so they say.

I look at Alex. We’re standing outside the players’ bench, him in his delicate white suit and me still in my ridiculous pink tuxedo. I’ve unbuttoned the jacket, and it flares out like a gaudy superhero cape whenever I move. “You sure you’re up for this?” I ask.

Alex bites his lip and nods. “I’m not very good, but…yeah.”

I take his hand. It’s tiny and cold, like a porcelain doll’s. We step onto the ice together, and he immediately slips. I catch him around the waist and straighten him up.

“Easy, tiger,” I chuckle. “Let’s go slow.”

We start to glide—more of a shuffle, really—and I steal glances at Alex’s face. He’s concentrating so hard that his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth.

Holding hands is supposed to be intimate, but this feels like an awkward middle school dance where no one knows what they’re doing or who they should be with. I remember my first time holding Susie’s hand, and this is nothing like that.

We circle the rink slowly as the more skilled fans whizz past uswith their player at breakneck speeds. I notice Kyle glaring daggers at us as he zooms by with a girl from the softball team.

She’s tall and muscular, and they make an imposing duo on the ice. For someone who just castrated me in words, he’s sure putting on a show. The whole scenario is absurd, considering this was Kyle’s doing in the first place.

“Will Elliot be mad?” Alex asks uncertainly. “About you skating with me, I mean.”

I squeeze his hand to reassure him. “Elliot will be fine. He knows it’s for a good cause. Plus, he trusts me.” I pause, seeing the worry still etched on Alex’s face. “He’ll be delighted that you got to skate with me.”

I hope that’ll be enough to ease his mind. The truth is, Elliot will probably tease me for days about the photo op and how cute Alex looks in his white suit.

We attempt another lap, and Alex finally finds a bit of rhythm in his stride. Halfway around, Alex speaks again. “What’s it like? Being famous?”

I laugh out loud at that. “Famous? Dude, we’re college athletes, not rock stars.”

“But still, everyone here knows who you are.”

“It’s weird,” I admit. “Mostly good weird, sometimes bad weird.” I think about the obsessed freshman and the Ice Queen blog posts. “You get used to it, though.”

We finish our second lap slower than we started, both of us lost in our thoughts. And that’s when it hits me. Elliot doesn’t care about my fame. He doesn’t care that I’m a hockey player. He’s in my life because he likes me for me.

Gerard Gunnarson, a boy from Elk Valley, Colorado.

“Alex, I’m going to hand you over to Kyle. There’s something I have to do.”