Chapter 16
JACKSON
“Istill don’t understand why you needed new shoes urgently enough to drag me here at nine in the morning,” Ryan says, adjusting his wool coat. Even for a mall trip, he’s dressed as though he’s attending a business meeting—pressed khakis, Oxford shirt, and those perpetual loafers.
“My old ones are falling apart.”
We head toward Foot Locker, passing store windows that reflect my disheveled appearance. I threw on jeans and a BSU hoodie without thinking, and now I’m wondering if I should have put more effort into it. Do fake boyfriends dress better for mall trips?
“Jackson.” Ryan’s voice cuts through my spiral. “I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you.”
The way he says it makes my skin prickle. We duck into Foot Locker, where the walls are lined with sneakers in every color imaginable and hip-hop music thumps from the speakers.
“What’s up?” I pretend to examine a pair of Nikes.
Ryan shifts his stance and fixes me with that analytical stare he gets when he’s about to dissect something…or someone. “I’ve noticed you’ve been quite tense lately. Particularly when you’re with Drew.”
My hand freezes on the shoe. “I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“Jackson.” His tone is patient but firm. “You’re holding that shoe upside down. Is it because you’re dating a man? I know you’ve only been with women before. If Drew is pressuring you into anything you’re not comfortable with—”
“What? No!” The shoe tumbles from my grip and hits the floor with a thud that echoes through the entire store.
Heads swivel in my direction—a teenager with his mom, an employee folding shirts, a couple browsing basketball shoes.
Dropping to one knee, I snatch it up, heat crawling up my neck.
“Ryan, Drew isn’t pressuring me into anything. ”
His eyebrows furrow with concern. “Then why do you look like you’re about to flee every time he touches you lately? I’ve observed multiple instances of physical discomfort. The way you tense slightly when he kisses you, how you shudder after—”
“It’s not about the gay stuff,” I blurt out, then immediately want to crawl under the shoe display and die.
“The gay stuff,” Ryan repeats slowly.
I grab another shoe—Air Jordans this time—and pretend to examine the sole. “I mean, it’s not about…that. The physical part. I’m fine with guys. With Drew. With Drew being a guy. And the things that guys do. Together. As guys.” Someone please put me out of my misery.
“I see.” Ryan’s voice is carefully neutral. “Then what is causing your discomfort?”
The truth sits heavily on my tongue. I’ve been carrying it around all week, this gnawing insecurity that gets worse every time I see Drew with someone who’s his type. Yesterday at The Brew, I watched him chat with a rugby player and wanted to disappear into my coffee.
“Have you seen the guys Drew usually hooks up with?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “They’re all…I don’t know. Buff. Aggressive. The kind of guys who could bench press me without breaking a sweat.”
Ryan’s expression shifts to understanding. “Ah.”
“And then there’s me.” I gesture at myself with the shoe. “Mr. All-American Quarterback. I throw footballs and make safe plays. I’m about as exciting as vanilla ice cream.” It’s not lost on me that I’m spiraling in the middle of a Foot Locker. “The point is, I’m not his type. At all.”
“Have you considered discussing this with Drew?”
I snort. “Right. ‘Hey, Drew, I’ve been extremely insecure lately about not being the kind of guy you’re usually interested in.’ That’ll go over well.”
“Relationships require communication,” Ryan says. “Even complicated ones. How can Drew address your concerns if he’s unaware they exist?”
“It’s not a real—” It hits me that we’re in public and that Ryan doesn’t know the truth. “It’s new. We’re still figuring things out.”
“All the more reason to establish open communication early.” Ryan straightens his already-straightened collar. “Consider this: Drew chose to date you. Out of all his options, he picked you. Perhaps instead of assuming you know his preferences, you should ask him directly.”
The logic is annoyingly sound. And yet, my gut twists into a pretzel at the mere idea of having this conversation with Drew. What if he confirms my fears? What if he laughs? What if he realizes this whole fake dating thing is more trouble than it’s worth?
“You’re spiraling,” Ryan observes. “I can see it on your face.”
“I’m shoe shopping,” I protest weakly.
“Talk to him. Drew may surprise you. From my observations, he’s quite invested in your relationship.”
Something in the way he says invested makes me wonder exactly what he’s observed. But before I can ask, he’s moving toward another display rack.
“Now, shall we find you appropriate footwear? These should work for both athletic and casual wear.” He selects a pair of black-and-white shoes with the efficiency of someone who’s never spent more than ten minutes shopping for anything.
I grab a size ten pair of shoes, plus a pair of running shoes on sale.
The familiar routine of trying on shoes helps settle my nerves.
Ryan’s right. I need to talk to Drew about my insecurities.
If we’re going to keep this charade up until spring break, I need to stop telling myself I’m playing a role I’m not qualified for.
“These work,” I decide after walking a lap around the store in the ones Ryan selected.
“Excellent. Shall we proceed to checkout?”
At the register, the teenage cashier rings up my purchases while I replay Ryan’s words. Drew chose me. Even if it’s fake, even if it’s for show, he picked me to be his pretend boyfriend. That has to mean something.
“Will that be all?” the cashier asks.
“Oh,” Ryan interjects, “we need to swing by Macy’s next.”
“Macy’s?” I nod to the cashier and hand him my credit card. “What do you need at Macy’s?”
“Undergarments,” Ryan says matter-of-factly. “Specifically, white briefs. My current supply is running low. And we’re buying you a pack. I’ve seen you eyeing mine every time I put them on. You liked how they felt, didn’t you?”
The cashier’s eyes widen. Heat floods my face for the second time this morning.
“You couldn’t have said that before we got to the register?” I hiss, realizing too late that I should have denied his assumption, even if it’s a correct one.
“I didn’t think it was relevant to our current transaction.” Ryan adjusts his coat, completely unbothered that he just announced his and my tighty-whitey needs to a stranger. “Macy’s has a sale on its store brand. Three-packs for twelve dollars.”
The cashier hands me my bag, barely suppressing his laughter. I grab it and Ryan’s arm, dragging him toward the exit. “We are never speaking of this again,” I mutter.
“Speaking of what? Our perfectly reasonable need for new undergarments?”
“Ryan.”
“They’re practical and comfortable. I don’t understand the stigma.”
A couple of girls from BSU walk by, and I pray they didn’t hear any of that. The last thing I need is the Ice Queen getting wind of our underwear preferences.
“Fine,” I sigh as we head toward Macy’s. “But you’re buying them yourself. I’m not standing there while you debate thread counts or whatever.”
“Thread count is for sheets, Jackson. For briefs, one considers the cotton blend and elastic quality.”
I’m going to need therapy after this shopping trip, aren’t I?
“Jackson? Macy’s is this way,” Ryan says.
I course-correct, narrowly avoiding a collision with a potted plant, and grimace. Underwear shopping with my best friend. Just another perfectly normal Saturday in my increasingly complicated life.
I never expected to walk into the Hockey House and hear the unmistakable sounds of Drew jerking off. However, I shouldn’t be surprised that he does it. All guys do. Hell, I did it this morning while Ryan was taking a shower. But knowing and hearing are two different things.
I don’t know what to do. Should I turn around? Should I knock and interrupt? We’re “boyfriends”; we’re bound to see each other naked at some point, right?
“Oh, fuck—yeah, just like that,” Drew groans from behind his partially open door, and fuck, my dick immediately takes interest.
“Jackson!” Gerard’s booming voice makes me jump about three feet in the air. “You know, you’re the fifth person today to walk in on Drew having some alone time. I’m starting to think he’s doing it on purpose.”
I spin around to find Gerard standing before me in all his naked glory. A towel is casually draped over one shoulder, and his hand is on his cocked hip like he’s posing for a Renaissance painting. Except, Renaissance painters probably never had to capture…that.
Gerard’s dick hangs halfway down his legs, resting against a ginormous pair of balls. I’ve seen plenty of guys naked in locker rooms, but this is something else entirely.
“I—uh—I was just—” My voice cracks, and I force my eyes up to Gerard’s face. Big mistake. He’s grinning at me with that sunshine smile that makes everyone fall a little bit in love with him.
“No judgment here, buddy! A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” Gerard heads down the hall, and that’s when I get a full visual assault of the famous Gunnarson ass. Each cheek moves independently as he walks, and I now understand why the Ice Queen dedicated an entire post to it.
“Stop perving on my boyfriend, Monroe.”
My pulse spikes as Elliot appears without warning at my shoulder. He’s wearing one of Gerard’s oversized hockey jerseys and nothing else.
“I wasn’t—I mean—he was there and—” I’m stuttering uncontrollably, my face burning hotter than the surface of the sun.
“Relax, I’m kidding. Mostly.” Elliot’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Though I have to say, if you’re going to eye-fuck someone, shouldn’t it be your own boyfriend?”