Chapter 19
DREW
Our victory party has reached that perfect level of chaos where someone’s bound to end up naked on the roof of the Hockey House by midnight.
Freshman defensemen are doing their best to impress the upperclassmen and also avoid getting taped to furniture.
Upstairs, a chorus of slurred “Cudas!” erupts, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body or two hitting the floor.
Every surface is sticky with beer and questionable decisions. Someone—probably Nathan—has already started a pyramid of empty cans on the kitchen island, and whenever the front door opens, another burst of subzero air and a flock of randoms floods in.
I’m halfway through a very questionable Jell-O shot when a broad-shouldered presence blocks out the string lights overhead.
“Drew! My man!” Arthur holds a cup filled to the brim with beer. “Sick game tonight. Your boy Jackson was losing his mind in the stands.”
My stomach does that stupid flip thing it’s been doing all week whenever someone says Jackson.
“Dude was ready to fight the ref after that one boarding call. Never seen him that worked up, not even at our own games.” Arthur grins. “Young love, am I right?”
I force a laugh, drain the rest of my shot, and walk away before he can read the truth on my face. I navigate through the chaos of drunk college guys rapping to the Beastie Boys, dodging elbows, and trying to figure out how to tell Jackson about the roller disco competition.
“Drew!” Nathan appears, shirtless, with his arm slung around some sophomore I don’t recognize. “Did you see Gerard?”
“What’s he doing now?”
“Reenacting his wipeout from tonight. With props.”
Jesus Christ. I push through to the dining room where, sure enough, Gerard has pushed the table against the wall and commandeered the floor.
He’s wearing only his boxers and what appears to be a cape made from a BSU flag.
Elliot stands nearby, watching his boyfriend with an expression that sits somewhere between fond exasperation and secondhand embarrassment.
“And then I heard my beautiful Elliot’s voice calling to my very soul!” Gerard announces to his captive audience. “My buttocks responded before my brain could catch up!”
The crowd roars with laughter. Someone hands Gerard another beer, which he raises in a toast. “To the most magnificent booty in college hockey!”
“Modest as always,” I mutter, sliding up next to Elliot.
“He’s had four shots of something the rugby team brought,” Elliot explains. “I’m pretty sure it’s grain alcohol with food coloring.”
“Sounds about right.” I lean against the wall. “So, uh, hypothetically speaking…”
“Oh God, what now?”
“If someone needed to ask their boyfriend to a roller disco competition, how would one go about that?”
Elliot turns to stare at me, his dark eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “You’re joking.”
“It’s for charity,” I offer weakly. “We’re all participating.”
“Drew!” Gerard suddenly bellows. “My dearest friend! Come! Share in the glory of victory!”
“I’m good, G-man,” I call back, but he’s already launching himself off the floor. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as two hundred pounds of drunken Swedish muscle barrel toward me.
“You were magnificent tonight,” Gerard slurs, wrapping me in a bear hug that smells of vodka and bad decisions. “The way you pointed at Jackson was a scene straight out of a movie!”
“Thanks, buddy.” I pat his sweaty bare back awkwardly. “Maybe we should get you some water?”
“Water is for the weak!” Gerard declares. “We are warriors! We are champions! We are—”
“About to puke on Drew’s shoes,” Elliot finishes, expertly steering his boyfriend toward the bathroom. “Come on, Gerard. Time to pay tribute to alcohol poisoning.”
They disappear into the crowd, leaving me alone with my stupid roller disco problem. I pull out my phone, open my contacts, and see Jackson’s name staring back at me. How do I even start this conversation?
“You look constipated.” Kyle pops up beside me with Alex in tow. Our goalie is stone-cold sober despite the party raging around us, while Alex clutches a cup of what’s more than likely Coke.
“Thanks for that visual,” I mutter.
“Seriously, though.” Kyle’s eyes bore into me with uncomfortable intensity. “What’s wrong? You scored twice tonight, and you’re moping like someone killed your dog.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You’re moping,” Alex says softly. For someone so quiet, Coach’s son has a way of cutting right to the heart of things.
Kyle crosses his arms, biceps flexing in a way that would be intimidating if I didn’t know he stress-bakes cookies at 3:00 a.m. “This about Monroe?”
“Drew!” Oliver’s voice cuts through the party noise before I can respond. Our captain emerges from the crowd, still riding the high from tonight’s win. “There you are. Did you tell Jackson about the roller disco yet?”
Kyle clearly wants to interrogate me further, but Alex’s gentle insistence that I be left alone wins out. They disappear, Kyle’s protective hand situated on Alex’s lower back. At least someone’s relationship is real, even if they’re too stubborn to admit it.
“You good?” Oliver asks, studying me with perceptive green eyes.
“Peachy.”
“You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”
I briefly consider telling Oliver everything, but then someone cranks the music louder, and the moment passes.
“I know,” I say instead. “I’m good. Just worn out.”
Oliver claps me on the shoulder. “Alright. But Drew? Whatever’s going on with you and Jackson, be careful, yeah? I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.”
Too late for that, I think, but I nod and watch him wade back into the party.
The living room has devolved into pure chaos. In the corner, two frat guys are making out while their friend films it for social media. And through it all, I can’t stop thinking about Jackson in my jersey, his hand against mine on the glass.
I need to see him. Now.
I pull my BSU hockey hoodie tighter, but it does nothing against the wind that cuts straight through to my bones. Behind me, I can hear Gerard’s voice booming through an open window. The music has shifted to an EDM track, and I pick up my pace before someone notices I’m gone.
My hands are shaking as I shove them in my pockets.
This is stupid. I’m being stupid. Jackson’s probably asleep, or studying, or doing whatever perfect quarterback boyfriends do when they’re not at their fake boyfriend’s afterparty.
But I need to tell him about the roller rink disaster before Will or one of the other doubters gets to him first.
I cut across the quad where ice crunches beneath my sneakers.
The old clock tower chimes once, muffled by the fog rolling in from the ocean.
Somewhere behind Hawkins Hall, a car alarm wails briefly then falls silent, leaving only the hollow whistle of wind through bare elm branches.
A group of drunk freshmen stumble out of The Brew, singing what’s either the national anthem or that cup song from Pitch Perfect.
They don’t even glance my way, too focused on not falling into the bushes.
My stomach keeps doing this weird twisting thing that has nothing to do with the three beers and one Jell-O shot I’ve had. It’s the same sensation I get before a big play, when everything could go perfectly right or spectacularly wrong.
My footsteps echo off the cobblestones, and the wind picks up, carrying the salt smell of the ocean and the faint bass thump from the party I left behind. I stop walking and just stand there in the middle of the empty quad, breath fogging in front of my face.
Roller disco. I have to hold Jackson’s hand. I have to move with him, guide him, let him guide me. I have to look into those warm brown eyes under disco lights while some cheesy song plays, and I have to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Except it means everything.
I start walking again, slower now. The fog has thickened, turning the street lamps into hazy halos. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn sounds, low and mournful.
I’ve been using sex to fill a void, chasing strength and power in other men because I never had it from my father. But Jackson isn’t like that. Jackson doesn’t make me feel like I need to be fixed or completed. He makes me feel like I’m already enough.
And that terrifies me more than any rugby player ever could.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.
The thing about fake dating is that it’s supposed to be simple. Transactional. We play our parts, we fool the masses, we walk away clean. Spring break comes, and life goes back to normal.
But there is no normal anymore. Normal died the moment Jackson pressed his hand against that glass and looked at me like I was the only person in the arena.
I’ve been in love with him for two years. The fake dating thing just let me stop hiding it from myself.
The problem is, I’m running out of ways to hide it from him.
Every touch lingers too long. Every kiss feels too real.
We’re already everything except the one thing I actually want us to be.
Jackson’s dorm rises out of the fog. Lights glow from a few windows, warm and inviting against the cold night. I stop at the entrance, my hand hovering over my phone.
I could turn back. I could text him tomorrow, play it cool, keep the walls up.
But I’m so fucking tired of walls.
I badge into the building with my student ID, grateful that BSU’s security is nonexistent. Someone’s watching The Office on their laptop in the corner, not even noticing me as I head for the stairs.
My legs protest the entire way because getting slammed into the boards repeatedly means my limbs are about to fall off.
The hallway is quieter than I expected—most people are either at the Hockey House or have gone home for the weekend.
A whiteboard on someone’s door announces “brAD IS A DICK” in purple marker.
Another has a drawing of a penis with furry nuts.
Jackson’s door is decorated with a BSU football schedule and a small whiteboard that says “Jackson & Ryan” in Ryan’s pretentiously perfect handwriting. Underneath, someone (probably Jackson) has drawn a smiley face that’s slightly lopsided.
I raise my hand to knock, then freeze. It’s one in the morning. What if he’s asleep? What if Ryan answers? What if—
The door opens before I can decide on my next move. Jackson stands in front of me in BSU football sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt that says “I Survived the BSU Dining Hall.” His hair is messier than usual, and there’s a red mark on his cheek, telling me that he’s been lying on his textbook.
“Drew?” His voice is rough, either from sleep, surprise, or both. “What are you—why aren’t you at the party?”
“I needed to talk to you.” The words come out more desperate than intended.
He steps aside immediately, letting me into the sacred space of his dorm room. Looking around, I notice Ryan’s not here, thank God.
“Is everything okay?” Jackson asks. The concern in his voice makes my chest do that stupid fluttering thing again.
“There’s a thing coming up,” I blurt out. “A charity thing. Roller skating. It’s a competition. Everyone thinks we’re faking it, and I might have told them we’d win with a choreographed routine to ‘Xanadu.’”
Jackson blinks at me. Once. Twice. “You told them what?”
“I know. It’s insane.”
“‘Xanadu’? Isn’t that the Olivia Newton-John song?”
“You know it?”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“My mom loves that movie. She made me watch it every summer when I was a kid.” He sits down on his unmade bed, patting the space next to him.
I comply, hyperaware of how small the bed is.
Our thighs are almost touching. “You really told the entire hockey team we’d have a choreographed routine? ”
“They think you’re too good for me,” I say softly.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it, though?”
“Yes. It’s completely ridiculous.”
My heart is doing something violent in my chest. “So you’ll do it, then?”
“Of course.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “We’ll be so adorable that they’ll beg us to stop. Though I should warn you, the last time I was on roller skates, I was twelve, and I broke my wrist.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I’m just saying, if I take you down with me, it’s not personal.” He pats my knee, and I nearly flinch out of reflex.
“I’ll catch you,” I say.
His eyes darken, and for a heartbeat, his smile falters into something I’ve never seen before. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Ryan’s desktop computer fan clicks with each rotation, a metronome counting the seconds of silence between us. Through the wall, someone’s bass-heavy playlist thumps in time with my heartbeat, the lyrics muffled enough that I can’t make them out.
“I should go,” I say, not moving.
“You could stay,” Jackson offers, then immediately turns red. “I mean, to go over the routine.”
Stay. In Jackson’s room. “Okay,” I hear myself say.
Jackson beams, and something inside me catches fire.