Chapter 22
JACKSON
Spinfinity Roller Rink is a migraine waiting to happen.
The air is thick with the conflicting scents of nacho cheese and disinfectant.
“Don’t Stop Believin’” blasts through speakers that haven’t been upgraded in years, and a giant disco ball spins above the rink, throwing fractured light across every surface.
At the center of it all, with a comet tail of raw charisma, is Drew Larney.
He’s wearing those purple spandex pants we bought earlier in the week.
His top half is hidden beneath a BSU sweatshirt.
His hair reminds me of late-afternoon honey, perfectly wind-tossed as he drops into a backward crossover that, if you didn’t know better, you’d think was CGI.
Every pair of eyes in the joint is on him, and not solely because of the skintight pants situation. The guy was born for this. Skating on a rink, being the center of attention. He spots me watching, grins, and throws a peace sign in my direction.
I’m wearing the same outfit as him, but on me, it’s less of a fashion statement and more of a cry for help.
My thighs, while perfectly serviceable for the occasional deadlift, are twigs compared to Drew’s.
My ass simply exists, whereas Drew’s is the kind of gravity-defying, shelf-stable work of art that inspires poets.
I shouldn’t be here, and yet I am. For reasons that are 90 percent Drew Larney’s ass, 7 percent the new $500 grand prize, and 3 percent a complicated mixture of peer pressure and the inability to say no.
Drew skates over to me, brakes hard, and grabs my hand before I can even pretend to consider leaving. His fingers weave through mine, thick and warm. “Ready to show these idiots what we’re made of?”
“Tight spandex and poor decisions?” My voice cracks only slightly.
He laughs, squeezing my hand, and I try not to think about how, in a matter of minutes, we’re going to be putting on the performance of a lifetime.
“Holy shit!” Drew drops my hand and points with the solemnity of a man witnessing a natural disaster. I follow his finger, and that’s when I see it—the stuff of legend, myth, and several non-negligible campus thirst traps.
Gerard Gunnarson glides onto the rink in a hot pink spandex one-piece that’s sure to play a part in every guy’s masturbatory fantasies at least once, no matter how much they deny it.
CHIC’s “Le Freak” thunders through the speakers, and Gerard responds by throwing his arms wide to welcome the disco era back from the dead.
At six-foot-five, he’s impossible to miss.
At six-foot-five in hot pink spandex that clings to every single inch of his frame, he’s impossible to look away from.
“How,” Drew breathes beside me, his voice somewhere between awe and genuine confusion, “did he stuff himself into that thing?”
It’s a valid question. The spandex leaves nothing to the imagination. Gerard’s legendary ass is on full display, each cheek moving independently as he picks up speed. His thighs are the size of tree trunks, rippling with every push of his skates. And then there’s the front situation, which is…
I force my eyes up to the ceiling.
“We struggled for twenty minutes with ours,” Drew continues, still staring at Gerard. “And we don’t have the body mass. Or the ass mass. Or the…” He gestures vaguely at Gerard’s crotch region. “Mass.”
Gerard hits a spin, and the crowd loses its collective mind. Phones appear from every direction, their screens glowing like fireflies as people scramble to capture this moment for posterity. A group of sorority girls in the front row screams.
“Freak out!” Gerard shouts along with the song, pointing at the audience with both hands before dropping into a split that makes my groin ache in sympathy.
The hot pink fabric stretches but somehow holds. I’m convinced Gerard made some kind of deal with a textile demon.
“He’s beautiful,” Drew says, and there’s something in his voice that catches my attention.
I turn to look at him, and his expression is complicated—admiration mixed with something softer, more vulnerable.
“Sometimes I’m jealous, you know? Not just the body, but the way he”—Gerard does a series of twerks that would get anyone else arrested—“exists. Without shame. Without giving a single fuck what anyone thinks.”
Gerard catches Elliot’s eye in the crowd and blows him an exaggerated kiss. Elliot covers his face with his hands, but even from here, I can see he’s laughing.
“He’s literally humping the air right now,” I point out as Gerard does exactly that, his massive bulge creating a hypnotic swing beneath the pink fabric.
“And he looks amazing doing it!” Drew throws his hands up. “That’s my point! If I tried that, people would think I was having a medical emergency. Gerard does it, and it’s art.”
The routine continues, each move more outrageous than the last. Gerard executes a perfect cartwheel that sends his blond hair flying, then transitions into a shimmy that makes his pecs bounce in ways I didn’t know pecs could bounce.
The disco ball catches the pink spandex, and he sparkles, blinding us all.
Gerard finishes his routine with a dramatic pose—one hand on his hip, the other pointed at the ceiling, his ass thrust out at an angle. The crowd erupts. People are on their feet, screaming, throwing whatever they can find onto the rink. Someone’s jockstrap lands near Gerard’s skates.
He picks it up, examines it with genuine interest, then skates over to return it to its owner with a bow that would make a Disney prince jealous.
“We’re going to lose,” I say flatly.
Drew grabs my shoulders, his hazel eyes intense. “No. We’re not going to lose. We’re going to go out there and show everyone that we don’t need to be Gerard Gunnarson to be worth watching.” He pauses. “Though it wouldn’t hurt if you could do a split.”
“I absolutely cannot do a split.”
“Then we’ll improvise.” His grip tightens, and something shifts in his expression—that vulnerability from before hardening into determination. “Besides, Gerard has Elliot in the audience. I have you. And that’s worth more than any hot pink spandex one-piece in the world.”
My heart does a jig. “That was actually pretty romantic for you.”
“I have my moments.” He grins, and I momentarily forget about the competition, the Ice Queen, all of it. There’s just Drew, staring at me as though I’m the only person in this tacky, nacho-scented roller rink.
A spotlight hits the DJ’s booth, and a deep voice booms through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and everyone skating through life! Welcome to Spinfinity’s Roller Disco Competition!”
The crowd erupts with hoots and hollers. I spot hand-painted signs bobbing above heads. Gunnarson’s Glutes for President. Kyle + Jonas = Fire. I’m Head Over Skates for Oliver Jacoby.
My stomach somersaults when I catch sight of one that says Drew & Jackson 4Ever in glittery letters.
“The rules are simple,” the DJ continues, doing a little spin behind his turntable that makes his outfit catch the light.
“Each couple must impress us with their chemistry, their moves, and their ability not to face-plant! Our panel of highly qualified judges”—he gestures to three bored college students behind a folding table—“will score based on technique, creativity, and pure entertainment value! First up, we have Kyle Graham and Jonas Patterson!”
The opening bass line of Rick James’s “Super Freak” throbs through the speakers, and Kyle glides onto the rink with Jonas’s hand in his. Where Gerard went for flash, Kyle is in simple black spandex and a tank top that showcases the muscles goalies develop from explosive movements.
What happens next makes me question everything I know about choreography.
Kyle Graham, the grumpiest goalie in BSU history, brings one leg all the way up and lets Jonas spin him like a human top.
The crowd loses its collective mind.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Drew screams beside me, gripping my arm hard enough to leave bruises.
But that’s just the appetizer. Kyle brings his leg back down, and then Jonas grips his thighs and hoists him straight up into the air. Kyle rises above Jonas’s head, and my jaw hits the floor.
Kyle, suspended overhead with his crotch approximately six inches from Jonas’s face, starts lip-syncing. His eyebrows do this suggestive dance. His tongue darts out at strategic moments. And his hands?
They mime a jerking motion.
We’re talking full wrist action, alternating grips, the occasional two-handed technique that makes several people in the audience gasp.
“Is he…” I choke out.
“Yep,” Drew snorts.
“In front of everyone?“
“Yep.”
“With hand motions?”
“Very specific hand motions, yes.”
A shriek pierces through the chaos of the crowd, high-pitched and unmistakable.
I scan the audience and spot Alex standing on his seat, his delicate features flushed crimson, his hands clasped together on either side of his face, turning him into a poor man’s Macaulay Culkin.
He’s completely losing his mind over his best friend’s performance.
I’ve never heard him make a sound that loud in my life. The kid who whispers when he orders coffee is currently out-screaming half the sorority section.
Jonas lowers Kyle back to the ground with the kind of control that suggests they’ve practiced this a disturbing number of times. Kyle lands in a crouch, and for a split second, I think the routine is over.
I am so, so wrong.
Kyle’s knees bend. His arms lock around Jonas’s waist. And then, in one fluid motion that happens faster than my brain can register it, Kyle lifts Jonas clean off the ground and flips him upside down.
“Oh my God,” Drew breathes.
Jonas’s crotch is now directly in Kyle’s face. His legs spread wide, gripping Kyle’s calves for balance, and then Kyle starts spinning.
Slowly at first, then faster, then faster still, until they’re nothing but a blur of black fabric and limbs in the center of the rink.