Chapter 22 #2
“That’s basically sixty-nine on ice,” Drew says, his voice strangled.
“Wood,” I correct automatically, because apparently my brain has decided that’s the important detail here.
“Whatever! It’s pornographic!”
He’s not wrong. From this angle, it looks like Kyle might actually be nuzzling it. I can’t tell if that’s intentional or just physics, and I’m not sure I want to know.
The song hits its final notes, and Kyle slows to a stop, lowering Jonas to the ground with surprising gentleness.
They end up in a pose that can only be described as “two seconds away from making out. ”Jonas’s back is against Kyle’s chest, Kyle’s arms wrapped around him, both of them breathing hard and glistening with sweat under the disco lights.
The silence lasts approximately half a second before the crowd erupts.
Kyle and Jonas skate off the rink, and I watch Kyle make a beeline for Alex, who launches himself at the goalie with zero regard for personal safety.
Kyle catches him easily, and Alex is babbling something about “best performance ever” and “you were amazing,” which makes Kyle’s ears turn an adorable shade of pink.
“We’re fucked,” I say flatly.
“We’re not fucked,” Drew insists, but his voice wavers. “We just need to be ourselves. Like Elliot said. Authentic. Real.”
“Drew, Kyle just did a spinning sixty-nine on roller skates while miming masturbation techniques. How do we compete with that?”
Before he can answer, the DJ’s voice booms through the speakers again. “Next up, we have Gerard Gunnarson and Nathan West!”
The opening synth of “Funkytown” fills the rink, and Gerard reappears in all his hot pink glory, this time with Nathan in tow. Nathan’s wearing a matching outfit that is at least three sizes too small, and appears to be questioning every life decision that led him to this moment.
Gerard, however, was born for this. He grabs Nathan’s hand and yanks him into the rink, immediately launching into a routine that’s equal parts disco and soft-core pornography.
Nathan, to his credit, manages to keep up. He’s not as naturally gifted as Gerard—few humans are—but what he lacks in grace, he makes up for in sheer determination. When Gerard dips him backward, Nathan commits fully, arching his back until his hair nearly touches the floor.
The crowd eats it up. More phones appear. Someone starts a “Gerard! Gerard!” chant that spreads through the entire rink.
Then Gerard does something that makes my stomach drop.
He grabs Nathan by the hips, lifts him straight up, and positions Nathan’s crotch directly in front of his face. It’s the same move Kyle and Jonas did, but somehow Gerard turns it into something even more obscene. Nathan’s legs wrap around Gerard’s neck, and Gerard starts spinning.
“Is this a thing now?: I ask no one in particular. “Is face-to-crotch spinning the new standard?”
“Apparently,” Drew mutters.
Gerard finishes the spin and lowers Nathan to the ground, but Nathan’s legs are shaking, and he can barely stand. Gerard catches him before he falls, turning the near-disaster into a romantic embrace. The crowd awws.
“He’s going to need therapy after this,” Drew observes.
“We’re all going to need therapy after this.”
The routine continues with Gerard pulling out move after move that shouldn’t be physically possible.
At one point, he makes Nathan roll between his spread legs, Nathan’s forehead undoubtedly grazing Gerard’s balls.
At another point, they both drop into splits facing each other, their crotches nearly touching, and do some kind of synchronized pelvic movement that makes the front row fan themselves.
The finale involves Gerard lifting Nathan over his head with one arm while Nathan strikes a pose worthy of being on the cover of a Harlequin romance novel. Gerard spins once, twice, three times, then sets Nathan down and drops into a final pose—one knee on the ground with his hand over his heart.
“Elliot,” Drew calls over the cheering, “you okay with Nathan near all of that?”
Elliot, who’s been watching the performance with an expression of mild interest, shrugs. “It was my idea. I want Gerard to win.”
“You’re evil,” I tell him with newfound respect.
“I prefer strategic.”
“Oliver and Mason are next,” Drew says, checking the lineup. “Then us.”
My stomach clenches. Oliver and Mason skate onto the rink as Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” begins to play, and what follows can only be described as foreplay on wheels.
Oliver, in his captain’s confidence, takes Mason’s hand and pulls him close. His other hand rests possessively on Mason’s lower back.
“Should I be weirded out that all of this is turning me on?” I whisper to Drew.
Drew chuckles low in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “I think every guy here is aroused by what’s happening. Probably the Ice Queen’s intention—sniff out whether we’re truly into each other based on our body’s physiological reactions.”
“Are you serious?”
“Think about it. She’s probably somewhere in this crowd, watching us watch the show, looking for tells.” His hand tightens around mine. “So be aroused and proud of it, Jacky. Because when it’s our turn…”
Before I can fully process what Drew is insinuating, Oliver and Mason transition into something that short-circuits my brain.
Oliver’s massive hands grip Mason’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest, and Mason arches backward with the kind of trust that only comes from extensive practice.
Or extensive fucking.
The thought hits me at the same moment I hear the whispers around us.
“Are they…”
“I thought Oliver was single?”
“Look at the way Mason’s grinding on him.”
“Holy shit, is the captain hooking up with his teammate?”
Drew leans in, his lips brushing my ear in a way that sends electricity down my spine. “Oliver and Mason have been spending most of their free time this week in Oliver’s room.”
I turn my head slightly, our faces now inches apart. “Practicing choreography?”
“That’s what I assumed. But now?” He glances back at the rink, where Oliver has Mason bent backward over his arm, their hips doing a synchronized roll that belongs in an R-rated music video. “I’m starting to think they were plain old fucking.”
Oliver pulls Mason upright and spins him, their legs intertwining in a way that makes their crotches brush together. Mason’s head tips back, exposing his throat.
“That’s not a dance move,” I say. “That’s foreplay.”
Drew agrees. “Oliver’s marking his territory.“
As if to prove our point, Oliver’s hand slides from Mason’s waist to his ass, squeezing it. Mason doesn’t flinch—if anything, he pushes back into the touch, his body language screaming for more.
Someone wolf-whistles.
“I’ve known Oliver for three years,” Drew mutters, shaking his head slowly. “Three years. And I had no idea he was into Mason.”
“Maybe it’s new?”
“Maybe. Or maybe our captain is better at keeping secrets than any of us realized.”
Oliver dips Mason again. When he pulls him back up, their foreheads touch, and they stay like that for a long time, breathing each other’s air. It’s intimate in a way that makes me feel as if I’m intruding on something private.
“Okay, that’s definitely not choreography,” I say. “That’s the ‘I’ve seen you naked multiple times’ face.”
Drew snorts. “The what face?”
“You know what I mean. The face people make when they’re comfortable with each other’s bodies. When they’ve mapped every inch and know exactly where to touch.”
Drew goes quiet beside me, and when I glance over, he’s staring at me with an expression that makes my breath catch.
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” he says finally.
My face heats. “I’m just observant.”
“Uh-huh.”
Back on the rink, Oliver and Mason are building to their finale. Oliver lifts Mason—not over his head like Gerard did with Nathan, but cradled against his chest, bridal style. Mason’s arms wind around Oliver’s neck, and they spin together, slower and more controlled than the earlier performances.
The song fades, and Oliver sets Mason down gently, keeping one arm around his waist. They’re both breathing hard, cheeks flushed.
The crowd erupts, but I barely hear it. I’m too busy watching Oliver press a kiss to Mason’s cheek—soft, tender, completely at odds with his usual persona.
The DJ clears his throat. “Alright, alright! Let’s keep this party rolling! Drew and Jackson—you’re on deck!”
My heart rate triples. Around us, people are getting ready to document whatever disaster Drew and I are about to create. I spot Sarah Piper near the arcade, notebook in hand, her eye twitching in anticipation. The opening of “Xanadu” fills the room, and my legs lock up.
“I need to pee,” I blurt out.
Drew blinks. “What? Now?”
“Right now. Immediately. Bladder emergency.” I’m already backing away. “I’ll be super quick, or as quick as I can, trying to get my dick out of these pants.”
I sprint toward the bathroom on skates, leaving Drew standing at the rink entrance, confused. Behind me, I hear the DJ saying something about technical difficulties, buying me time.
The bathroom is empty, and I stare at my reflection in the grimy mirror.
It shows a stranger with crimson splotches climbing his neck like ivy, sweat beading along his hairline, and pupils that have swallowed the irises whole.
My hands grip the porcelain sink hard enough that my knuckles have gone white.
What am I doing? We have no routine. No plan. Just “wing it” and “trust each other,” which sounds great in theory but terrible when you’re about to make an ass of yourself in front of the entire campus.
But then I think about how, for the most part, everyone was just being themselves. Kyle was showing off his flexibility. Nathan was getting mindfucked by an oblivious Gerard. And Oliver and Mason were trusting each other a little too completely.
With a final nod at my reflection, I turn away and push through the bathroom door before I can change my mind.
Back in the thick of it, Drew waits by the rink entrance. His face lights up when he sees me. “Thought you were making a run for it.”
“Considered it.” I take his offered hand. “But then who would catch you when you inevitably try something stupid and fall on your ass?”
His answering grin is blinding.
The DJ restarts our song, Olivia Newton-John’s voice filling the rink with promises of a place where nobody dared to go.
Drew leads me onto the rink, and everything else fades away. The crowd, the judges, the pressure—none of it matters. There’s only his hand in mine and the certainty that whatever happens next, we’ll skate through it together.