Chapter 23
DREW
“Follow my lead,” I murmur to Jackson, pulling him close.
My plan is simple—skate in circles, hold hands, maybe throw in a spin or two. Basic stuff. Nothing that’ll get us compared to the soft-core porn that Oliver and Mason subjected us to.
I guide us into a gentle turn, and Jackson matches my movements perfectly.
He’s a natural athlete, picking up the rhythm as if he’s been skating his whole life instead of breaking his wrist the last time he tried.
The crowd fades to white noise as we find our groove, moving together as though we’ve done this a thousand times.
Jackson surprises me by spinning under my arm without prompting. It’s clumsy but earnest, and when he comes back around, he’s grinning. My heart does this painful tap-dance thing in my chest that I refuse to examine.
“Did you see that?” he asks, breathless with excitement, eyes bright with adrenaline.
“I did,” I strangle out.
Having hooked up with many people, I know what desire is.
That quick burn, the need for release, the overwhelming satisfaction of getting what you want.
But this thing with Jackson is different.
It’s not that I want to fuck him—though Christ, I do—it’s that I want to wake up next to him again.
I want to watch cheesy ’80s movies and fall asleep on his shoulder.
I want to hold his hand without needing an audience to justify it.
And that terrifies me more than any gossip blog ever could.
The music swells, and something in me snaps. Not in a bad way—more like a rubber band that’s been wound too tight, finally releasing. I catch Jackson’s eye and waggle my eyebrows ridiculously. “Let’s give them a show.”
Before he can respond, I shimmy my hips to the beat. Jackson’s mouth drops open, and he bursts out laughing. Then—God help me—he shimmies back. It’s the most uncoordinated, enthusiastic move. And it’s perfect.
I belt out the lyrics completely off-key, and Jackson joins in, equally tone-deaf. Surprisingly, the crowd cheers.
Grabbing Jackson’s hands, I spin him again, this time adding my own wobbly spin in the opposite direction. We meet back in the middle of the rink, crashing into each other. But before Jackson can fall on his ass, I catch him around the waist and dip him backward.
The move is supposed to be smooth, romantic. Instead, I miscalculate the angle and have to lunge forward to keep from dropping him. We end up nose to nose, both of us giggling idiotically. His breath fans across my face, and I’ve forgotten we’re in front of an audience.
“Trust me,” I tell Jackson before hoisting him into the air. Not over my head like the others, but high enough that his roller skates leave the rink.
He yelps, arms flailing, then finds his balance by gripping my shoulders. The crowd goes wild. “Put me down!” he laughs, but he’s not fighting me.
I set him back on the rink and immediately transition into the worst dance move known to man—the shopping cart. Jackson watches me for two seconds before joining in with his own interpretation, which involves way more hip action than any grocery run requires.
My foot catches wrong, and I windmill my arms to keep from falling.
Jackson grabs my hand, steadying me, and we use the momentum to whip around the turn.
I spin him under my arm again, then try to slide between his legs the way Nathan did with Gerard.
Except I’m taller than Nathan, and Jackson’s not Gerard, so I have to practically limbo to make it work.
My back screams in protest, but I pop up on the other side to thunderous applause.
The song starts winding down, and I realize we’ve skated at least six laps without any plan except to “have fun and not die.”
Jackson’s chest heaves with each breath, a flush creeping up his neck and blooming across his cheeks like spilled wine. Sweat-darkened curls cling to his temples, one rebellious strand dangling between his eyes as he tosses his head back in laughter.
He’s alive in a way that makes me want to remember this day forever.
For the finale, I pull him close, one arm around his waist, our joined hands extended in a tango pose. We glide together, no fancy moves, just us moving as one unit. His eyes meet mine, and there’s something there. Something real and terrifying and, dare I say, perfect.
The last notes fade out as we stand frozen at center rink.
For three heartbeats, nothing exists but Jackson’s fingers gripping mine and our heavy breaths warming each other’s faces.
Then, a single pair of hands comes together somewhere in the darkness.
Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound multiplies, rippling through the crowd until it crashes over us in a deafening wave.
Gerard’s distinctive whistle cuts through the noise, followed by Nathan yelling something about us being precious.
“We survived,” Jackson pants, still pressed against me.
“We did more than survive,” I say meaningfully. Whatever that was, it wasn’t fake. Not the joy on his face, not the way we moved together, not my chest that’s expanding like a balloon.
The DJ’s voice cuts in over the speakers. “Drew and Jackson, everyone! Now that’s what I call chemistry!”
We take a bow and skate off the rink. My legs are shaking, but not from exertion. Something fundamental has shifted between us, and I have no idea what to do about it.
His hand slides up my back, fingers spreading between my shoulder blades. My own hand finds the small of his back, thumb brushing the strip of skin where his BSU sweatshirt has ridden up.
I’m getting hard, and the even more surprising thing is that Jackson is too.
“Drew,” he breathes, and my name in his mouth sounds like a question and an answer all at once.
I should pull back. Make a joke. Turn this into a Saturday Night Live comedy sketch instead of whatever the fuck is happening. But I can’t. Because Jackson’s staring at me as though I’m something dear, and I’ve never wanted anything more than to be what he sees.
Gerard intercepts us before I can make a move, his grin threatening to split his face. “Holy snickers, dudes! That was—”
“Not now,” I cut him off, pulling Jackson toward the benches.
“But you—”
“Gerard.” Elliot appears at his side, one hand on his boyfriend’s arm. His eyes meet mine, and there’s understanding there. “Give them a minute.”
Thank fuck for Elliot Montgomery and his emotional intelligence.
My ass hits the bench hard. My fingers tremble against the laces. Jackson sits next to me, close enough that our thighs touch, and that minimal contact is a live wire to my cock.
“I need…” I hesitate because what I need is to get off, right now, before I combust. The rational part of my brain knows this is a terrible idea. We’re in public. The Ice Queen is lurking somewhere. But all the blood has officially left my brain. “Fuck it. Restroom. Now.”
Jackson’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t protest when I grab his hand and haul him toward the men’s room.
My body is operating on pure instinct as every nerve ending screams for release.
This is what I know—the quick fix, the desperate fumble, the mindless chase for an orgasm.
It’s safer than whatever was happening on that rink.
Safer than the emotions threatening to crack my chest wide open.
Once we’re in the restroom, I drag Jackson into the handicapped stall and slam him against the wall before my brain can catch up with my body. He makes a sound that’s half surprise, half want, and then my mouth crashes into his.
It’s nothing like the soft, tentative kisses we’ve been exchanging since we kicked off this whole fake dating thing. This is desperate and messy—all teeth, tongue, and need. Jackson’s hands grip my shoulders hard enough to bruise, and when I grind against him, he groans into my mouth.
“Drew,” he gasps when I pull back to breathe. “What are we—”
“Don’t think,” I cut him off, pressing my hips forward again. “Just—fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck,” he pants, and thank Christ he gets it.
His hands slide down, fingers digging into my ass, yanking me forward until the hard line of him presses against me through our clothes.
The friction sends lightning up my spine.
I thrust against him, and Jackson’s breath hitches—a soft “ah” that catches in his throat, followed by a whimper that vibrates against my lips.
I tell myself this is just the dumb animal part of me seeking a dopamine hit. I try to pretend it’s the same as every other hookup I’ve ever had, even though that’s the kind of lie that would get you arrested for perjury in a court of law.
It’s just Jackson’s hands, hauling me in, nails biting through my stupid purple spandex.
Just his open mouth at my jaw, biting, kissing, tasting the sweat that’s been pouring down my face since the DJ dropped Olivia Newton-John.
Just my rock-hard dick smashing into his, both of us breathing through a chorus of mutual fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.
I grip the metal bar affixed to the wall to keep from collapsing.
My legs are jelly. My brain’s a case study in cognitive dissonance.
I want him so badly it hurts—actual, physical pain, like my skin is too tight for my body—but I can’t let myself feel it.
Not for real. Not after how many times I’ve watched friends and teammates mistake lust for love and crash and burn.
So instead, I focus on the mechanics: friction, movement, pressure.
I let my head drop to Jackson’s shoulder, breathing in the salt and the faint whiff of rink popcorn that clings to his collar.
His hands slip under my waistband and dig into my bare ass, and I lose what little composure I was clinging to.
We’re both about to bust, I can feel it in the way his thighs tense, in the desperate, half-choked sounds he makes in my ear.
“God, Drew,” Jackson pants. “I think I’m gonna come.”
“Do it,” I growl, speeding up my jerky movements. “Come on, Jacky, let go.”