Chapter 27
DREW
When my phone buzzes right as Oliver stands up, I get the distinct impression that my life is about to get exponentially more complicated.
“Listen up, assholes!” Oliver’s captain’s voice cuts through the general chaos of twenty-something hockey players crammed onto a charter bus. “I’ve got an announcement from the Berkeley Shore Community Foundation.”
I glance down at my phone, already knowing what I’ll find. The Ice Queen’s latest blog post loads slowly on the shitty bus Wi-Fi.
“They want us to participate in another charity event,” Oliver continues, bracing himself against a seat as the bus takes a sharp turn. “This time for the cancer ward at Berkeley Shore General.”
Gerard perks up from where he’s sprawled across two seats, his legs dangling in the aisle. “Is it another roller disco? Because I’ve been practicing my backward crossovers.”
“Not exactly.” Oliver’s clearly trying not to laugh, which immediately puts me on edge. “It’s a sensual art performance.”
“What the fuck is that?” Kyle asks from somewhere behind me, his voice flat as always.
Oliver clears his throat. “Beats me. Although the Ice Queen seems to know already. I guess we will have to wait and see.”
The bus goes dead silent for approximately three seconds. Then it explodes.
“A sensual art performance?” Nathan’s voice cracks. “Like…like nude modeling? Because I don’t think my mom would—”
“Body painting!” Gerard shouts, bouncing in his seat with enough enthusiasm to make the whole bus shake. “We could paint each other! I saw this thing on Instagram where they use glow-in-the-dark paint and—”
“Interpretive dance,” Kyle cuts in, his tone suggesting he’d rather eat glass. “But make it sexy. Like that weird shit they do at art galleries where everyone pretends to understand what’s happening.”
In the reflection of the bus window, I see my face has paled. Another partnered event. Another excuse to be pressed against Jackson Monroe while half the campus watches. Another night of pretending that every touch doesn’t set my skin on fire.
“Poetry reading,” Oliver suggests with a completely straight face. “But we’re shirtless. And oiled up. And the poems are all about penises.”
The bus erupts in laughter, but I can’t join in.
“Living statues!” Francisco calls out from the back. “You know, where people paint themselves silver and stand really still? But we could do it in pairs, like Greek wrestlers or something. And naked!”
“That’s not terrible,” Nathan admits. “Except I can’t stand still for more than thirty seconds without—”
“Massage train,” Jonas interrupts. “Everyone gives the person in front of them a sensual massage. It’s art because…uh…it represents the circle of life?”
“What about partner yoga?” Taylor suggests. “You know, where one person has to climb the other person? Very artistic. Very flexible.”
Gerard inhales with such dramatic force that half the bus turns to check if he’s choking. “Yes! Elliot and I did that once! Well, we tried. I accidentally kicked him in the face during the flying bird pose.”
I’m going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both. Because all I can picture is Jackson’s hands on my body, positioning me for some ridiculous yoga pose while everyone watches.
“Synchronized swimming,” Will says, then pauses. “Wait, is there a pool at the convention center?”
“No pool,” Oliver confirms. “But points for creativity.”
“Shadow dancing,” Mason offers. “You know, where there’s a screen, and you’re backlit so people only see your silhouettes? Could be pretty sensual.”
“Feeding each other,” Sebastian squeaks from his freshman corner of shame. “Like artistically? With blindfolds?”
The suggestions keep coming, each one more ridiculous and somehow more homoerotic than the last. My teammates are embracing this whole thing, probably because half of them are still riding the high from the roller disco.
But all I can think about is how I’ll have to ask Jackson to do this with me. Again.
“Contact improv,” Nathan suggests, surprising everyone. “It’s this dance form where you maintain physical contact with your partner the whole time, just flowing together.”
“Since when do you know about dance forms?” Kyle asks suspiciously.
Nathan turns pink. “I may have Googled some stuff after the roller disco. For research.”
“Research,” Kyle repeats flatly. “Right.”
“Stage combat,” Jonas suggests. “But make it foreplay?”
“Burlesque,” Gerard says dreamily. “Elliot in those little tassels…”
“Focus, Gunnarson,” Oliver sighs.
The bus hits a pothole, and my phone flies out of my hand, clattering under the seat in front of me. When I lean down to get it, Gerard’s face appears upside down above me.
“You okay, buddy? You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth.
“Is this about Jackson?” He lowers his voice, which for Gerard means everyone can hear him from only five rows away instead of ten. “Because I’m sure he’ll do whatever this ends up being. He’s super into you.”
That’s the problem! I want to scream. He plays the part perfectly. And I can’t tell what’s real and what’s fake anymore.
“Partner acrobatics,” Kyle suggests when I sit back up. “Cirque du Soleil but with more sexual tension.”
“Everything has sexual tension when Kyle does it,” Nathan says, then immediately looks like he wants to crawl under the bus.
Kyle stares at him for a long moment. “What…did you just say?”
“Nothing. I said nothing. Shut up.”
“Living paintings,” Mason suggests. “Where we recreate famous artworks but make them erotically hockey-themed?”
“The Creation of Adam, but they’re passing a puck,” Francisco says excitedly.
“The Birth of Venus, but it’s Gerard emerging from the penalty box,” Nathan adds.
“American Gothic but with hockey sticks,” Will contributes.
As my teammates continue to devise potential scenarios, my mind drifts back to the roller disco. To Jackson, trusting me during that dip. The way he looked at me in that bathroom stall, wrecked and perfect.
“Earth to Drew!” Gerard’s voice snaps me back. “Oliver asked you a question.”
“What?”
Oliver’s eyebrows lift slightly, his mouth quirking into that half-smile he gets when he’s figured something out and is deciding whether to be a shithead about it. “I asked if you had any suggestions for the performance.”
“I…” My brain scrambles for something, anything. “What about dancing? Like ballroom but more modern?”
“Boring,” Kyle pronounces.
“Safe,” Oliver counters, still studying me. “Which might be what we need if we want to raise money without getting shut down by the administration.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Gerard demands. “I vote for nude body painting!”
“You vote for anything involving nudity,” Nathan points out.
“Because I’m comfortable with the human form!”
“Too comfortable,” Kyle mutters.
The bus slows as we near the Middlesex University arena, and I’ve never been more grateful for an away game in my life. Two hours of hockey is exactly what I need right now.
Something’s off with the ice tonight. My skates don’t glide right, and it feels like I’m skating uphill while everyone else is moving normally.
We’re down 3-0 in the first period against Middlesex. Fucking Middlesex, whom we usually demolish while half-asleep and hungover.
“Larney!” Coach barks, his face purple, as I skate past the bench after another failed play. “What the hell was that?”
I want to tell him it was me trying not to think about Jackson’s face when he finds out about the next charity event. I want to explain that my brain keeps conjuring up images of him and me in sensual positions. But instead, I grunt and get back to center ice.
The puck drops, and everything goes to shit. Their center somehow strips the puck from Gerard, who hasn’t been pickpocketed since his sophomore year of high school.
“Gunnarson, move your ass!” Coach screams, but it’s too late. The kid’s already winding up for a shot that—PING!—bounces right off the crossbar and into the net.
I slam my stick against the ice. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
Coach calls a timeout, and we trudge to the bench. “What the fuck is wrong with you imbeciles?” He’s not even trying to be diplomatic. “Did you all get lobotomies on the bus? Did someone slip LSD into the Gatorade again?”
“They’re playing really well,” Mason says.
“They’re playing like a mediocre high school team, and we’re playing as though we’ve never seen ice before!
” Coach’s face has transcended purple and entered some new color that doesn’t exist in nature.
“Drew, you’ve turned the puck over six times.
Six. Gerard, you’re skating drunk. And don’t even get me started on the defense… ”
I tune him out because I catch sight of the scoreboard. Not the score itself, but the shot counter. They’ve outshot us by a wide margin. We’ve barely taken any shots in fifteen minutes of play. That’s not bad. That’s historically terrible.
“…and another thing, why are you all playing like you’re afraid of contact? This is hockey, not ballet!”
The ref blows his whistle, ending Coach’s tirade. We skate back out, and I try to shake off the mental fog. Focus on the game. Stop thinking about tomorrow, about whether Jackson will—
WHAM.
I never see the hit coming. I’m stretching for the puck when my world goes sideways, and my helmet cracks against the ice, sending shockwaves through my skull.
The Middlesex player—number 42—grins down at me through his cage. “Thought you Barracudas were supposed to be good,” he chirps.
Normally, I’d have a comeback. Something about his mom or his tiny penis. But birds are tweeting over my head, and I’m seeing double.
A dopey grin forms on my face as the arena lights turn into a fantastical kaleidoscope of colors. My eyes turn inwards to stare at my nose, and I slur the word, “fuckkkkk” like I’ve been on a bender for the past ten days.
The game only gets worse from there.
Mason takes a five-minute major for boarding when he demolishes a guy who was nowhere near the puck. He’s not a dirty player—he just completely misjudged the distance and sent the guy flying. As he skates to the box, he’s on the verge of tears.
Nathan attempts a zone entry and somehow trips over his own skates, sliding into their goalie and earning us a penalty for goaltender interference.
“I didn’t mean to!” he shrieks as the ref escorts him to the box. “My skate hit a rut!”
There are no ruts. This is pristine ice. We all know it.
We’re down 7-0, and I’ve taken two penalties. One for hooking, and one for unsportsmanlike conduct when I told the ref his mother should’ve swallowed. I’m sitting in the box, watching my team get demolished, when it hits me.
This is my fault.
Not directly, obviously. I didn’t make Mason forget how to judge distance or cause Nathan to discover new ways to fall. But the energy, the focus, the chemistry we usually have? I’m fucking it up. My teammates can sense something’s off with me, and it’s spreading like a virus.
“Larney!” Coach hollers. My penalty’s over.
I hop back on the ice in time to see Oliver take a hit to the ankle. He goes down hard, mouthing every curse word known to man. Coach Donovan is going to murder us all. Slowly. Possibly with our own hockey sticks.
The second period ends 8-1. Our only goal was a lucky bounce off Gerard’s ass as he was trying to get out of the way, which brought some brief levity to our complete humiliation.
“I’m benching half of you,” Coach announces in the locker room. “Freshmen, you’re up. At least if you embarrass us, you have the excuse of being new.”
A few minutes later, Coach taps me on the shoulder. “Coach,” I say.
“You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“I’m having an off night,” I mumble.
“Bullshit. Is this about the charity event?”
My head snaps up. “What? No. Why would it be about that?”
Coach’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline, and his mouth twists into that particular grimace he saves for when he knows someone’s feeding him a line of complete bullshit. “Because you got weird the second I mentioned it. And you’ve been playing like your brain is somewhere else entirely.”
“I’m fine.”
“Figure out whatever’s going on in your head before it costs us the game.”
The final score is 10-2. Systematically, the worst loss in my entire time at BSU. The bus ride back to the hotel is silent except for Gerard occasionally whimpering.
My phone buzzes.
Jackson
Saw the score. And the hit. You okay?
I stare at the text for a full minute before responding.
Me
Rough night. You free later?
Jackson
Always. FaceTime?
Me
Yeah.
Because if I’m going to ruin everything, I might as well do it face-to-face through a phone. News of the next charity event will soon be all over campus. But tonight, I need to see Jackson and pretend that this thing between us isn’t about to get exponentially more complicated.
The bus pulls into the hotel parking lot, and we file off, having aged five years in the last three hours.
“We leave tomorrow at six o’clock,” Coach announces. “Not 6:01, not 6:05. If you’re not in the parking lot by six, you’re walking home and doing suicides at practice until you die.”
Nobody argues. We deserve whatever torture he has planned.