Chapter 37 #2
We settle back on the deck with fresh beers in time for Gerard’s grand finale.
It involves a running start, a backflip attempt, and then a not-so-subtle attempt at masturbation to rile the crowd up even further.
Nathan watches from the sidelines, and it’s obvious to anyone who isn’t entirely drunk that his cock is coming to life.
“Think Nathan knows he’s in love yet?” Jackson asks, noticing the same thing.
“Nope,” Elliot says, joining us again. “But he’ll figure it out and move on. They always do.” He watches Gerard organize another round, his expression unbearably fond. “I mean, if you idiots figured it out, then I have the slightest bit of hope for the world.”
Around midnight, two campus security guards push through the crowd, their expressions suggesting they’ve seen enough naked college guys for one lifetime.
“Alright, show’s over!” the taller one shouts, already unplugging the hose feeding the slip-and-slide. “This violates at least seventeen codes.”
Gerard’s face crumples like a toddler who’s been told Christmas is canceled. “But officer, it’s for team bonding!”
“Bond with your clothes on,” the guard says, unmoved by Gerard’s Viking helmet or strategic hand placement.
Within minutes, the slide is being rolled up and hauled away, leaving nothing but wet grass and Gerard’s shattered dreams.
But this is the Hockey House, and we don’t go down without a fight. Before I can even process what’s happening, someone’s wheeled out a massive speaker system, and the backyard is now a dance floor.
Bass drops hard enough to rattle my bones, and Wang Chung fills the air.
Jackson presses close to my side in nothing but a pair of…holy shit. “Are those tighty-whities?” I can’t keep the grin off my face.
His face goes red, but he stands his ground. “Ryan was right, okay? They’re comfortable once you get used to them. And they’re…supportive.”
Supportive. Right. What they are is fucking obscene, the white cotton clinging to every curve and bulge, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
The way they hug his ass threatens to kill me.
I want to drop to my knees right here and worship him through that thin fabric, trace the outline of his cock with my tongue until he’s begging.
“I fucking love you,” I blurt out, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter is broken, and I can’t stop declaring my love for him in all the ways that count.
The music shifts to something more current, and the crowd goes wild. That’s when Arthur and Tyrell arrive, taking one look at the naked dancing and immediately stripping down to join in.
“Monroe!” Arthur calls out, his tight end physique on full display as he executes a perfect body roll. “Didn’t know you had it in you!”
“I’ve had a lot in me lately,” Jackson replies, then immediately turns crimson when he realizes what he said.
Tyrell laughs, already moving his hips in ways that should require a permit.
Seconds later, Jackson lets out a sound I’ve only heard him make in bed.“Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.”
I follow his horrified gaze to the back door of the Hockey House, where Elliot Montgomery is stumbling out, completely naked and obviously plastered. His glasses are crooked, and he’s…doing the shopping cart dance?
“Gerard!” Elliot slurs, scanning the crowd with unfocused eyes. “Where’s my Viking? I wanna…I wanna touch the helmet! Both of them!”
Gerard, who’s been grinding between two rugby players, freezes mid-thrust. His neck snaps around with enough force to send his Viking helmet flying off his head and into the crowd. When he spots Elliot—naked, drunk, and asking to touch his Viking helmet and his dick helmet—his brain short-circuits.
“Elliot?” Gerard’s voice comes out strangled. “Baby, what are you—”
But it’s too late. Gerard’s body has already made the executive decision, his cock going from soft to spectacularly hard in about three seconds flat. And when I say spectacular, I mean it could give the Empire State Building a run for its money.
“Holy fuck,” someone in the crowd gasps.
“Is that even possible?” another voice asks.
Gerard glances down at his erection, then back at Elliot, who’s now attempting to twerk to the beat. Our team’s golden retriever’s face cycles through about seventeen emotions before settling on panic.
“Nobody look!” Gerard tries to cover himself with both hands, which is like trying to hide a baseball bat with two postcards. “This is—I can explain!”
That’s when Oliver appears, a guardian angel in a jockstrap, assessing the situation with the efficiency of someone who’s dealt with way too much Hockey House drama.
“Nope,” Oliver says simply, grabbing Gerard with one arm and Elliot with the other. “We’re going inside before someone calls the cops again.”
“But Ollie,” Elliot protests as he’s dragged toward the door. “I wanna dance! I’m a good dancer! Tell him, Gerard!”
“You’re the best dancer, baby,” Gerard says desperately, trying to walk normally despite his situation. “We’ll dance inside, okay? Private dance. Just for me.”
“Ooh, private dance,” Elliot giggles, and I’ve never seen him giggle before. It’s terrifying. “Can I wear the helmet?”
They disappear inside, Oliver muttering something about hazard pay, leaving the rest of us in stunned silence.
“That was…” Jackson starts.
“Traumatizing?” I supply.
Kyle appears beside us, wearing only a jockstrap and an expression that could curdle milk. His eyes are locked on Alex, who’s watching the door Gerard disappeared through with a thoughtful expression.
“Don’t even think about it,” Kyle growls.
Alex blinks innocently. “Think about what?”
“You know what.” Kyle crosses his arms and spreads his legs into an imposing stance, which only emphasizes how the jockstrap is fighting a losing battle. “No stripping. No dancing naked. No ‘pulling an Elliot.’”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were. I could see it in your eyes.” Kyle’s glare intensifies. “You stay fully clothed, or I’m locking you in the equipment shed.”
“That’s extreme,” Alex says mildly, but I catch the slight disappointment in his voice.
“Extreme is you thinking you can handle this crowd seeing your—” Kyle cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “Just keep your clothes on.”
“Fine,” Alex sighs. “I’ll remain fully clothed like a proper gentleman.”
“Good.” Kyle’s shoulders relax slightly, though he keeps shooting suspicious glances at Alex as if he might spontaneously strip at any moment.
The dynamic between them is fascinating to watch—Kyle with his barely contained protective aggression and Alex quietly amused by the whole thing. It reminds me of Jackson and me in the early days, all that tension disguised as something else.
Speaking of Jackson, he’s pressed against my back now, swaying slightly to the music. The tighty-whities situation is getting more interesting by the minute, especially when he grinds against me.
“You’re going to kill me,” I mutter into his ear.
“That’s the plan,” he says, and fuck, when did my nervous quarterback get so confident?
Around us, the party has reached peak chaos.
Naked bodies writhe to the beat, some attempting to dance, others jumping around and calling it artistic expression.
Arthur and Tyrell have started a dance battle that’s 40 percent skill and 60 percent dick helicoptering.
The rugby team has formed a naked kick line.
Three guys from the swimming team are doing synchronized body rolls that would make Channing Tatum jealous.
“This is insane,” Jackson laughs, and the sound goes straight through me. “How is this my life?”
“Our life,” I correct, spinning him around to face me. “This insanity is our life now.”
His eyes are bright with laughter and something deeper, and I’m struck again by how fucking lucky I am.
A few months ago, I was convinced I’d never have anything real, too fucked up by my parents and my own issues to let anyone in.
Now, I have Jackson all to myself, wearing tighty-whities at a naked dance party, smiling at me, loving me.
We find our rhythm, bodies moving together with the ease of recent practice. Every point of contact sends sparks through me—his hands on my hips, my thigh between his legs, the heat of him through those obscene white briefs. We’re surrounded by naked chaos, but all I can focus on is Jackson.
“People are staring,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound bothered.
I pull him closer, letting my hands wander to his ass. “They’re jealous they don’t have a quarterback in tighty-whities.”
“Possessive,” he teases, but he grinds against me harder, and I can feel him getting hard through the cotton.
“Very,” I agree, squeezing his ass for emphasis. “You’re mine, Jackson Monroe. Mine to dance with, mine to drive crazy, mine to—”
“Yours,” he cuts me off, and the simple agreement is all I need to die a happy man.
The music changes again, something slower and dirtier, and our dancing adjusts accordingly.
It’s less dancing now and more vertical foreplay, our bodies finding every excuse to touch, to press, to grind.
Jackson’s breathing gets heavier, his fingers digging into my shoulders, and I know we need to quit while we’re ahead before I do something truly indecent.
“Drew,” he gasps when I roll my hips. “We should—”
The party continues its descent into beautiful madness, but here in our little space, it’s just us—Drew and Jackson, who figured it out against all odds.