“See? Nathan gets it!” Gerard beams, completely missing the point.
Elliot approaches me with the blindfold, rolling his eyes and probably wondering why the hell he ever decided to come to BSU. And then the bandana covers my eyes, and the world goes dark.
“Can you see anything?” he asks.
“Just my life flashing before my eyes,” I say, and the crowd laughs.
Drew’s lips brush my ear. “You’ve got this, Jacky. Just remember—I’ll be thinking about your hands on me.”
Jesus Christ.My cock twitches in my white briefs, and I pray the darkness hides it. The last thing I need is to sport wood while groping theentirehockey team.
“Gentlemen, assume the position!” Elliot commands.
I hear shuffling, muttered curses, and Gerard’s enthusiastic “This is like that team building exercise sophomore year!”
Whatever happened back then, I don’t want to know.
“Alright, Jackson,” Elliot announces, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “First contestant, approach the throne of judgment.”
Footsteps pad across the grass—confident, unhurried. The crowd goes eerily silent, everyone holding their breath in anticipation of what’s to come. The person stops in front of me, and I smell coconut.
“Hands out,” Elliot instructs.
I extend my hands, heart racing. This is it. The start of a game where I either prove my love or become Berkeley Shore’s biggest fraud. The ass backs into my palms, and holy mother of God. My fingers spread wide, but I still can’t span half of each cheek. I squeeze, and the flesh yields before meeting resistance. My thumbs sink into twin dimples at the base of the spine. When I release my grip, the skin springs back with the resilience of premium athletic wear. My palms tingle with warmth. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Only Gerard walks around campus with topography like this.
The crowd titters at my obvious awe.
“Gerard,” I announce with absolute certainty.
“CORRECT!” Gerard shouts, and I hear him bouncing with excitement. “See? Jackson appreciates art when he feels it!”
When the next ass backs into my waiting palms, my fingers register the change immediately. My thumbs slide over twin ridges of muscle that flex involuntarily at my touch. I squeeze experimentally and meet resistance that gives way only slightly, like pressing against a ripe peach that refuses to bruise.
“Oliver,” I say, recognizing the particular way he shifts his weight to his left leg as he waits for my verdict.
“Unfortunately correct,” Oliver sighs.
My stomach twists. Ryan’s going to murder me. My best friend has been thirsting after Oliver for months, and here I was, copping a feel in front of everyone. I make a mental note to takehim stargazing every night this summer as an apology. Hell, I’ll even buy him a new telescope.
The third contestant approaches with hesitant, shuffling steps, pausing several feet away.
“Closer,” Elliot sighs, and I hear the reluctant scuff of bare feet on grass.
When my palms finally connect, my thumbs sink a half-inch deeper than they did with Oliver. My fingers spread wider, mapping the contours that curve without the harsh definition of the others. A memory flashes—Nathan sprawled across the couch last movie night, Gerard’s head resting on his hip as he dozed through the third act.
“Nathan,” I say gently, not wanting to embarrass him further.
“How did you know?” Nathan sounds genuinely baffled.
“Lucky guess,” I lie.
Someone whispers, “It’s the squish factor,” and Nathan makes a strangled noise.
The fourth approach announces itself with a rhythmic thud-thud-thud across the grass, each footfall landing with military precision. Something firm brushes against my palms for half a second before jerking away. In that fleeting moment of contact, my fingers register nothing but granite—no give, no softness—just two rock-solid hemispheres that could crack walnuts between them.
“Kyle,” I say immediately. “And please don’t punch me.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” Kyle mutters, but he sounds impressed. “You’re better at this than I expected, Monroe.”
