“And then I heard my beautiful Elliot’s voice calling to my very soul!” Gerard announces to his captive audience. “My buttocks responded before my brain could catch up!”
The crowd roars with laughter. Someone hands Gerard another beer, which he raises in a toast. “To the most magnificent booty in college hockey!”
“Modest as always,” I mutter, sliding up next to Elliot.
“He’s had four shots of something the rugby team brought,” Elliot explains. “I’m pretty sure it’s grain alcohol with food coloring.”
“Sounds about right.” I lean against the wall. “So, uh, hypothetically speaking…”
“Oh God, what now?”
“If someone needed to ask their boyfriend to a roller disco competition, how would one go about that?”
Elliot turns to stare at me, his dark eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “You’re joking.”
“It’s for charity,” I offer weakly. “We’re all participating.”
“Drew!” Gerard suddenly bellows. “My dearest friend! Come! Share in the glory of victory!”
“I’m good, G-man,” I call back, but he’s already launching himself off the floor. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as two hundred pounds of drunken Swedish muscle barrel toward me.
“You were magnificent tonight,” Gerard slurs, wrapping me in a bear hug that smells of vodka and bad decisions. “The way you pointed at Jackson was a scene straight out of a movie!”
“Thanks, buddy.” I pat his sweaty bare back awkwardly. “Maybe we should get you some water?”
“Water is for the weak!” Gerard declares. “We are warriors! We are champions! We are?—”
“About to puke on Drew’s shoes,” Elliot finishes, expertly steering his boyfriend toward the bathroom. “Come on, Gerard. Time to pay tribute to alcohol poisoning.”
They disappear into the crowd, leaving me alone with my stupid roller disco problem. I pull out my phone, open my contacts, and see Jackson’s name staring back at me.How do I even start this conversation?
“You look constipated.” Kyle pops up beside me with Alex in tow. Our goalie is stone-cold sober despite the party raging around us, while Alex clutches a cup of what’s more than likely Coke.
“Thanks for that visual,” I mutter.
“Seriously, though.” Kyle’s eyes bore into me with uncomfortable intensity. “What’s wrong? You scored twice tonight, and you’re moping like someone killed your dog.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You’re moping,” Alex says softly. For someone so quiet, Coach’s son has a way of cutting right to the heart of things.
Kyle crosses his arms, biceps flexing in a way that would be intimidating if I didn’t know he stress-bakes cookies at 3:00 a.m. “This about Monroe?”
“Drew!” Oliver’s voice cuts through the party noise before I can respond. Our captain emerges from the crowd, still riding the high from tonight’s win. “There you are. Did you tell Jackson about the roller disco yet?”
Kyle clearly wants to interrogate me further, but Alex’s gentle insistence that I be left alone wins out. They disappear, Kyle’s protective hand situated on Alex’s lower back. At least someone’s relationship is real, even if they’re too stubborn to admit it.
“You good?” Oliver asks, studying me with perceptive green eyes.
“Peachy.”
“You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”
I briefly consider telling Oliver everything, but then someone cranks the music louder, and the moment passes.
“I know,” I say instead. “I’m good. Just worn out.”
Oliver claps me on the shoulder. “Alright. But Drew? Whatever’s going on with you and Jackson, be careful, yeah? I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.”
