Too late for that, I think, but I nod and watch him wade back into the party.
The living room has devolved into pure chaos. In the corner, two frat guys are making out while their friend films it for social media. And through it all, I can’t stop thinking about Jackson in my jersey, his hand against mine on the glass.
I need to see him. Now.
I pullmy BSU hockey hoodie tighter, but it does nothing against the wind that cuts straight through to my bones. Behind me, I can hear Gerard’s voice booming through an open window. The music has shifted to an EDM track, and I pick up my pace before someone notices I’m gone.
My hands are shaking as I shove them in my pockets. This is stupid.I’mbeing stupid. Jackson’s probably asleep, or studying, or doing whatever perfect quarterback boyfriends do when they’re not at their fake boyfriend’s afterparty. But I need to tell him about the roller rink disaster before Will or one of the other doubters gets to him first.
I cut across the quad where ice crunches beneath my sneakers. The old clock tower chimes once, muffled by the fog rolling in from the ocean. Somewhere behind Hawkins Hall, a car alarm wails briefly then falls silent, leaving only the hollow whistle of wind through bare elm branches. A group of drunk freshmen stumble out of The Brew, singing what’s either the national anthem or that cup song fromPitch Perfect. They don’t even glance my way, too focused on not falling into the bushes.
My stomach keeps doing this weird twisting thing that has nothing to do with the three beers and one Jell-O shot I’ve had. It’s the same sensation I get before a big play, when everything could go perfectly right or spectacularly wrong.
My footsteps echo off the cobblestones, and the wind picks up, carrying the salt smell of the ocean and the faint bass thump from the party I left behind. I stop walking and just stand there in the middle of the empty quad, breath fogging in front of my face.
Roller disco. I have to hold Jackson’s hand. I have to move with him, guide him, lethimguideme. I have to look into those warm brown eyes under disco lights while some cheesy song plays, and I have to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Except it means everything.
I start walking again, slower now. The fog has thickened, turning the street lamps into hazy halos. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn sounds, low and mournful.
I’ve been using sex to fill a void, chasing strength and power in other men because I never had it from my father. But Jackson isn’t like that. Jackson doesn’t make me feel like I need to be fixed or completed. He makes me feel like I’m already enough.
And that terrifies me more than any rugby player ever could.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.
The thing about fake dating is that it’s supposed to be simple. Transactional. We play our parts, we fool the masses, we walk away clean. Spring break comes, and life goes back to normal.
But there is no normal anymore. Normal died the moment Jackson pressed his hand against that glass and looked at me like I was the only person in the arena.
I’ve been in love with him for two years. The fake dating thing just let me stop hiding it from myself.
The problem is, I’m running out of ways to hide it from him.
Every touch lingers too long. Every kiss feels too real.
We’re already everything except the one thing I actually want us to be.
Jackson’s dorm rises out of the fog. Lights glow from a few windows, warm and inviting against the cold night. I stop at the entrance, my hand hovering over my phone.
I could turn back. I could text him tomorrow, play it cool, keep the walls up.
But I’m so fucking tired of walls.
I badge into the building with my student ID, grateful that BSU’s security is nonexistent. Someone’s watchingThe Officeon their laptop in the corner, not even noticing me as I head for the stairs.
My legs protest the entire way because getting slammed into the boards repeatedly means my limbs are about to fall off. The hallway is quieter than I expected—most people are either at the Hockey House or have gone home for the weekend. A whiteboard on someone’s door announces “BRAD IS A DICK” in purple marker. Another has a drawing of a penis with furry nuts.
Jackson’s door is decorated with a BSU football schedule and a small whiteboard that says “Jackson & Ryan” in Ryan’s pretentiously perfect handwriting. Underneath, someone (probably Jackson) has drawn a smiley face that’s slightly lopsided.
I raise my hand to knock, then freeze. It’s one in the morning.What if he’s asleep? What if Ryan answers? What if?—
The door opens before I can decide on my next move. Jackson stands in front of me in BSU football sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt that says “I Survived the BSU Dining Hall.” His hair is messier than usual, and there’s a red mark on his cheek, telling me that he’s been lying on his textbook.
“Drew?” His voice is rough, either from sleep, surprise, or both. “What are you—why aren’t you at the party?”
“I needed to talk to you.” The words come out more desperate than intended.
