Time stretches like taffy.
The song transitions into another throwback—Wham’s “I’m Your Man,” because apparently the universe has a sick sense of humor—and we’re frozen in this dip, staring at each other.
“Drew,” Jackson breathes.
“Yeah?”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I track the movement, memorizing it for later. My entire body is on fire.I want to close the distance between us, to taste that crooked smile, to find out if this thing between us is as real as it feels.
But I can’t. Because this is fake. Because he’s straight. Because kissing him right now, in a thrift store with no audience, would tell him exactly how I feel.
I break the dip with a jerk, sending us both off-balance for a moment. “We should find actual outfits,” I say, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.
Jackson adjusts his star glasses, and is it my imagination, or does he look disappointed? “Right. Yeah. Outfits. The reason why we’re here.”
We separate, moving to different racks, and I take a moment to breathe. My heart is pounding like I just finished a shift on the ice. The ghost of his hand on my waist burns through my clothes.
“Hey, Drew?” Jackson calls from across the store. “What do you think about spandex?”
I turn to find him holding up a pair of purple spandex pants that were no doubt designed for a backup dancer in a Prince video.
“I think you’d look incredible in those,” I say honestly.
His ears turn pink. “There’s a matching pair over here. We could be twins.”
The image of Jackson in skin-tight purple spandex flashes through my mind, and I have to grip the clothing rack to steady myself. Those long legs. That ass. The way the fabric would cling to every single curve and line of his body.
“Let’s try them on,” I say, because I’m a glutton for punishment.
We grab our respective pairs and head for the fitting rooms in the back of the store. They’re old-school, just two curtained stalls side by side. The curtain rings squeak as I pull mine closed.
Is this honestly my life now? Trying on purple spandex pants in a thrift store fitting room while my fake boyfriend does thesame in the stall next to me? If someone had told freshman Drew that this would be his reality, I would have laughed in their face and then asked for whatever drugs they were on.
I kick off my sneakers first, the scuffed Nikes landing with a thud against the thin plywood wall. Then I unbutton my jeans and shimmy them down, which is when reality slaps me across the face with the force of a Gerard Gunnarson hip check.
There is absolutely no way I’m keeping my boxers on under these things. The spandex is paper-thin, and my boxers have that one hole near the waistband that I keep meaning to fix. If I try to wear both, I’ll look like I’m smuggling a family of hamsters in my crotch.
I bite back a disbelieving laugh. Modesty. Right. As if that was ever going to survive this experience. I’ve seen more of my teammates’ junk than any man should in a lifetime. What’s a little commando spandex between fake boyfriends?
The boxers hit the floor, and I grab the purple pants with the determination of a man facing his Waterloo.
The fabric catches on my ankle immediately.
“Son of a—” I hop on one socked foot, trying to shake the spandex loose while simultaneously not falling on my bare ass. The floor is slippery—probably waxed—and I slam shoulder-first into the wall with a bang that echoes through the entire store.
“You okay over there?” Jackson’s voice comes through the thin partition, followed by a suspicious thump and a muffled curse.
“Peachy,” I grunt, finally getting my foot through the leg hole. “You?”
“This fabric is possessed.”
I snort, working my second leg into the spandex. The material clings to my calf like a desperate ex, and I have to do this weird wiggling motion to inch it up past my knee. My thighs, however, present an entirely different challenge.
Hockey thighs are a blessing and a curse. They’re great for explosive skating, checking opponents into next week, and filling out jeans in a way that makes people stare. They are not great for getting into pants that were clearly designed for someone with the leg circumference of a pool noodle.
I wiggle. I shimmy. I do what can only be described as a vertical twerk against the fitting room wall.
Another thump from Jackson’s stall, followed by what sounds like him bouncing off all four walls in rapid succession. “Who designed these things? A sadist?”
