He picks it up, examines it with genuine interest, then skates over to return it to its owner with a bow that would make a Disney prince jealous.
“We’re going to lose,” I say flatly.
Drew grabs my shoulders, his hazel eyes intense. “No. We’re not going to lose. We’re going to go out there and show everyone that we don’t need to be Gerard Gunnarson to be worth watching.” He pauses. “Though it wouldn’t hurt if you could do a split.”
“I absolutely cannot do a split.”
“Then we’ll improvise.” His grip tightens, and something shifts in his expression—that vulnerability from before hardening into determination. “Besides, Gerard has Elliot in the audience. I have you. And that’s worth more than any hot pink spandex one-piece in the world.”
My heart does a jig. “That was actually pretty romantic for you.”
“I have my moments.” He grins, and I momentarily forget about the competition, the Ice Queen, all of it. There’s just Drew, staring at me as though I’m the only person in this tacky, nacho-scented roller rink.
A spotlight hits the DJ’s booth, and a deep voice booms through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,and everyone skating through life! Welcome to Spinfinity’s Roller Disco Competition!”
The crowd erupts with hoots and hollers. I spot hand-painted signs bobbing above heads.Gunnarson’s Glutes for President. Kyle + Jonas = Fire. I’m Head Over Skates for Oliver Jacoby.
My stomach somersaults when I catch sight of one that saysDrew & Jackson 4Everin glittery letters.
“The rules are simple,” the DJ continues, doing a little spin behind his turntable that makes his outfit catch the light. “Each couple must impress us with their chemistry, their moves, and their ability not to face-plant! Our panel of highly qualified judges”—he gestures to three bored college students behind a folding table—“will score based on technique, creativity, and pure entertainment value! First up, we have Kyle Graham and Jonas Patterson!”
The opening bass line of Rick James’s “Super Freak” throbs through the speakers, and Kyle glides onto the rink with Jonas’s hand in his. Where Gerard went for flash, Kyle is in simple black spandex and a tank top that showcases the muscles goalies develop from explosive movements.
What happens next makes me question everything I know about choreography.
Kyle Graham, the grumpiest goalie in BSU history, brings one leg all the way up and lets Jonas spin him like a human top.
The crowd loses its collective mind.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Drew screams beside me, gripping my arm hard enough to leave bruises.
But that’s just the appetizer. Kyle brings his leg back down, and then Jonas grips his thighs and hoists him straight up into the air. Kyle rises above Jonas’s head, and my jaw hits the floor.
Kyle, suspended overhead with his crotch approximately six inches from Jonas’s face, starts lip-syncing. His eyebrows do thissuggestive dance. His tongue darts out at strategic moments. And his hands?
They mime a jerking motion.
We’re talking full wrist action, alternating grips, the occasional two-handed technique that makes several people in the audience gasp.
“Is he…” I choke out.
“Yep,” Drew snorts.
“In front of everyone?“
“Yep.”
“With hand motions?”
“Veryspecifichand motions, yes.”
A shriek pierces through the chaos of the crowd, high-pitched and unmistakable. I scan the audience and spot Alex standing on his seat, his delicate features flushed crimson, his hands clasped together on either side of his face, turning him into a poor man’s Macaulay Culkin. He’s completely losing his mind over his best friend’s performance.
I’ve never heard him make a sound that loud in my life. The kid who whispers when he orders coffee is currently out-screaming half the sorority section.
Jonas lowers Kyle back to the ground with the kind of control that suggests they’ve practiced this a disturbing number of times. Kyle lands in a crouch, and for a split second, I think the routine is over.
I am so, so wrong.
