Kyle’s knees bend. His arms lock around Jonas’s waist. And then, in one fluid motion that happens faster than my brain can register it, Kyle lifts Jonas clean off the ground and flips him upside down.
“Oh my God,” Drew breathes.
Jonas’s crotch is now directly in Kyle’s face. His legs spread wide, gripping Kyle’s calves for balance, and then Kyle starts spinning.
Slowly at first, then faster, then faster still, until they’re nothing but a blur of black fabric and limbs in the center of the rink.
“That’s basically sixty-nine on ice,” Drew says, his voice strangled.
“Wood,” I correct automatically, because apparently my brain has decided that’s the important detail here.
“Whatever! It’s pornographic!”
He’s not wrong. From this angle, it looks like Kyle might actually be nuzzling it. I can’t tell if that’s intentional or just physics, and I’m not sure I want to know.
The song hits its final notes, and Kyle slows to a stop, lowering Jonas to the ground with surprising gentleness. They end up in a pose that can only be described as “two seconds away from making out. ”Jonas’s back is against Kyle’s chest, Kyle’s arms wrapped around him, both of them breathing hard and glistening with sweat under the disco lights.
The silence lasts approximately half a second before the crowd erupts.
Kyle and Jonas skate off the rink, and I watch Kyle make a beeline for Alex, who launches himself at the goalie with zero regard for personal safety. Kyle catches him easily, and Alex is babbling something about “best performance ever” and “you were amazing,” which makes Kyle’s ears turn an adorable shade of pink.
“We’re fucked,” I say flatly.
“We’re not fucked,” Drew insists, but his voice wavers. “We just need to be ourselves. Like Elliot said. Authentic. Real.”
“Drew, Kyle just did a spinning sixty-nine on roller skates while miming masturbation techniques. How do we compete with that?”
Before he can answer, the DJ’s voice booms through the speakers again. “Next up, we have Gerard Gunnarson and Nathan West!”
The opening synth of “Funkytown” fills the rink, and Gerard reappears in all his hot pink glory, this time with Nathan in tow. Nathan’s wearing a matching outfit that is at least three sizes too small, and appears to be questioning every life decision that led him to this moment.
Gerard, however, was born for this. He grabs Nathan’s hand and yanks him into the rink, immediately launching into a routine that’s equal parts disco and soft-core pornography.
Nathan, to his credit, manages to keep up. He’s not as naturally gifted as Gerard—few humans are—but what he lacks in grace, he makes up for in sheer determination. When Gerard dips him backward, Nathan commits fully, arching his back until his hair nearly touches the floor.
The crowd eats it up. More phones appear. Someone starts a “Gerard! Gerard!” chant that spreads through the entire rink.
Then Gerard does something that makes my stomach drop.
He grabs Nathan by the hips, lifts him straight up, and positions Nathan’s crotch directly in front of his face. It’s the same move Kyle and Jonas did, but somehow Gerard turns it into something even more obscene. Nathan’s legs wrap around Gerard’s neck, and Gerard starts spinning.
“Is this a thing now?: I ask no one in particular. “Is face-to-crotch spinning the new standard?”
“Apparently,” Drew mutters.
Gerard finishes the spin and lowers Nathan to the ground, but Nathan’s legs are shaking, and he can barely stand. Gerardcatches him before he falls, turning the near-disaster into a romantic embrace. The crowd awws.
“He’s going to need therapy after this,” Drew observes.
“We’reallgoing to need therapy after this.”
The routine continues with Gerard pulling out move after move that shouldn’t be physically possible. At one point, he makes Nathan roll between his spread legs, Nathan’s forehead undoubtedly grazing Gerard’s balls. At another point, they both drop into splits facing each other, their crotches nearly touching, and do some kind of synchronized pelvic movement that makes the front row fan themselves.
The finale involves Gerard lifting Nathan over his head with one arm while Nathan strikes a pose worthy of being on the cover of a Harlequin romance novel. Gerard spins once, twice, three times, then sets Nathan down and drops into a final pose—one knee on the ground with his hand over his heart.
“Elliot,” Drew calls over the cheering, “you okay with Nathan near all of that?”
Elliot, who’s been watching the performance with an expression of mild interest, shrugs. “It was my idea. I want Gerard to win.”
