“You’re evil,” I tell him with newfound respect.
“I prefer strategic.”
“Oliver and Mason are next,” Drew says, checking the lineup. “Then us.”
My stomach clenches. Oliver and Mason skate onto the rink as Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” begins to play, and what follows can only be described as foreplay on wheels.
Oliver, in his captain’s confidence, takes Mason’s hand and pulls him close. His other hand rests possessively on Mason’s lower back.
“Should I be weirded out that all of this is turning me on?” I whisper to Drew.
Drew chuckles low in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “I think every guy here is aroused by what’s happening. Probably the Ice Queen’s intention—sniff out whether we’re truly into each other based on our body’s physiological reactions.”
“Are you serious?”
“Think about it. She’s probably somewhere in this crowd, watching us watch the show, looking for tells.” His hand tightens around mine. “So be aroused and proud of it, Jacky. Because when it’s our turn…”
Before I can fully process what Drew is insinuating, Oliver and Mason transition into something that short-circuits my brain.
Oliver’s massive hands grip Mason’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest, and Mason arches backward with the kind of trust that only comes from extensive practice.
Or extensive fucking.
The thought hits me at the same moment I hear the whispers around us.
“Are they…”
“I thought Oliver was single?”
“Look at the way Mason’s grinding on him.”
“Holy shit, is the captain hooking up with his teammate?”
Drew leans in, his lips brushing my ear in a way that sends electricity down my spine. “Oliver and Mason have been spending most of their free time this week in Oliver’s room.”
I turn my head slightly, our faces now inches apart. “Practicing choreography?”
“That’s what I assumed. But now?” He glances back at the rink, where Oliver has Mason bent backward over his arm, their hips doing a synchronized roll that belongs in an R-rated music video. “I’m starting to think they were plain old fucking.”
Oliver pulls Mason upright and spins him, their legs intertwining in a way that makes their crotches brush together. Mason’s head tips back, exposing his throat.
“That’s not a dance move,” I say. “That’s foreplay.”
Drew agrees. “Oliver’s marking his territory.“
As if to prove our point, Oliver’s hand slides from Mason’s waist to his ass, squeezing it. Mason doesn’t flinch—if anything, he pushes back into the touch, his body language screaming for more.
Someone wolf-whistles.
“I’ve known Oliver for three years,” Drew mutters, shaking his head slowly. “Three years. And I had no idea he was into Mason.”
“Maybe it’s new?”
“Maybe. Or maybe our captain is better at keeping secrets than any of us realized.”
Oliver dips Mason again. When he pulls him back up, their foreheads touch, and they stay like that for a long time, breathing each other’s air. It’s intimate in a way that makes me feel as if I’m intruding on something private.
“Okay, that’s definitely not choreography,” I say. “That’s the ‘I’ve seen you naked multiple times’ face.”
