“This isfun,” Gerard corrects. “Say it with me, Kyle. F-U-N.”
“I know how to spell. I just don’t know why I’m subjecting myself to this level of absurdity.”
“That’s because you haven’t had enough to drink yet.” Drew appears beside Kyle and claps him on the ass, which earns him a growl. “Give it time.”
We converge as a mismatched collection of hockey players and their adjacent humans, all dressed in various interpretations of old-school style. Jackson’s Danny Zuko stands next to Drew’s Kenickie, who stands next to Gerard’s Elvis, who’s vibrating with excitement next to Elliot’s quiet exasperation. Nathan adjusts his fedora. Kyle glowers. Alex tries to become invisible. And Oliver walks straight toward me.
“Hey.” His voice is warm and pitched low. “You look perfect.”
I glance down at my usual outfit—white button-down, khaki pants, loafers. “I look how I always look.”
“Exactly.” Oliver’s smile devastates my cardiovascular system. “Perfect.”
Before I can formulate a response that isn’t vowel sounds, Gerard herds us all toward the entrance. “Come on, come on! The night is young and so are we! Mostly! Kyle’s spiritually about seventy-three, but the rest of us?—”
“I will murder you in your sleep, Gunnarson. With Drew’s dildo.”
“Empty threats! Let’s GO!”
The double doors of The Grotto swing open, and I step into another era.
The first thing that hits me is the music. A band on a stage at the back of the room, complete with matching suits and slicked-back hair, croons Bobby Darin’s “Beyond the Sea.” The lead singer’s voice soars through the space, rich and smooth, wrapping around the melody as if it were written specifically for this moment.
The second thing is the smell. Vanilla and cherry, sweet and nostalgic, wafting from a soda fountain along the left wall. Beneath that, the warm scent of burgers sizzling on a grill, the sharp tang of pickles, and the comforting familiarity of fresh-baked pie. My stomach growls despite the nerves still churning through it.
The third thing is the decor. Checkered floors in black and white, stretching toward a dance floor where couples are already swaying to the music. Red vinyl booths line the walls, their surfaces gleaming under the warm glow of neon signs advertising Coca-Cola and Schlitz beer. Chrome accents everywhere I look—the stools at the soda fountain, the trim on the jukebox in the corner, the frames around vintage movie posters featuring Monroe, Brando, and Dean.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“Right?” Oliver materializes beside me, his presence a sudden heat along my left side, making me acutely aware of the scant inches between us. “Gerard did some research. They do theme nights every few weeks.”
I can’t respond. I’m too busy absorbing everything—the laughter bubbling up from a nearby booth where a group of elderly couples shares milkshakes, the click of heels on the checkered floor as a woman in a poodle skirt twirls past us.
This is the era I’ve been chasing through vintage shops, old records, and carefully curated playlists. And it’sreal, at least for tonight.
“Table for nine!” Gerard announces to the hostess, a woman in a pink uniform with her hair done up in victory rolls. “Near the dance floor, if you please!”
She doesn’t even blink at our group. Just grabs a stack of menus and leads us through the restaurant.
Our booth is a massive curved affair, positioned with a perfect view of both the stage and the dance floor. We pile in with varying degrees of grace—Gerard vaults over the back, Nathan slides in modestly, Kyle enters with rigidity.
I end up sandwiched between Jackson and Oliver, which is either a blessing or a curse, depending on how you look at it. Jackson’s bulk presses against my right side, familiar and grounding. Oliver’s thigh brushes mine on the left, sending sparks up my spine with every accidental twitch.
“This place is incredible,” Nathan says, craning his neck to take everything in. “How have I never been here?”
“Because you spend all your time either at the rink or eating protein bars in your room,” Drew replies. “You need to get out more.”
“I get out!”
“The dining hall doesn’t count.”
The hostess distributes laminated menus with pictures of burgers, malts, and something called an “Atomic Onion Ring Tower,” and promises that our server will be with us shortly.
Gerard immediately starts reading the entire menu aloud, complete with commentary. “Ooh, the Blue Suede Burger! That’s gotta be named after Elvis, right? Ryan, bestie, what do you think? Should I get the Blue Suede Burger? It has blue cheese. I don’t know if I like blue cheese. Elliot, do I like blue cheese?”
“You’re allergic to blue cheese, Gerard.”
“Right! That’s why I don’t like it! Mystery solved!”
