Page 68 of Advanced Chemistry

“Seriously. If you deliver a pancake in twenty-one minutes and thirty seconds, then it goes in the trash. We take our carbohydrates very seriously.” Anton leaned back and crossed his arms.

Chase seemed to enjoy our brand of shittalking.

“When does the timer start? It should start when all the ingredients are on the counter, as is comparable to the setup on cooking competition shows.”

“Okay, then. Get your ingredients ready.” I tapped the nonexistent watch on my wrist. “Time’s a ticking. I’d hate to see these pancakes wind up in the trash.”

“Is there anything we can help with?” Anton asked.

“There’s fruit in the fridge. Perhaps you can cut up a fruit salad in between puzzling,” Chase said.

“That we can do.” I pulled blueberries, strawberries, and peaches from the fridge, while Anton grabbed a bowl and cutting board—and Chase’s ass. I gave it a squeeze, too. For someone who had never done a squat in his life, it was a very nice ass.

“Okay, Chase. You got this.” I rubbed his shoulders as if he were about to go into the boxing ring.

We took our seats. Anton dramatically lowered his finger on the timer button.

Putting together the fruit salad was easy. We dumped blueberries and strawberries into the bowl. I cut up the peaches into slices. The main event was happening by the stove, and we couldn’t look away.

Chase worked with precise diligence, his face dead serious as he measured and mixed ingredients with care. There was no winging it here. He used a knife to slice off runoff from a measuring cup to get exact amounts. He studied batter consistency with the gravity of heart surgery. He acted as if he were tasked with cooking the world’s best batch of pancakes. Anton and I would’ve been happy no matter how they turned out.

Anton’s expression of sweet awe, that someone would care this much about our breakfast, matched mine.

“We’ve hit the thirteen minute mark!” he exclaimed. “The question is…will the first batch of pancakes make it into the pan on time? Sebastian, what do you think?” Anton had filled in as announcer at a few South Rock football games, despite having no experience. Just lots of confidence. He still had the golden touch.

“Well, Anton, Chase has been hitting required milestones so far on his pancaking journey. But will this be the end of the road?” I asked, attempting an announcer voice myself. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What’s this? It looks like he’s…”

Chase poured the first cup of batter onto the sizzling pan.

“He’s doing it!” I yelled.

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire? No, more like into the frying pan to create some fire pancakes,” Anton said. “And boom! Another pour of pancake batter onto the pan. In all my years of pancake broadcasting, I’ve never seen a pour like this. I don’t know about you, Sebastian, but it’s bringing a tear to my eye.”

“It was a spectacular pour. Yet will the frying pan be friend or foe? We have to let chemistry take its course now. Can these pancakes heat up enough without getting burned?”

Despite our idiotic broadcasting, Chase didn’t flinch. He was fully in the zone. His level of concentration was something to behold. I could tell Anton wasn’t having it. He saw another challenge.

He stood up and waltzed to the stove. “I’m going on the field for a closer look.”

Chase gave a terse nod.

“Chase Mathison, the country’s preeminent pancake maker isn’t letting the increased attention diminish his skills. But what happens when other stimuli enter the picture?” Anton kissed the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. “Will this disrupt the all-important pancake flip?” He kissed across his neck, nuzzling into the back of his head. “We can’t eat half-pancake, half-batter.”

“That won’t happen,” Chase said through stifled breath, his composed demeanor breaking by the second.

“You won’t let that happen.” The announcer voice was gone, replaced with something more tantalizing. Anton grabbed the spatula and thwacked Chase on the ass. The jolting cry that escaped from his lips made my dick stand at attention.

“I’m going to need my spatula soon,” he said.

“Sure thing.” Anton whacked him on the ass again, then handed the spatula back to him. He took it with a shaky hand and flipped the pancakes.

I grabbed an extra wooden spoon. “Do you need this, Chase?” I pressed the handle end against his ass, as close to his hole as I could get over his pajama pants. “To scrape up the extra batter?”

I circled the end around his clothed sensitive area.

Chase closed his eyes. “You guys are really asking for burnt pancakes.”

“Are we?” Anton nibbled at his ear lobe, while I smacked his ass with the spoon.

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