She places a kiss on my forehead before opening her door and letting me out.
I take my time walking home. I stop by the window of Wilde Beauty to gaze in awe at the manifestation of my dream, then head to my dark and potentially mouse-infested apartment—essentially a basic girl’s nightmare.
It’s just as I remember it. No better, no worse. And I last a whole seven minutes before I grow restless and decide that although I have almost a month until the moon is good to go, I don’t want to wait that long to get Dax back into my life.
He may not know me, but I know him, and I know there’s only one place Daxon McGuire hangs out on a Tuesday night.
* * *
—
The Grand Victoria Lawn Bowling and Curling Club is not known as a hot spot for nightlife in the city. But the lighting is dim, and they have twelve-dollar domestic pitchers on tap and a retired radio DJ who sets up a plastic folding table in the corner and plays hits from his iPhone.
I push open the doors and breathe in the scent of artificial ice and thirty-five-cent chicken wings. The same thing I’ve done every Tuesday from October until the end of May for the last three years of my life.
The club looks the same as I imagine it did sixty years ago. Paneled walls. A long narrow bar and a scattering of tables and chairs, all the same shade of light pinewood.
A big glass window opens to the curling rink, where eight teams look to be playing their tenth and final ends, after which they’ll make their way to the bar for pints and socializing, the entire point of the sport for most curlers.
It doesn’t take long to spot Dax. A special seashell in the Tuesday night recreational league, Dax doesn’t come for the beer. The man loves to curl, which is evident as I gaze at him hovered just above the ice, spending two minutes too long assessing his next shot.
I never thought I’d grow up to be a below-average curler in a recreational curling league. However, a few years ago, my job at Eaton’s Drug Mart had this annual health challenge where everyone was supposed to take on a new activity. I have the coordination of a newborn deer on ice. There’s a good reason why I spin instead of cycling outdoors (the safety of my fellow Hamiltonians is at stake). Dax heard about my dilemma and suggested we join the most ridiculous sport we could come up with. It came down to curling and bobsledding, but the latter is ridiculously expensive and requires much more stamina than one would think.
So we joined the Tuesday night curling league. Dax revealed he’s an ice shark who enjoys crushing senior citizens. I discovered I enjoy participating in Canada’s third-favorite winter pastime more than I ever imagined.
“Great caboose on that one, eh?”
A gray-haired woman pokes me with her elbow, her eyes locked on Dax as he crouches in an attempt to better see the angle of his line.
“If I was fifty years younger, I’d be all over that. Hell, twenty years younger, and I’d probably at least see if he was in the market for a paramour.”
She chuckles. It’s a deep smoker’s laugh and is immediately followed by an obvious up-and-down.
“You’re not half-bad either. I’d introduce myself if I were you. Take it from an old bat; the good ones get snatched up quickly.”
I get a second elbow poke. My companion continues to laugh until another elderly woman emerges from the locker room, and the pair leave, laughing together.
My gaze drifts back to the ice, where Dax is still contemplating his shot but standing now. Whether it’s that horny woman’s words still lingering like smoke in the air or the fact that I’m still orienting myself in this strange new world, I take a moment to check him out. Really check him out.
Dax looks exactly the same. He’s wearing his “curling uniform,” black sweatpants that sit low on his hips and cling to a butt that I guess—objectively—most women would consider attractive. His faded black henley hugs him in all the places that make it evident that he still makes good use of the YMCA membership he’s had since he was sixteen.
His lips are pressed into a firm line, and his dark brows are pulled low as he examines the angles of the rocks. An earnest expression highlights the sharp angles of his face and strong jaw only half-hidden by his signature dark stubble.
As much as I love to rip into Dax when he gets all serious about his shots, I secretly love how much he loves to curl. I love the way I can always tell that he’s rehearsed his pregame pep talks and the way he wraps me in the biggest, warmest bear hugs any time I do anything that even remotely resembles a well-executed curling skill. And although I complain about having to drag my ass off the couch every single Tuesday to a cold, damp arena, I wish I was out there with him tonight.
Who is out there with him tonight?
With me off the roster, there’s an open vice-skip position on the Ice Ice Babies.
My eyes scan the length of the sheet. On the ice is Dougie, who is Dax’s cousin, and Dougie’s husband, Brandon. But it’s unclear who their fourth is until she slides over to Dax like a South Asian Tessa Virtue and crouches beside him, whispering something in his ear that makes him laugh. They bump fists, then complete this complicated handshake that makes my blood bubble under my skin because since when does Dax do weird bro-like handshakes? We never had one.
Sunny Khatri. In my timeline, she plays for the Hammer Curls. She’s arguably the best curler in the entire league. She’s also painfully beautiful with her long, glossy black hair and big brown baby-deer eyes. I’ve caught my Dax admiring more than her curling form on more than one occasion. In my world, they’re rivals. Here, they look to be friends. Close friends.
This could be a complication.
I turn away from the window to gather my thoughts and pull together some sort of a game plan.
Tonight needs to go well. Not only do I have to recover from a less-than-stellar first impression this morning, but I also have to start our friendship over from scratch. Usually, when I meet someone new, there’s no pressure. If we click—we click. If we don’t—well, then I say a polite thank you, next and move on with my life. But if I screw this up with Dax, I won’t be able to get back to my reality, which means I will lose the person who knows me best in the world. Even holding the idea of that happening in my head for a single moment makes my stomach feel like someone’s wringing it out like a dishcloth.