Dax moves to meet me at the hack, and the part of me that has yet to be fully taken over by hormones expects a pep talk.
Dax absolutely hates to lose and takes curling far more seriously than one should ever take a sport that’s dominated by senior citizens. I’m prepared for explicit instructions on how and where he wants me to put my rock, but as he slows to a stop in front of me, he lands just a little too close. His eyes slide over my body as if he’s mentally deciding in what order he intends to remove my clothes later tonight.
“Hey.”
It’s just one word. But the way that he says it has me absolutely certain that the next ones out of his mouth are not going to be about curling.
“I was thinking, after the game. We could maybe head back to my pla—”
“Yes,” I answer before he finishes, and he smiles. The sex-face gives me away again.
“You look really good tonight,” he says.
I’m wearing leggings and a massive hoodie because the arena is freaking cold. Still, Dax’s eyes are on the tiny patch of collarbone where my neckline is a bit stretched out, and the way his eyes linger makes me wonder if tomorrow morning I’m going to need to wear a turtleneck.
There’s an impatient clearing of the throat from Brandon, who is quietly waiting for us to cease the eye-fucking and throw the last rock. It’s not the worst idea. The quicker the game is over, the faster we get out of here. Dax turns and glides over to where Brandon is waiting to sweep.
“Hey,” I call after him, pointing at the rock at my feet. “You didn’t tell me what you want me to throw.”
He shrugs, looking unfussed. “Whatever’s gonna get us out of here the fastest.”
* * *
—
The curling gods look favorably on me.
I throw my rock a tad bit heavy. However, my aim is dead-on. It takes out two of our opponent’s rocks and one of our own, but it holds on to the outer edge of the circles.
I believe the correct curling term is a biter.
How fitting.
It earns us a point. Which means we win.
The crowd goes wild. Or at least Dougie and Dax do, and I’m swept into a burly-man group hug.
Dougie makes us stay for a postgame beer (which we drink in record time).
Buzzed from the beer and the sweet taste of victory, we decide to walk back to Dax’s place since his car is still in the shop. I also suspect that Dax is worried that if we’re confined to an Uber’s back seat, I might try to take his pants off.
He has every right to be afraid.
His postgame shower made the ends of his hair curl, leaving it a little wild. And his shirt clings to him in all the right places, leaving enough to my imagination that I flip-flop from picturing him naked to feeling like I need to feel his hands on me immediately or I’m going to crawl right out of my skin.
Dax, however, is not as feral. He grabs my hand as we walk along the near-empty street, lacing his fingers through mine. And that act makes my heart swell. I can read Dax like a book; I note his side-eye toward me, his smile when he knows he’s been caught looking.
“What?” he asks.
“I think you like me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re holding my hand, for one.”
He looks down at our entwined fingers. “What if I’m making sure you don’t wander out into traffic? I think with you, it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “We can go with that one if you want.”
Dax stops mid-walk, and because I don’t expect it, I keep going until he tugs my arm, causing me to fall back into his chest, where he catches me in a hug.
I look up, and his eyes are so dark that I can see the reflection of the streetlights. He moves his arms up my back until he cups the back of my head. He tips it back and lays a slow, lingering kiss on my lips that steals my breath away.
“You might be right. I might like you a little.”
He kisses me again as if he likes me a lot.
Our make-out acts like dynamite to a dam. Once we start, we can’t stop. It takes us upward of twenty minutes to make it half a block. We don’t make it more than six feet at a time before one of us pulls the other into an embrace, and then it’s all lips and hands and tongues until one of us pulls away with a We should keep going.
Make out, walk, repeat. Make out, walk, repeat. Until finally, Dax pulls away.
“I’m another two blocks. As much as I’m enjoying every single second of this, I’d really like to get you back to my place at some point tonight.”
“Ah yes, the bearskin rug. Well, what do you say we make a run for it?”
Dax eyes me like he thinks I’m not going to do it. I take off in a sprint, as fast as my sandals will allow. It’s half a block before his long legs catch up, and he once again grabs me by the hand and doesn’t let go until we reach the front door of his three-story walk-up.
We make out in his front lobby. He presses me against the wall, leaning his hard body into mine. He nibbles and licks and kisses my neck from my jawbone to my shoulder while his hands grip my ass and pull my hips to his. He’s so hard. I’m so turned on, and, apparently, we’re also both loud, which is why his elderly neighbor is standing in her doorway, giving the pair of us a dirty but completely understandable look.
“Apologies.” Dax tips the brim of a hat he’s not actually wearing. He grabs my hand, and we take the steps two at a time until we reach the third floor. I’m pulling his shirt from his jeans as he fits his key into the lock. I’ve got it completely out by the time he opens the door and flips on the lights.
My only objective is to get Dax naked, but I pause in shock at the sight of his apartment.
I’ve been to my Dax’s apartment easily a hundred times. It’s the same one in this timeline. A spacious one-bedroom with parquet floors and a kitchen that hasn’t been updated since the late seventies. But this place looks so different.
I always joked that Dax’s place was decorated to look like it walked off the pages of a Crate & Barrel catalog. In my timeline, he has a tan leather sofa that he agonized about for a full six months before buying. He’s so in love with his carpet that he refuses to let me drink red wine in his living room.
This room is meticulously neat, like the one in my world. But the couch is faded and worn, as if he bought it secondhand. The furniture, although tasteful, shows the scars of many years of scratches and dents and cups left without coasters. Dax’s big screen is nowhere to be found. His carefully curated art is missing from the walls. The room looks half-empty.
“It’s not much, but it’s home.”
I flip my attention back to Dax, who is watching me take everything in.