Page 31 of Tattered Edges

“My dad,” was his simple reply. He then filled a plate with a couple pot stickers and sat on the opposite end of the sofa, turning up the volume on the TV.

“Please, help yourself,” said Maya as she, too, grabbed a plate. “They’re pork and cabbage. Hope that’s okay.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Dada, crisp?” asked Daisy as her father popped another into his mouth.

“Hmm. Not sure mummy would approve, my girl,” he said, lifting his little one onto his lap.

“Oh, she can have a couple,” sighed Maya. “No sense in sending her into a tantrum before the match has even begun.”

We all settled in just as the game clock started. We were playing Tottenham, whose record was neither good nor bad, which meant we had a decent chance of winning our first game of the new year. When Manchester scored a goal within the first five minutes of the match, I felt quite optimistic. That feeling increased when, twenty minutes later, we got another goal, creating quite the lead—a lead that we held until just before halftime. With the extra time added to the clock, Tottenham scored its first goal.

Unfortunately, not two minutes into the second half, Tottenham had tied the game.

“Wish I could say I was surprised by their ability to blow a lead,” grumbled Rory. “You ready for something stronger than water?” he asked me as he stood, his empty beer glass in hand.

“Sure,” I nodded. “I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.”

He came back with two glasses of beer. I hardly tasted mine as I drank it, too distracted by all my other senses. Rory and I were both voicing our frustration at what we saw on the screen to players who couldn’t hear us. We were up and down enough that as the end of the game got closer, so did we. At one point, after an egregious yellow card was thrown, Rory shot to his feet. When he sat back down, his thigh brushed mine. He apologized, putting a little distance between us, and I brushed it off as nothing, equally as focused on the game.

Or, at least,tryingto remain equally focused on the game.

With him so close, it was hard not to breathe in the scent of him.

Citrus and wood.

Bergamot and birch.

Subtle yet distracting.

The truth was, even as Manchester United lost their lead, I was still enjoying myself. It had been a long while since I’d watched my football club play with someone who was equally as interested and enthusiastic about the game. It made the match more exciting.

Five minutes of stoppage time was added to the playing clock, and the score was still tied. Tottenham kicked toward our goal, but the goalie caught it and put Manchester in possession once more. As time wound down to mere seconds left, one of our players passed the ball to another, he aimed with his head, Rory and I stood in anticipation, then groaned in disappointment when the ball grazed over the top of the net.

The match ended in a tie, and we both dropped down onto the couch in unison.

“Cheer up, you two. It wasn’t a loss, now was it?” insisted Graham.

He and Maya were both staring at us with smiles on their faces I couldn’t quite interpret.

Turning to Rory, I asked, “What do you think? Is a tie worse or better than a loss?”

“Technically better,” he replied with a shrug. “But after that last bloody shot, it feels worse. They should’ve won.”

I agreed, but I didn’t voice my opinion. Now that the game was over, our proximity was suddenly more distracting than it had been. Looking at him in that moment, I tried not to think about the fact that I knew what his lips felt like.

The mere fact that it crossed my mind was all the confirmation I needed.

If, while in the company of an attractive man, I began to imagine scenarios in which we were alone—all of which included touching each other in an attempt to distract ourselves from the disappointment of our club’s loss—well, it was hard to deny my interest.

“It was still fun. Don’t deny that,” said Maya, yanking me out of my fantastical thoughts as she began to clear the table.

I stood to help, needing the excuse to redirect my attention, but Rory stopped me. “I’ve got it,” he said, freeing my hands. “You all don’t have to stay to help clean up. I’ll do it later. I need to get down to the pub, anyway.”

“Oh, come on, mate. Do you really? Can’t they go the night without you? We could all go to dinner.”

“It’s Saturday, Graham. It’s our busiest night, you know that.”

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