Page 201 of Men in Shorts

All Through the House went on to win the game. Luca seemed particularly chuffed, as his boyfriend, Oliver, was coaching their opponents (Hack Yourself a Merry Little Christmas).

Both teams returned to the warm room, where the air was toasty but now reeked of beer.

“Sorry, everyone!” Garen called out from behind the bar. “We had a minor mishap with the lager tap, but it’s been fixed.” He seemed even more frazzled than before, with antlers askew and eyes panic-wild. “Normal service will resume as soon as we mop up the mess.”

Soon the beer was flowing again, and the other curlers made their way off the ice. The tables sat in the same order as the sheets, so Brodie was on the other side of the warm room during this break. If Duncan wanted another clumsy conversation with his boyfriend, he’d have to go out of his way for it.

Maybe it was better to wait until they had more time and privacy. Too bad Duncan was rubbish at waiting.

The next game found them once again playing on adjacent sheets. Since Duncan was now the vice-skip—the busiest position on the team—he barely had time to notice. If he wasn’t sweeping or throwing, he was strategizing with his skip/dad, conveying the current plan to his other teammates, or updating the scoreboard (correctly, fingers crossed).

But near the end of each end, when the skips were throwing, he and Brodie stood in their respective houses to tell the sweepers what to do. Knowing the love of his life wasright therebeside him was an electric thrill that demolished his focus.

It wasn’t only Brodie’s presence distracting Duncan. It was the change in him since his return from overseas. He called out commands with confidence, never second-guessing or blaming himself for mishaps like he would’ve done before. This new self-assurance was, frankly, really hot, but also a bit intimidating.

Och, that probably said more about Duncan than it did about Brodie.

“How about…here.” Dad tapped the spot in the house where he wanted the broom placed for his penultimate throw of the game.

“Got it.” Duncan set his broom with its orange head facing the other end of the sheet. He was starting to piece together how curling was played, but his glimmer of understanding only highlighted how much more there was to learn.

A crack sounded from Brodie’s sheet, then a curling stone came rocketing toward Duncan. By pure reflex, he did a vertical leap to avoid getting bowled over by a twenty-kilo hunk of granite.

“Sorry!” Brodie dashed past him and stopped the rock by hooking the head of his broom under the stone’s handle. “Got away from me.” As he hustled back to his own sheet, he said, “Belter of a jump there, by the way. Reminds me of when John’s kitten heard the smoke alarm.”

Duncan smiled as he set his broom back in place. “So now I’m a kitten instead of a puppy?” Brodie had often compared Duncan’s enthusiasm to that of a baby Golden Retriever. “Should I be flattered?”

“Maybe.” Brodie pushed the rogue stone into place with the other out-of-play rocks. “Kittens are affa cute.”

Duncan’s face warmed. Ah, how he’d missed Brodie’s Doric adverbs—fairandaffa—from his native north-east of Scotland.

Uh-oh. Dad’s stone was already zooming down the sheet. It wasn’t exactly on target and looked like it might drift too far inside. “Yes! Sweep!” Duncan shouted. “Hard hard haaaaaard!” Wow, that felt good.

His father’s red rock knocked into one yellow stone, then another, knocking both out of the house. Duncan caught the one on the side before it could slide onto Brodie’s sheet.

The opposing vice-skip took off his glove and extended his hand to Duncan. “Good game.”

Wait, how could it be over already? “Don’t our skips still have another rock to throw?”

“Aye, but it’s now arithmetically impossible for us to win, so we’re conceding.”

“Oh, cool.” Duncan shook the guy’s hand. “I mean, good game.”

His opponent laughed. “It was, but I don’t mind ending it early.” He pulled a tissue from his pocket and dabbed at his runny nose. “I’m pure shattered after three games.”

The eight of them headed back to the warm room to broomstack. Two by two, the other teams followed, each entrance being met with a round of applause, regardless of results. Duncan almost wished his own sport could be as congenial as curling. Almost.

A bell clanged, making him jump in his seat.

Garen stood next to the bell in the corner of the warm room. He now wore a Santa hat beneath his set of reindeer antlers.

“Announcements!” Garen waved a green sheet of paper. “Before dinner, just a few notes on the seven p.m. finals.” He listed the finalists in the wheelchair-curling and stick-curling events, then the teams in a runners-up competition called the B final. “And in the A final, our two sole undefeated teams.…drumroll please, Willow.”

A wee ginger lass pounded rapidly on the bottom of an overturned bucket, then kicked a length of sleigh bells as a substitute cymbal crash. It was adorable.

Garen continued. “The first team is All Through The House, from our Santa-level sponsor, Harris’s Fine Interiors. Thanks to the Harris family for their supreme generosity, by the way.” He bowed to Mum and Dad with palms pressed together. “And playing against them will be the team from our worthy charity—and indefatigable co-planners—New Shores itself: Hard! the Herald Angels Sing.”

Of course.

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