Page 203 of Men in Shorts

Duncan gave a double fist-pump, then sent back a string of strong-arm and jazz-hands emojis.

Over the ceiling speaker came “I Want an Alien for Christmas” by Fountains of Wayne, a song he’d not heard in years. He returned to his football warm-ups, doing shuffling hip turns in time to the music, arms outstretched. By the second chorus, he’d made it a dance, singing along and adding the mimed hand gestures he’d invented as a kid.

“I want a little green guy about three feet h—” Duncan froze on one foot, his knee raised. “Hi.”

Brodie stood in the workout room doorway, halo-less, one hand shielding his mouth as if to hide his laughter. “Hi yourself, Britain’s Got Talent.”

Duncan set his other foot down instead of obeying instinct and sprinting over into Brodie’s arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Really, you’re starting with that question again?”

“Sorry. You surprised me.”

“I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”

This was true, and not necessarily bad.

“Anyway,” Brodie said, “John sent me in to fetch something. I think it was a ruse to get us together again.” He started skirting the edge of the room, not coming closer but not moving farther away either. Had he worn that V-neck pine-green jumper today because he remembered how much Duncan loved it? “Heather told me Warriors won. She was fair relieved.”

“Me, too. Greenock was a crucial match.”

“That’s what Fergus said.” Brodie stopped at the wall-mounted magnetic tactical whiteboard, with little discs representing stones lined up at the bottom. He stuck one of each color side by side near the center of the house.

Having a longer look at him now, Duncan confirmed what he’d guessed earlier: Brodie’s beard was unevenly trimmed, like he’d started on the left side—maybe when he’d heard Duncan would be here today—before giving up due to lack of time. The thought was strangely touching.

“I guess we’re skipping against each other in the final,” he said when Brodie kept fiddling with the whiteboard. “Skipping, is that the right word?”

“Probably. Seems like there’s two words for everything in curling.”

“You’d think they’d all get together and agree on vocabulary. I mean, how many curlers can there possibly be in this country?”

Brodie gave him thatChrist-what-an-eejitlook. “Curling was invented in Scotland.”

He shrugged. “So was golf, and not many people play that either. Not compared to football.”

Shaking his head, Brodie slapped another yellow stone on the whiteboard. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Find a way to be too cool for whatever’s happening around you, unless it was your idea.”

Ooh, so Brodie’s halo was well and truly discarded now. “Do I?” Duncan asked, fighting back a smirk.

“You have to slag off curling because it’s not football.” Brodie sauntered over his way. “Well, guess what? Curling is literally and metaphorically cooler than football.”

Duncan gasped. “You shut your blaspheming mouth right now.”

Brodie stopped within arm’s reach, lips twitching. “Why don’t you shut it for me?”

The air between them crackled with energy, an energy that melted all Duncan’s rational thoughts about holding back, taking their time, making sure they were on solid ground before?—

He moved in and kissed Brodie. Brodie kissed him back, with such fervor that Duncan felt like he was on the ice again, his footing unsteady and unsure.

Until he wrapped his arms around Brodie and pulled him close. That was all he needed to feel the earth holding them up, adding moral as well as physical support and saying,About fucking time, youse two.

Brodie’s beard was softer than it looked, and made Duncan’s lips tingle the way mere stubble had never done. Brodie tasted of tea and sugar andhim, familiar and yet completely new.

But then he pulled away, stepping out of Duncan’s arms.

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