Page 204 of Men in Shorts

“What’s wrong?”

Brodie put a hand to his own mouth. “We can’t do this yet. We can’t sweep past the talking and just do what our bodies want.”

Technically they could do exactly that. “Right. We should talk first. Get it all out.”

“After the final. And we need to set some ground rules so we don’t say things we regret, so we don’t have a repeat of the last three months when we—” Brodie cut himself off.

Duncan finished his thought. “When we both got so defensive we couldn’t hear each other talk?”

Brodie nodded, his lips pressed tight together.

“Okay.” Think, think. “Maybe…as we’re both skipping this last match?—”

“Game. In curling it’s called agame.”

Duncan gritted his teeth. “Whatever. We could make a bet. What if, whoever wins this match?—”

“Game.”

“—gets to rant uninterrupted as long as he wants while the other keeps his gob shut and listens?”

“That sounds…” Brodie shook his head slowly “…actually pretty good.”

“Okay, then.” He extended his hand. “Deal.”

Brodie took Duncan’s hand between his own. “Deal.” Then he let go and turned away. “We should get back to our teams and eat.”

“Wait, didn’t John send you in to fetch something?”

Brodie scratched the back of his neck, looking at the floor. “Actually, I saw you leave the warm room and, well…”

“Ohhh.”

“John did suggest I use him as an excuse, so it wasn’t a total lie.”

Duncan cocked his head. “But I’ve been in here for, like, ten minutes. Why the wait?”

“It took me that long to find the nerve to follow you.”

There was the Brodie he loved—not a fearless man, but a man who acted despite his fear. A man of true courage.

“You know…” Duncan shifted his feet on the mat. “I’m not that hungry, if you want to stay and snog some more.”

Brodie gave a full-belly laugh, a sound that nearly brought Duncan to his knees with joy. It was his favorite sound in the world.

“See you on the ice,” Brodie said, and this time his smile was loud and clear.

Chapter3

For maybe thefirst time in his life, Brodie cared deep in his bones about winning.

Or more precisely, he cared about not losing. Duncan’s hyper-competitive nature—an asset for a football striker—would make him insufferable tonight if he won. Brodie had so much to say to him, and it was so hard for Duncan to shut up and listen. If winning at curling was the best way to make himself heard, then so be it.

Dinner in the warm room was a raucous affair, as nearly everyone was either punch-drunk from exhaustion or regular-drunk from alcohol. Brodie made himself stop after two drinks, but it was a challenge: Between the Christmas carols, the density of decorations, the wacky games played for even wackier prizes, and the general conviviality of the curlers, he felt like celebrating.

Of course his mood had nothing whatsoever to do with kissing Duncan again, or the prospect of their potentially naked reunion later tonight.

The announcement bell clanged in the corner of the warm room. “Sorry it’s so loud!” Garen said, looking not at all sorry. “It’s the quickest way to get everyone’s attention with this massive crowd.” He raised his hands. “It is now time for the piping-in, so I’d like all finalists to queue up with your teams over here.” A Santa-suited bagpiper—whose fluffy white hair and beard were the most convincing Brodie had ever seen—was standing near the entrance to the rink.

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