“Had to put my back into that one.” I bring my hand to my hip as if that makes the lie believable.
“I’d save a little for later if I were you.” She glides past me, and her gaze flicks to the scoreboard.
It continues to be a nail-biter of a game.
We end up tied four-all at the tenth and final end, with one rock left to throw.
Mine.
Old Gemma would be freaking the fuck out right now.
But this Gemma can’t tear her eyes from Dax as she glides back to our end of the ice.
He’s talking to Dougie. But as I approach, Dougie slides off and heads down to the other end to help call the next shot.
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.”