Page 51

Chapter 1

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”

“I’m awake.” Brodie Campbell tugged the duvet up over his shoulders, re-cocooning himself in warmth, then snuggled his face deeper into the soft pillow. “You can stop harassing me.”

“Mate.” John’s voice was right at Brodie’s ear. “Your eyes are closed.”

“The better to rest my weary head.” Also the better to cling to his last dream.

“I’ll weary your head if you don’t get your arse up and moving.” John whipped off the duvet, exposing the dream’s lingering effect beneath Brodie’s sleep trousers. “Well, good morning to both of you.”

“D’ye mind?” Brodie rolled onto his stomach, hiding his erection but also crushing it beneath him. “Ow.” He uttered a stream of slurred curses directed at John and the general universe.

“You telt me to wake you before I left for the rink.” John nudged his shoulder. “Time to bundle up for the big bonspiel. Your teammates need you. Especially me.”

So it was Saturday, the day of the Christmas charity curling event, which John had somehow roped him into despite Brodie’s complete absence of athletic ability.

John leaned over him. “I brought you a nice fresh cuppa. ’Mon, sit up and get yourself caffeinated.”

Brodie’s stomach growled. “You mentioned eggs and bacon?”

“Naw, it’s just a saying. There’s toast and porridge, as usual.” John sat next to him, creaking the futon’s springs. “Did you phone Duncan last night to tell him you’re back in Glasgow? Like you’ve been promising me you’d do the last three nights?”

Brodie reached under the pillow and crushed it against his ears. He couldn’t breathe like this, but surely John would give up before suffocation set in.

“Right.” John’s weight left the futon. “You’ll wish you had done.”

Brodie lifted his head. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I need to go to the rink early to help set up. See you at ten o’clock on the dot!” He strutted out, leaving the guest room door open.

Brodie sat up to sip from the holly-patterned mug John had left behind. The tea was fair strong, just the way he needed it.

He rubbed his face hard to wake himself. Och, he still hadn’t shaved the beard he’d grown in St. Petersburg. Maybe there’d be time to at least trim it before going to the rink today.

He tugged on his comfy tan cardigan—the one Duncan always said made him look like “a hot Mister Rogers”—and dragged himself out of bed.

As he shuffled into the living room, his toes struck a Christmas bauble that had rolled off the tree—no doubt with the help of Hardie the tuxedo kitten, who was sitting in the crook of the L-shaped couch, washing his face like an innocent bystander.

Brodie picked up the bauble and returned it to one of the tree’s higher branches, theoretically out of Hardie’s reach. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The scent of Fraser fir eased his morning grumpiness by at least ten percent.

Each time he examined this tree, a new piece stood out. John’s husband, Fergus, did salvage art as a hobby, recycling castoff items into marvelous works. Hanging a few inches from Brodie’s nose was a Santa made out of a small strip of weathered wood, with glittering costume jewelry forming his eyes and the buttons of his coat. Beside it hung a reindeer assembled from tiny springs like those inside a clicky pen.

Brodie went into the kitchen to find the artist himself at the table, hunched over his tablet.

“Excited for your big curling debut?” Fergus asked. “John tells me you looked a natural at Thursday night’s practice session.”

“Really?” Brodie let rip a yawn as he took a bowl from the cupboard beside the sink. “I’ve never been a natural at anything sporty.”

“Everyone’s got an athlete in them somewhere.”

Easy for star midfielder and football captain Fergus to say.

“It’s just for fun and charity, anyway.”

“John says New Shores could make more than fifteen thousand pounds out of it, depending how the raffle goes.”

“Good on him,” Brodie said. “He’s put loads of work into planning this event. Dunno where he finds the energy.”

“Me neither. I’m proud of him, though.” Fergus pushed a hand through his ginger hair and gave a big sigh. “I just wish he’d not nicked my best goalkeeper and striker. We could certainly use them in today’s match at Greenock.”

Brodie wrapped his hands round his mug of tea, focusing on its bone-warming heat rather than memories of all the Saturday afternoons he’d frozen his arse off at various football pitches. While he was overseas, he’d sorely missed cheering on the Woodstoun Warriors, Fergus’s all-LGBTQ amateur football team.

His heart ached now at the memories: the camaraderie of the Rainbow Regiment fan group, the tension of a close match, and the electric thrill that coursed through his body whenever Duncan Harris scored a goal.

Wait, wasn’t he the Warriors’ best striker? Surely Fergus hadn’t meant Duncan would be at the charity curling tournament. John would’ve mentioned it.

Right?

On the kitchen table across from Fergus lay a document bearing the letterhead of New Shores, the refugee-assistance charity where John worked part-time and Brodie had spent all of his internships, including last summer’s…which had then extended into autumn.

Brodie picked up the multi-page document, titled Jingle Bell Rocks Teams.

The first four-person curling team belonged to New Shores and called itself “Hard! The Herald Angels Sing.” It featured Brodie, John, and two of New Shores’ legal staff. The other teams came from local companies and organizations, each paying a fee to enter their own quartet of brand-new curlers, all of whom had received coaching courtesy of Shawlands Rink volunteers.

The second team, from a home-security firm who were one of the event’s “Elf-level” sponsors, was called “Guard Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

He snorted at the curling puns, then flipped the page to read the other participants.

The flat’s front door burst open, and John hurried through. “Och, there’s the team sheet. I’d lose my own head if it wasnae attached to my neck.”

Brodie couldn’t answer, being struck speechless by the next team:

All Through the House, from Harris’s Fine Interiors (Santa-level sponsor)

Team members:

Ellie Christie

Alan Harris

Caroline Harris

Duncan Harris

As John reached for the document, Brodie held it out of reach. “Why didn’t you tell me Duncan was in this bonspell?”

“Bon spiel ,” John said.

“Whatever!” He brandished the team sheet. “Was this on purpose? Are you playing matchmaker again?”

“More like match- mender .” John waggled his forefinger. “Mind, you would never have got together with Duncan in the first place if not for me?—”

“And me,” Fergus added.

“—and look what it’s brought you so far. Two years of blissful romance.”

“A blissful romance that’s none of your business.” Brodie slapped the team sheet onto the table. “If there’s any mending to be done, we’ll do it ourselves.”

“Considering you’ve not told him you’re home yet,” John said, “I’d say there’s plenty of mending needed. What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Brodie said, then huffed out a sigh. He wasn’t convincing anyone, least of all himself. “It’s just been a bit weird between us these last three months. We’ve been arguing ever since I extended my internship.”

John’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, no.” He looked at Fergus. “Did you know about this? Has Duncan mentioned them falling out?”

“We’ve not fallen out,” Brodie said. “Not exactly.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fend off an oncoming stress headache. “I’d planned to surprise him tomorrow after work with dinner and a hotel—in other words, several hours alone to sort things between us. Being thrown together at a massive bonspiel will not help.”

“Sorry, I’d no idea,” John said, “though I wondered why you seemed so nervous about seeing him again.” He brightened. “Sometimes it’s better just to go with the flow rather than plan everything. Gives you less time to put pressure on yourself.”

“Talking of time.” Brodie checked the clock, then cursed. “I need to shower and shave if Duncan’s to be there. Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

“You needed your rest for the curling,” John said. “Jet lag and all.”

“I’ve been home three days. The jet lag is gone.” Brodie crossed the kitchen, taking a last gulp of tea and spilling half of it down his shirt. “Mostly.” He poured the rest of the tea into the sink, then headed for the hallway.

“You’ll be late if you shave that beard off,” John called after him. “Besides, I bet Duncan will pure fancy it!”

Brodie hurried into the bathroom, shutting the door against John’s unsolicited advice.

So much for tomorrow’s perfect reunion. So much for time alone to discuss their feelings about Brodie’s unexpectedly long absence. Between John, the curling event, and Duncan’s sweet-but-overbearing parents, there’d be no peace or quiet in which to hash things out.

His reunion with Duncan, perfect or not, would come today.

* * *

Legs aren’t meant to bend like this , Duncan Harris thought as he slid out of the hack to throw his first curling stone of the day.

The moment he let go of the rock’s red handle, it was clear he’d thrown too hard. Again.

At the other end of the long, fifteen-foot-wide sheet, Mum stood in the “house,” a bullseye-looking area where Duncan’s stones were meant to stop but always seemed to sail on through.

“No!” she called to their team’s sweepers—Duncan’s father, plus Ellie, the manager of Harris’s Fine Interiors. Since sweeping made the stones travel farther and straighter, their services weren’t needed at the moment.

With a whooshing sigh, Duncan removed the Teflon slidey thing from under his left foot before standing up. He scanned the rest of the rink, where the six sheets—A through F—were lined up lengthways side by side, separated by thick blue lines painted on the ice. Each sheet was occupied by two four-player teams, plus volunteer coaches, which all added up to a shitload of yelling, not to mention the incessant roar of granite over ice.

Fittingly, his team were playing on Sheet F, as in Fuck this Fucking Sport.

“It’s for a good cause,” he muttered to himself. “It’s meant to be fun.”

He checked the clock. Quarter past ten. If Mum and Dad hadn’t badgered him into doing this charity event with them, he’d be en route to Greenock for the Warriors’ away match.

Scoring goals—now that was fun. Being the most rubbish curler on a team that included his fifty-year-old parents? Humiliating.

Duncan headed back to the hack to join his coach, Luca, who’d twice competed in the national curling championships.

“I know it’s frustrating at the start,” Luca said as Duncan stepped up onto the golf-green, indoor/outdoor–carpeted catwalk behind the sheet. “Mind, you’ve had but one training session. By the end of today you’ll be miles better.”

“I keep overthrowing because it feels like I’m going so slowly.” Duncan tugged down his Santa hat to shield his ears against the rink’s frosty air. “I forget I’m on ice instead of dry land.”

“It’s a whole different physics.” Luca pointed at the lead curler for their opponents, We Four Kings, as he prepared to throw. “See how he’s orientated a wee bit to the left, in the direction his skip is indicating with his broom? That stone will travel straight for a while, but as it slows down, its spinning motion will carry it back to the right. That’s what puts the curl in curling.”

We Four Kings’ lead curler had the opposite problem to Duncan—he threw too softly. The sweepers started madly brushing the ice in front of the traveling stone, one of them losing his elf hat with the golden crown affixed to it.

“Where are you now, mate?”

Duncan turned to see John Burns pacing the carpet behind the adjacent sheet, holding his phone with one hand and plugging his ear with the other. His voice was even louder than usual, which was saying a lot. Like his teammates on Hard the Herald Angels Sing, John wore a sparkly gold headband with a wobbly silver halo attached.

“Brilliant. I’ll tell them.” John pocketed his phone and beckoned to Heather, the Warriors goalkeeper and Herald Angels coach. “He’s in the building now,” he told her. “We can wait to start.”

Heather nodded, then spied Duncan over John’s shoulder. “Good luck, Harris!”

Duncan waved a thank-you. As he was turning away to prepare his second throw, Heather and John exchanged what looked like a knowing smile.

Were they laughing at him? He checked his hat to make sure the goofy little white felt house pinned to it was right side up, then checked his trousers for a rip or an unzipped fly.

Anyway. Time to focus.

He pushed one of the red stones in front of the hack, a black rubber contraption that resembled a starting block stuck into the ice. Then, for luck, he touched his chest just below the hollow of his throat. The sun-shaped silhouette of the long-distance-relationship pendant he shared with Brodie was palpable through his shirt, as it had been every day of their separation.

If Duncan could survive his boyfriend’s six-month absence without combusting, he could survive a few hours’ humiliation on the curling ice.

He settled his right foot into the hack, crouched down, and placed the shoe-shaped Teflon slider beneath his left foot. He took hold of his plastic stabilizer and the granite stone, clutching both for grim death.

Finally he pushed off into a slide, his right leg trailing behind.

Crap, he wasn’t pointed at Mum’s broom. He twisted himself in the correct direction, gave the stone a push…then tumbled over, his slider skidding out from under his foot. His elbow banged the ice, which was even less forgiving than artificial turf.

“Merry Fucking Christmas,” he mumbled as he righted himself. Usually he was a massive fan of the holiday, despite end-of-semester exams and his job in retail. But this year? Not so much.

“All right, Duncan?” Luca called out.

“I’m fine.” He stood and turned toward his coach. “Just need to find my—och!” He bumped into another body, then spun away, raising his arms for balance.

A tall, bearded man grabbed his shoulder. “I got you.” He held out Duncan’s slider. “Searching for this?”

He took the slider. “Cheers, I?—”

Wait. That voice.

Duncan looked up at the man who had steadied him. He still had the same dark-chocolate eyes and hair, the same fair skin that instantly reddened in cold weather and hot…well, hot situations. Now he also sported a beard and a halo.

Duncan’s heart leapt into his throat, blocking all words but one. “Brodie…”

What to say to the person you’ve been missing for 198 days, the person occupying your last thoughts before sleep and the first thoughts upon waking? But also, incidentally, the person who’d just watched you fall on your arse.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted.

Brodie jerked back his head, blinking hard. “I’m on the New Shores team.”

Of course. The halo. The man on the other end of John’s phone call. “You were late.”

“Oookay.” Brodie backed up. “Lovely to see you, too.”

“Wait!” Duncan took a lunging step, teetering off-balance. “Whoa.” He put his arms out to keep from falling again, and this time Brodie didn’t try to catch him. “I thought you weren’t coming home for another two weeks. You said New Year’s.”

“Things changed.” Brodie glanced over at John and Heather, who were watching the two of them with what appeared to be horror. “I was going to surprise you tomorrow,” he told Duncan. “And then this happened.” He spread his arms to encompass the cacophonous rink around them. “Last-minute substitution.”

“I’m definitely surprised, so well done, you.” Why was he just standing here instead of pulling Brodie into his arms and kissing him like it was the end of the world? His feet felt frozen to the ice they stood upon.

“Oi, Duncan!” Luca was beckoning him to the end of the sheet.

Oops. The next We Four Kings curler was already crouched in the hack, waiting for Duncan to get out of the way.

“We’ll talk after the game?” he asked Brodie.

“Yeah.” Brodie fidgeted with his halo’s headband. “Good curling.”

Duncan’s chest seemed to fold in on itself. Such a painfully polite phrase to hear from one’s boyfriend. “Good curling,” he murmured. Then he turned away from Brodie and hurried back to Luca. “Sorry.”

“No bother.” Luca handed him a broom. “Your dad’s throwing next, so you and Ellie will sweep for him.”

“Okay.” Curl now, talk to Brodie later. Duncan took the broom, which looked more like a mop, what with its flat orange head at the end of a long metal handle. “I forget: How do I know when to do that?”

“Your mum’s the skip, so she’ll tell you. If she says yes or sweep —basically anything other than no —you sweep the ice ahead of the stone. If she says hard , you sweep like your life depends on it.” Luca looked past him and smiled. “Seems someone’s rather fond of your pal.”

His father had yet to get into the hack to throw his stone, because he was doing what Duncan longed to do: giving Brodie a big hug. “Did you know this lad was gonnae be here?” Dad asked Duncan, his arm around the waist of the much taller Brodie. “We should all have a drink together after this match, have a proper catch-up.”

Brodie’s mouth was inscrutable behind his thick new beard, but his eyes held that rabbit-in-the-headlights expression.

“Traditionally we broomstack with our opponents,” Luca said, “but I’m sure there’ll be time for everyone to socialize.” He nudged a red rock in front of the hack with his foot. “Your throw, Alan.”

Broomstacking—i.e., drinking—now that was a curling term Duncan remembered from last weekend’s training session. After seeing Brodie, he could use a few glasses of courage.

Duncan took his broom onto the ice to stand on the blue border separating his sheet from Brodie’s. Across from him, Ellie waited with her own broom, concentration etched onto her ruddy face (at least the part he could see under her hat and scarf).

Whistling an off-key “Deck the Halls,” Dad adjusted his glasses, then tugged his Santa hat down over what was left of his auburn hair as he prepared to throw his stone. Both he and Mum had taken to curling with the zeal of converts, and were planning to join a league here at Shawlands. Duncan, however, planned never to set foot on the ice again.

Still, as he watched Brodie from the corner of his eye, he was glad to be here now.

Brodie slid out of the hack with an astonishing grace. Duncan could only stare in wonder as he glided by without a single waver of balance. Even his halo barely stirred. Gone was the gangly lad Duncan had fallen in love with two and a half years ago.

“Duncaaaan!” Mum bellowed. “Sweeeeep!”

“Shit.” He hurried down the sheet to catch up to the rock Dad had just released. Ellie was already brushing the ice in front of the slow-moving stone. He joined her effort, shoving all his strength and weight into every stroke, his lungs yanking in the cold air and puffing out clouds of steam.

Good way to work out frustration, this.

Mum yelled with rising gusto. “Hard! Haaaaaaaard!”

The stone narrowly missed their opponent’s yellow rock and came to rest on the line several feet in front of the house—which apparently was where Mum wanted it. Only the stones inside the house counted for points, but maybe the ones in front of the house could form a blockade?

“Good throw, Alan!” Mum beamed at Duncan and Ellie as she stuffed stray wisps of brown hair back under her Santa hat. “Great sweep, you two!”

Panting from the high-intensity workout, Duncan saluted her with his broom. Then he checked the adjacent sheet. Brodie had put his stone in a similar location to Dad’s, so it must have been the thing to do early in the first end. Or maybe every end?

Whatever. Duncan didn’t have the headspace for curling strategy just now. His reunion with Brodie had started off extra cringey, but the rest of the day was still ahead of them. This could be their best chance to heal their bond, to find their way back to each other now that geography was no longer an obstacle.

Otherwise, this Christmas would be the coldest, loneliest, bluest ever.