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Chapter 3

For maybe the first 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.

Once they were all in place, Garen opened the door. The piper went first, playing “Jingle Bell Rock.” Wee Willow followed with a small boom box providing karaoke-style backing music.

They all filed out onto the ice, bobbing and swaying in time to the surprising rendition. Willow showed them where to stand, side by side facing the warm room. Through the wide window, Brodie saw the rest of the curlers watching the ceremony from where they gathered at tables or the bar.

A volunteer dressed as Mrs. Claus went down the line with a tray of whisky drams. Brodie took the offered glass with a bit of trepidation. So much for staying sober for the game.

Garen strode forth, now wearing a stole of sleigh bells in addition to the Santa hat and reindeer antlers. He took a dram from Mrs. Claus’s tray. “It’s been a glorious day so far, but also a long one, so I’ll keep it short. Good curling!”

Brodie raised his glass and shouted, “Good curling!” with the others. The whisky burned going down, then flooded his face with warmth.

Garen shook the sleigh bells around his neck. “Let the finals begin!”

A coin toss gave the Herald Angels hammer in the first end. Brodie shared a surreptitious fist-bump with John at the result. Then he and Duncan walked down the sheet to take their turns as skip.

Halfway there, Duncan asked, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“In general, or…”

“In terms of skipping. Obviously you know what you’re doing to me.”

Brodie smiled, because Duncan was flirting and because the whisky made that flirtation feel ten times as fabulous.

Luca was waiting for them in the house. “Let me know if you want any suggestions.”

“Thanks,” Duncan said, “but it’s not fair if I just do what my coach says, especially a coach who’s gone to nationals.”

“I’m here to help anyone on any team.” Luca gave a smug smile. “Especially now I’ve beaten Oliver’s.” He went to stand on the carpet beneath the holly-draped scoreboard, leaving Brodie and Duncan alone in the house together.

Duncan sighed. “I’ve not got a single scooby how to start.”

It was tempting to let him flounder and thus seal a Herald Angels victory, but that would’ve been contrary to the spirit of curling. “Well, my team has hammer, which means we throw last in this first end.”

“I understand that much,” Duncan said.

“Our side will try to keep the middle area clear, in case I need to use my last stone to make a draw to the button—that’s the solid circle at the center of the house.”

Duncan laughed. “I thought there was an actual button somewhere the skip had to push. This makes more sense.”

“Anyway, your team want to keep the middle of the house blocked. So ask your dad to put a guard somewhere up there.” He pointed along the line extending forth from the center of the house. “And that is literally everything I know about strategy. I’m winging it the rest of the way.”

“Aye, right.” Duncan winked at him. “Thanks for the tip.”

Brodie headed behind the house, adjusting his halo’s headband. If only he had a Santa hat to cover his ears. With one wink, Duncan had made them tingly hot and no doubt bright red.

All Through the House held the Herald Angels to one point in the first end, then Brodie’s team stole a point in the second end to go up 2-0. Since Duncan and his teammates hadn’t scored, they kept the hammer in the third end. On his last stone, Duncan did a double takeout to score three and capture the lead 3-2.

Brodie had expected Duncan to strut and preen like he’d do after scoring a goal. Yet Duncan celebrated with only a series of low-key high fives with his teammates. Maybe the spirit of curling had taken hold of him, too.

The Herald Angels huddled with Heather before the fourth and final end.

“We’re down one,” she said, “but we have the advantage because we’ve got hammer. We score two in this end and take home that trophy.” She put a hand to the center of their huddle, and in an instant all four curlers followed suit. “Angels on three. One, two, three.”

“Angels!” they shouted, raising their hands high. Brodie’s own ferocious determination—not to mention fatigue—was mirrored in his teammates’ eyes.

Heather accompanied him and Duncan down to the other end of the ice, nearest the warm room, leaving Luca to coach the throwers.

Brodie knew what to do to try to score two: ask for corner guards, one on each side in front of the house, then put other stones inside the house behind those guards, and then…something something…victory!

But Ellie peeled off their corner guards, exposing their rocks in the house, and the Herald Angels’ attempts to replace the guards went awry, and Duncan’s mum—who clearly knew what she was doing—left her team with three red stones in the house before Duncan had even thrown his first.

“Don’t panic,” Heather told Brodie. “Mind, it’s not how many rocks they’ve got in the house right now that decides the game. It’s how many rocks you’ve got closer to the middle at the very end. You only need two, and you’ve already got one.”

Moments later, Duncan knocked that one out.

“So now you’ve got none,” Heather said. “But there’s still two for you to throw.”

Brodie examined the stones’ positions in the house. “I guess I’ll draw.” Drawing—placing a stone without touching any others—was often more difficult than hitting, but he’d been told he had a feel for it.

“All right, let’s do this,” John said as he joined them. Heather showed him where to place the head of his broom to offer Brodie the best target.

As Brodie walked down the sheet to take his shot, he saw Duncan coming the other way. He braced for an onslaught of competitive banter or a sly mind-game statement.

Instead Duncan gave him a quick broom-salute. “You got this,” he said without a trace of a smirk.

A Christmas miracle, indeed.

At the hack, Brodie took a deep breath, then got into position and took hold of the stone’s yellow handle. His pulse was pounding, despite the casual nature of this bonspiel.

He slid out of the hack at what he hoped was the right speed, then released his stone. The sweepers walked beside it, brooms at the ready, while John held them off with a steady, “No. No. No. No.”

Then all at once John let loose. “Yaaaasss! Hardhardhardhardhard! All the way! Haaaaaaaard!” He was clearly relishing this socially acceptable opportunity to scream his head off.

Brodie followed the sweepers down the sheet to the house, where his yellow stone came to rest on the side of the button.

“Great shot!” Duncan clapped him on the back. “Mum, what’s our best chance here?”

Mrs. Harris tapped her broom beside Brodie’s lone stone. “Take that one out.”

“What?” Brodie crouched down to line up Duncan’s proposed shot. “You can barely see it. You’ll crash on that guard.” He was pretty sure that was the correct terminology.

“Not if he throws soft enough,” Heather said. “A lighter weight will let him come round the guard. Tricky shot, though.”

Brodie straightened up. “Good luck,” he told Duncan, and to his own surprise, he actually meant it.

“Thanks!” Duncan strutted off down the sheet, broom tucked under his arm.

His mum turned to Brodie. “I’m so happy you’re home. I know you two will iron things out in no time.”

“We will do. Thanks, Mrs. Harris.”

“Wheesht!” She punched his shoulder. “I’ll not have you calling me ‘Mrs. Harris’ like we’ve only just met. I’m still Caroline to you, always and forever.”

“Okay,” he said, hiding his wince. Then he stepped behind the house to stand with John. Together they watched Duncan’s stone zoom down the sheet.

“He might have this,” John said.

Duncan’s stone entered the house, then exited without touching Brodie’s.

“Missed it by a bawhair.” John collected the wayward rock to set it with the other out-of-play red ones.

Duncan came back to the house and flashed Brodie his signature broad grin. “Well, I gave it a go.” Then he quickly looked away, studying the head of his broom like it held the secrets of the universe.

Had he…no. Duncan of all people wouldn’t have missed on purpose.

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe all that mattered was both of them letting go of their pride long enough to listen to each other.

Brodie turned to John. “We’re tied now, right?”

“Technically, aye, since we’re sitting one.” John pointed at the innermost of Duncan’s two red stones. “Your easiest shot is probably hitting that bang on the nose. Your shooter stays and we score two to win.”

“Okay, but if the game ended now, it would be all even. Right?”

John looked at him askance. “How would it end now, short of a meteor strike?”

“This is how.” Brodie took off his right glove and extended his hand to Duncan. “Good game.”

“Sorry?” Duncan squinted at him. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m conceding,” Brodie said. “Game over, 3-3. Nobody wins and nobody loses.”

“Are you sure?” Duncan’s eyes were asking about more than the game.

Brodie stepped closer and lowered his voice. “We can talk like adults about our relationship. We can do it without hurting each other, even if neither of us is obligated by a stupid bet to shut up.” He moved closer still, his hand open between them. “I have faith in us.”

“What’s going on, lads?” Heather hurried over to them, putting her arms out for balance. “Game’s not over. We can still win.”

“We will win,” John added. “You may be skip now, Brodie, but this has to be a group decision.” He waved down the sheet, beckoning their two teammates to join them. “And I for one want to play this out.”

Brodie pointed his broom at John. “You made this happen, mate. You pushed me and Duncan into a surprise reunion. We needed time alone to talk, but you decided to just toss us into the pot and stir, hoping for the best. It could’ve been a disaster.”

“Erm…sorry about that.” John looked nervously at the gathering crowd, which now included both teams and coaches. “But I cannae understand how conceding will help.”

“You don’t need to understand,” Duncan told him. Then he held out his hand for Brodie to shake. “Good game.”

“So what exactly is happening?” Heather asked. “With the curling, I mean.”

“We’re calling it a draw.” Brodie grasped Duncan’s hand and held on. It felt too good, too right to let go.

Heather laughed. “Lads, there’s no tying in curling. It’s not football or chess.”

“But what if Brodie had missed his last shot,” Duncan’s dad asked her, “and the score was even?”

“Then you play an extra end,” Luca said.

Load groans erupted from both teams, the word “Nooooo” echoing off the rink wall. Ellie sank down onto the nearest bench, looking like she might not move for hours.

“We’re all so knackered.” Caroline gripped Luca’s elbow. “Can we not just stop?”

Brodie squeezed Duncan’s hand, then released it. The two of them needed out of here, pronto.

Garen burst through the warm-room door, sleigh bells jangling. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“They want to declare a tie,” Luca told him. “No winners or losers.”

Garen gawped at them. “There’s no tying in curling!”

“Why not,” Brodie asked, “if it’s what we all want?”

“Cos I’ve only got one first-place trophy!” Garen clutched at his antlers, seeming on the verge of a meltdown. “And one second-place trophy. I had them specially made. I had everything sorted. Everything!”

“Okay. So, Garen? Mate?” Luca rubbed Garen’s back in what seemed a familiar move. “Why don’t we go into the warm room and discuss it, all right? Just you and me.”

“But—”

“It’s okay.” Luca’s voice held a soothing hum, like a yoga instructor Brodie had once had. “They can wait.”

Garen gave a shaky nod, then followed Luca back through the door.

“Is he okay?” Brodie asked John. “He told us this was his first event.”

“And he’s pulled it out of the bag in record time. He’s been under loads of pressure from—well, from life.” John seemed to be suppressing his natural gossip urge, so Brodie rewarded him by not pressing further.

“Right, then.” Duncan waved his hand high. “Team conference?”

All Through the House gathered at the end of the sheet. Between the roaring rocks and reverberating shouts from the rest of the rink, Brodie couldn’t hear what Duncan’s team were discussing. They were all nodding, though, which had to be a good sign.

They shared a group hug, then broke apart to rejoin the Herald Angels. Duncan beckoned to Luca and Garen through the warm-room window, and the two men hurried out to join the gathering.

“After a wee huddle,” Duncan said, “we’ve decided the first-place trophy should go to New Shores. They deserve it for all the work they’ve put into this tournament.”

“Aww, cheers, mate.” John gave him a one-armed hug. “You’re right, we do deserve it.”

“Besides,” Duncan said, “it’d look a bit dodgy for the event’s biggest sponsor to win the whole thing.” He gave Garen a little bow. “We’d be honored to accept your special second-place trophy.”

Garen beamed. “All right, then. Happy endings for everyone!”

“Happy endings!” they all cheered in more or less unison, then congratulated one another with a round of good curling s.

Instead of shaking Duncan’s hand again, Brodie pulled him into a hug.

Duncan held on so tight, his embrace was literally breathtaking. “Happy endings?” he murmured.

For a moment, Brodie could only nod. Then he loosened his grip and looked Duncan in the eyes. “That’s up to us.”

* * *

“You sure we’re allowed to be here in the middle of the night?” Brodie asked.

“Firstly, it’s just past eleven, hardly the middle of the night.” Duncan turned his key to open the back door of Harris’s Fine Interiors. “Secondly, where else can we go? Mum and Dad’ll be home soon, and you said you didn’t want to go back to Fergus and John’s in case things got ‘heated.’” Duncan wasn’t sure what Brodie had meant by heated —an argument or sex?—but he shared the desire not to have either in their friends’ flat.

Entering the cavernous stockroom, he switched on the overhead light, then frowned at the harsh fluorescent glow. Hardly a romantic setting. “Not here.”

As they walked out onto the shop floor, Brodie let out a low whistle. “They’ve outdone themselves this year.”

The shop did look magical, especially after hours. All the ambient lighting was dimmed, accentuating the faerie lights strung between and within the displays. Duncan loved how here in the shop, everything glimmered a tasteful silver and gold, while at home their decorations were colorful and tacky and fun.

“They hired a service for some of it,” he told Brodie. “The giant tree was still all us, though—my parents and me and the other employees.”

Brodie touched a branch on the five-meter-tall spruce. “Remember that time two years ago when I fell off the ladder into the tree while trying to put the star on top?”

“And I had to rescue you like a firefighter with a cat? I remember.”

To distract himself from his nerves, Duncan adjusted the elements on the smoked-glass surface of the extending dining table (￡599), shifting one of the electric candles beside the LED-lighted birch-garland centerpiece (a steal at ￡29).

“Oh, the stockings.” Brodie touched the toe of the red-and-white-striped one with Duncan’s name stitched upon it. “I remember mine from when I worked here. It had a rainbow.”

“It still does.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “It’s in a box at Mum and Dad’s waiting for you.”

Brodie scanned the ceiling. “Why are all the lights still on?”

“So window shoppers can see the displays. The lights are on a timer to go off at midnight.” He pulled his arms in tight against his body to keep from shivering. “Thermostat’s also on a timer, which is why it’s so cold in here now.”

“It’s fine.”

“‘Fine’? I can practically see my breath.”

“Still warm compared to Saint Petersburg.” He gave Duncan a sly grin. “See, you’re not the only one who can casually slip a trip abroad into a conversation, Mr. I Spent My Gap Year in America.”

Duncan looked down, tracing the rug’s geometric shapes with his toe. “That’s the difference between you and me. I took a whole year to do nothing but party and screw my way across San Francisco, while you, you went where you were needed. You actually helped people.”

“So?”

“So…” Would Brodie really make him say it? “You’re too good for me.”

Brodie opened his mouth to reply, then looked at the front window. “I don’t want to have this discussion in front of the entire Merchant City district.”

“Me neither.” He led Brodie to the kitchen section at the back of the shop, hidden from the front window by a ten-foot divider separating it from the dining area. Duncan pulled out two faux-leather slate bar stools (clearance at ￡89 each) from beneath the kitchen island and parked himself on the near one. “Och, feels good to get off my feet.”

Brodie gave a short grunt as he sat. “No one won our game, so who starts?”

“You start.” Duncan adjusted one of the plastic sale signs bearing the store’s motto ( Quality. For Life. ), pushing it closer to the set of mottled-glass, gold-rimmed wine glasses it was advertising for just ￡9 a pop.

“Okay.” Brodie put one glove in each coat pocket, then ran his hands down his thighs, smoothing his black trousers. “When I got the offer for the extended internship, I thought you’d be happy for me. I thought you knew how important it was.”

“I did know, and I was happy. I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear at the time. I think you’re amazing, and I was so proud that other people could see that too.”

Brodie met his eyes for a second, then dropped his gaze back to the floor. “But…”

“But I would’ve liked to have been asked. If you’d said, ‘Duncan, I’m thinking of doing this, how do you feel about it?’ I would never have begged you not to go to Russia. I would never have tried to make you feel guilty about staying away from me. I would never have said—” Oh God, the things he’d said, swept up in that whirlwind of fear and sadness. “I’m sorry I threw a strop.”

“If you weren’t such a hothead, I wouldn’t recognize you,” Brodie said. “Anyway, I wasn’t keeping the Russia offer a secret. It came out of the blue for me, too.”

“You could’ve shared that with me. We could’ve dealt with it together. What hurt was being left out of your decision. I felt like I didn’t matter.” Duncan’s words tumbled out. “But of course I don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, not next to your work, which is literally saving lives.”

“No. Please don’t say that.” Brodie half-turned away, then reached for the display bowl of fake fruit in the middle of the island. “I went abroad fancying myself some sort of savior, helping these poor people escape these awful places and the unenlightened eejits who hated them for who they were or who they loved.”

Because that’s what you escaped , Duncan didn’t need to say aloud. Brodie would never return to his Aberdeenshire village, would never again speak to his parents, not until they accepted him for being queer. In a way, he was as much in exile here in Glasgow as those asylum seekers were—only he didn’t have to fill in a hundred forms or answer intrusive questions to prove to Immigration Enforcement he was gay, or that his life was in danger because of it. To escape his hell, he needed only to go to university.

“I was so fucking arrogant.” Brodie stared at the fake apple as he spun it on the gleaming marble worktop. “Those places aren’t awful. Nigeria and Russia, they’re wonderful countries full of wonderful people. And to the asylum-seekers, those places are home. They’re not coming here so they can upgrade their lives the way we might buy a better car or move into a bigger house. They’re coming here because the homes they love are killing them.”

Duncan pressed the soles of his feet against the stool’s rung to ground himself. He was alive here and now—and lucky for it, lucky to have family and friends who not only accepted but celebrated who he was.

“So I’m not better than you,” Brodie said. “We’re both studying psychology because we want to help people. We just feel called to do it in different ways.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but I’ll never stop believing you’re the best person I’ve ever met.” He nudged Brodie’s leg with his toe, risking a bit of flirtation. “Don’t forget, you were the one wearing a halo all day.”

Brodie ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the dark-brown waves. “That headband was too tight. I can still feel it pinching my brain, like a phantom accessory.”

“It was pure cute, though.” He started fidgeting with the price sign again. “Talking of brains, have you looked into any graduate psych degrees?”

“I plan to stay at Glasgow Uni. What about you?”

“I would do, but they’ve got no sport psychology course.”

Brodie straightened up, looking uneasy. “Okay…”

“The premier institution for that is University of Loughborough.”

Brodie stared at him. “In Leicestershire? That’s hours away. You’d be gone for years.”

“I know. But see, they don’t offer a doctorate, just a master’s. And I think I really want a PhD…” he bit back a smile “…like the one at Glasgow Caledonian University.”

Brodie let out a whoosh of breath, then put his hand to his chest. “I dunno, Duncan, can we handle our campuses being ten minutes apart? Hanging out in two different student unions?”

“We could take turns. Monday and Wednesday you come to Caley, Tuesday and Thursday I go to you.”

“And Friday?”

“We meet in the middle, maybe an overpriced café in Sauchiehall Street.”

Brodie ran his finger along the curved edge of the island. “Are we done talking, then?” He raised his gaze to meet Duncan’s. “Cos I can’t stop thinking about how it felt to kiss you after all this time.”

“Yeah.” Duncan’s breath shuddered in his throat. “It was really good. But I don’t think we should wait another six months just so it’ll be that good again.”

Brodie shook his head.

They leapt to their feet at the same moment, so quickly they knocked over their stools.

This kiss far outdid the one in the workout room. At the feel of Brodie’s lips and tongue, Duncan’s blood surged hot, banishing every last bit of winter chill.

They peeled off each other’s coats, with such hurry that arms got stuck in sleeves, making them laugh. Then they fell into a longer, harder kiss. Brodie pressed him back against the edge of the island, his palpable erection urgent against Duncan’s hip.

Brodie’s mouth shifted to the edge of his jaw, caressing just below his ear. “Where can we go?”

“Erm…” Not back to either of their flats, for the same reason they hadn’t wanted to argue in them. Maybe a hotel room? No vacancies likely a week before Christmas. The only place they could be alone tonight was…

…right here.

He took Brodie’s hand. “This way.”

Brodie followed him across the shop. “Oh no, you’re kidding me on.”

“I’m serious.” He looked in the direction of the shop’s front entrance to make sure the window wasn’t visible from here. As suspected, no one could see them from the street.

They stopped together on the threshold of Harris’s Fine Interior’s crowning glory: the bedroom section.

“Wow.” Brodie goggled at the four-poster queen-size in front of them, its canopy garlanded with faerie lights and ivy. The alabaster duvet held gold flecks that reflected the lights above. “Fair romantic.”

“Isn’t it just?” Duncan led him toward the bed, but Brodie pulled back.

“What about the sheets?”

“Have you forgotten? We sell those, too. I’ll put a fresh set on after.”

Brodie’s eyes crinkled with what looked like anticipation, but he threw another glance behind him. “No one will come in?”

“Mum and Dad will go straight home from the rink. Nobody comes into the shop until at least five a.m.” Duncan unzipped his hoodie. “We could have a lot of fun in the meantime.”

“All right, then.” In one move, Brodie pulled his jumper and long-sleeved T-shirt over his head. “Race you naked under the covers.”

Ah, their favorite game—one of them, anyway. Duncan tried to toe off his shoes, but they were laced too tightly. He cursed and bent over to untie them.

“You’re losing big-time.” Brodie was already down to his boxer briefs and socks.

Duncan yanked off his shoes and hurled them aside.

“I win.” Brodie slipped under the duvet. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

Brodie’s eyes were wide, staring up through the canopy. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Ohhh, michty me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. At. All. Getting into bed after a long day of curling…” Brodie’s eyes rolled up and his lashes fluttered. “I could almost come from this alone.”

“Hang on.”

“Be sure and take your socks off. Feet’s the best part.” He gave a delirious laugh, like he’d just downed another dram.

Duncan finished stripping, then lifted the duvet and climbed into bed. “Oh my God.” He lay back with his head on the pillow, pulling the duvet up over his chest. It was like falling into a cloud. “Oh my God.”

Brodie shifted under the covers. “Ooh, stretch your legs, stretch your legs.”

Duncan did, then moaned as the duvet and 400-thread-count bottom sheet caressed his skin and the aching muscles beneath. Every cell danced with relief and pleasure.

“Is this what it’s like after playing football?” Brodie asked. “If it is, then I will definitely start.”

“Maybe the legs, a bit. But this is everywhere. Down to my fingertips.” He closed his eyes. “I swear even my hair is singing with joy.”

“It’s like getting into that one bath in a hundred where the water temperature’s perfect.”

“It’s like eating a really good cheesecake, but if your entire body was your mouth.”

“It’s like being born but without the painful part.”

“It’s like dying but without the painful part.”

“It’s like—wait, what?”

“You know.” Duncan opened his eyes. “It feels like heaven.”

He turned his head to look at Brodie, at the same time Brodie was turning his head to look at him. And there, on a chain around Brodie’s neck, was the silver pendant that paired with his own gold one, from the set they’d bought on their last, all-too-short night together in June.

Now, the nights were long, but they’d be as warm as ever.

Duncan touched his sun pendant, running his thumb over the words etched upon it, words he’d recited for 198 lonely nights: “We walk under the same sun,” he whispered.

Brodie touched his moon pendant. “We sleep under the same moon.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Brodie gave a gentle smile. “That sounds so much better in person.”

“I never stopped loving you, even when I was being a complete shit. Maybe especially then.” Duncan’s eyes burned, and he blinked back tears before they could be born. “But I would’ve let you go, if that’s what you needed.” He dug deep for the courage to say the scariest truth of all. “I would still let you go.”