“Suit yourself.” Jonesy clapped Leo’s shoulder and was gone, weaving back toward the booth where Russ was already flagging down Wes.
Leo leaned toward Dawson, close enough that his arm pressed against Dawson’s on the bar. “Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I mean—stay. I’ll be back.”
He joined the guys in their booth. Carter had, in fact, bought a round, and Leo slid in next to Russ and told the story of the second goal from his angle, how he’d seen the lane open before Carter even looked up. Jonesy interrupted three times. Riggs called him a show-off, which, coming from Riggs, was a compliment. Novo contributed a single dry observation aboutthe referee’s eyesight that got the entire booth laughing. Leo caught Carter’s eye across the table. Carter raised his glass a quarter inch.
His mother’s text was still sitting unanswered in his pocket. He didn’t remember it until Jonesy was buying the second round, and by then, it didn’t feel like something that needed answering tonight.
He’d been stealing glances at the bar between rounds. Dawson hadn’t moved. Book open, beer replaced at some point, shoulders looser than Leo had seen them in weeks. He looked comfortable on that stool in a way that made Leo’s chest tight. Dawson being comfortable in public was rare, and Leo couldn’t go sit next to him and put a hand on his knee the way Wes had hooked Gunnar’s belt loop without causing tension between them. He could see it. He just couldn’t have it. Not here, not yet, and the gap between those two things had been pulling at him since the second round.
The booth thinned out. Russ left first, then Riggs, then Novo with a nod that passed for a goodbye. Leo slid out and crossed the room.
Leo popped back onto his stool. His knee pressed against Dawson’s thigh under the bar.
“You’re still here,” Leo said.
“Said I would be.”
“You’re reading tonight.”
“You were busy.” Dawson’s thumb stayed on the page, marking his place.
“I’m not busy now.”
Dawson closed the book. Leo watched the tendons in his hand shift as he set it on the bar. The game-high was fading. What replaced it had been running underneath all night, steady, waiting.
“Meet me outside?” Leo said.
They left through the front. Dawson first, Leo a minute later, long enough that it looked like nothing. The cold hit him when he pushed through the door, November air sharp enough to cut through the residual warmth of the bar. Main Street was quiet. A truck idled at the far end, exhaust visible in the streetlight. Dawson was leaning against the side of the building, hands in his jacket pockets.
Same wall as Thursday night. Same distance. But Thursday night, Dawson had been restless, pushing against his own limits, and tonight he was still. He stood with his jacket open despite the cold, one boot flat against the brick, his head tipped back so the streetlight caught the line of his throat. Like he’d already decided something and was waiting for Leo to figure out what it was.
“Follow me home?” As badly as Leo wanted to kiss Dawson, he wanted to get somewhere warm first.
“Okay,” Dawson said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pushed off the wall and caught Leo’s wrist—two fingers pressing against the pulse point, brief, deliberate. Then he let go and headed for his truck.
Leo stood on the sidewalk, pulse hammering where Dawson had touched him without a second thought. Cold air on his face.Beer on his tongue. He was walking to his car before Dawson’s taillights cleared the block.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Leo took the stairs two at a time, and Dawson stayed close enough to smell him, cold air and sweat and whatever he put in his hair, and his hands were shaking because they wanted to be on Leo’s back, on his waist, pulling him around on the landing and pressing him into the wall before they even got the door open. Three flights with that want climbing up his spine, and by the time Leo got the key in the lock, Dawson was close enough that his exhale moved Leo’s hair. Leo’s hand fumbled the key.
The door opened, and Leo blew through it, jacket off, keys tossed, moving through the apartment the same way he’d moved through the game, all speed and noise and no off switch.
“You want a beer? I’ve got some craft stuff Jonesy left here. I need to eat something. I haven’t eaten since pregame. There’s chicken in I could heat up, or there’s pasta from?—”
He kept rambling as he started pulling containers out of the fridge, telling Dawson about the Thai place in Oshkosh that Russ somehow convinced to deliver from despite how far away they were. Leo’s voice bounced off the cabinets.
“Leo,” Dawson interrupted when Leo finally stopped to take a breath.
Leo stilled, staring at the open fridge as if he had know idea what he was doing. He grabbed two bottles off the top shelf.
