Chapter 8 #3
With a comforting pat to his hand, Hallie says, “No worries. Once the caber turns over, the success of the toss is determined like a clockface. A perfect toss is at twelve o’clock, totally straight from the tosser.
” She grins. “Sure-of-Foot is picky. He’s got high standards for himself, and the audience’s standards are even higher.
That was a nine o’clock fall, which might win today’s event,” she allows, “but it’s not much of a thrill.
They know he’s gonna flip it; that’s not exciting by itself. ”
“Ah,” is all Laurel can say.
Beacon stomps off the playing field, making room for the Gearkwickians. A couple make comments that appear to be friendly; Beacon nods at one and shakes hands with the other before clearing the space. His kilt swings around his knees with every long stride.
Hallie fans herself. “I do love a strong elf in a kilt, and Sure-of-Foot makes a great specimen.” Noticing Laurel’s venomous look—he doesn’t intend it, but it overtakes his face before he can mind himself—Hallie cackles.
“Don’t worry yourself none. My girl would behead him before I could think about straying, and she’s got a good fistful of inches over him.
I just like to appreciate a nice physique.
Do you know if he goes regimented? Me and a few of the others have a running bet, but no one’s ever gotten close enough to tell. ”
Squinting after Beacon, Laurel admits, “I have no idea what that means.”
“Does he wear anything under his kilt,” Hallie says like an explanation, not a question.
Laurel squawks in offense. “You’re asking if my husband is wearing undergarments?”
Hallie shrugs. “Some athletes believe it’s bad luck! For the gals, it is what it is, but I always get a chuckle at the thought of those massive muscle-bound fellows out on the field, bollocks sticking to one leg on account of the sweat.”
First, Laurel has to cover his mouth to smother a laugh.
Then he has to use it to stop himself from speaking because the first thing he almost says is, ‘Beacon doesn’t have testicles.
’ Instead, he chokes out, “I have no idea.” He clears his throat, then adds, “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. That’s invasive.”
He expects Hallie to laugh at that, but she raises her brows instead. Tangling his fingers together, still-overheated tail wrapping weakly around his calf, Laurel worries he’s just offended the first person to try to befriend him. He doesn’t want to make any enemies.
But Hallie only nods, expression thoughtful. “Sure-of-Foot is damn private about that stuff, anyway.”
If only she knew why.
Laurel bites his lip, suddenly understanding why Beacon is so physically closed off.
Of course he would be if his natural body is a secret.
Do any of his fellow athletes know? Laurel can’t see why they’d give him grief over it—obviously he can pull his weight, and it’s not like female elves can’t hold their own.
But Beacon feels shame about his body. After they dried off, Laurel tugged on a pair of cotton small-pants to sleep in.
He hadn’t meant for them to be lewd, but they were tight and very short, the fabric thin and soft to prioritize airflow during sleep, and Beacon’s gaze had dropped immediately when Laurel appeared in them.
First to his groin, the pants hiding nothing of his package, then to the floor as his pale skin went red as his hair.
Like Laurel, Beacon climbed into bed shirtless, but he was wearing cotton knee pants that hid his thighs and cinched just below his navel, covering his lower anatomy entirely.
They hadn’t slept in an embrace, mostly due to the heat, but Beacon had taken Laurel’s hand and settled it on the pillow between their heads, and when Laurel blinked awake, their fingers had still been entwined.
“Well,” Hallie says, “About time I found my girl. She didn’t turn the caber like yours can, but she dominated the shot-put.
See you at the next game, love!” Laurel accepts her proffered hand, shaking it delicately.
Hallie lacks his calluses, but her grip is twice as firm, palm soft and squishy to match her plump stature.
Those strawberry blonde curls catch the light as she flicks them over her shoulder again, and Laurel can’t help but smile when she winks at him.
“Go get your man. He’s waiting—and not patiently. ”
It’s like a fairy tale when Laurel turns to see Beacon standing a ways off, watching him like a sharp-taloned hawk that wants to swoop in and feast. He’s waiting for Hallie to walk away rather than risk conversation with an approach, Laurel realizes.
It makes him giggle, propelling him to Beacon’s side with a broad smile.
“You were amazing,” Laurel says.
Beacon huffs, but Laurel suspects the additional flush in his cheeks is due to the flattery, not a conveniently timed gust of hot air. “It wasn’t my best performance,” he grumbles.
Laurel pushes onto his toes to drop a kiss on Beacon’s cheek. “That doesn’t change what I said.”
It wins him a contemplative hum, Laurel preening when Beacon strokes a few strands of sweaty black hair off his forehead and murmurs, “I suppose it doesn’t.”