7. Seth #2
“Can’t wait to see it.” I pluck our darts from our last game out of the board and hold both sets out to him. “Green or red?”
“Green.”
“Is that your strategy? You think I have a preference?” I smile. “When it comes to winning, I’m colorblind.”
I go to drop the darts in his hand, but he takes them from me instead, fingers brushing with mine. Long enough, intentionally enough, to make my eyes linger on his and find what I’ve been hoping for. Relaxation. The thing he treats like a luxury rather than a basic human need.
The bourbon must be working its magic, because the guy who shied away from me at the bar is nowhere to be found.
More than the set of darts he chooses, the sight of him loosening up is what shakes me.
“First shot’s yours,” I say, reminding myself where we are and who we’re with.
Nick steps back to the line, narrows his eyes, and goes for it. Broad shoulders pulling at his sweater with each throw.
Thwack. Double 18.
Thwack. Treble 20.
Thwack. Bullseye.
“Three-thirty-four!” Jorgensen announces.
“Three-fifty-five,” Orlov corrects.
“Are you sure we should be letting you count our catch?” I pull Nick’s darts from the board and line up for my own shot.
“Maybe not, but the kid can keep score for me if he’s gonna subtract like that.” Nick steps away to grab a few fries from the basket.
I throw next. Treble 19. 25 for the outer ring. And then the last dart sails low. 3 points.
Vindicated—Zach, Pyotr, and Konrad, let out a collective oooh.
“Four-forty,” Jorg says.
I’m starting to think he’s the one who missed two years of high school math.
“Four-sixteen,” I correct, not that it’s much better. “Orlov—you’re the official scorekeeper now.”
“Please.” Nick’s shoulder bumps mine as he stands beside me. “Have to make sure everyone knows I beat you fair and square.”
Ninety percent of my focus is on expanding the single point where we touch, bending my arm to press my elbow against his. The other ten percent is still vaguely competitive. “We’ve got a lot of game left.”
Apparently, I’m underestimating.
Nick’s always been the closest I’ve had to true competition at darts, but tonight he’s on fire.
In four more turns, he closes out the leg with a Double 13, while I still have 54 left.
The guys are ecstatic, drawing the attention of the whole pub while Nick does his best to let the praise go in one ear and out the other.
A man more accustomed to giving it than receiving it.
“You’re goin’ down, Rittenburg,” Zach slurs as we get ready to start up the next round.
“It was one leg,” I say, retrieving our darts. Biting the inside of my lip as Nick’s hand brushes mine again. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Dunno, I’m feeling pretty good,” Nick says. The low, private register of his voice sends a shiver up my spine. “Think I am gonna take you down tonight, Rit.”
“Down to the bar,” I amend, throat dry. “Where you’re buying the last round.”
He laughs. Fuck, I love his laugh.
It almost tanks my aim. Almost.
I win the next two legs, but not by enough of a margin for comfort, and Nick settles back in—winning the fourth. The next six victories we trade back and forth. 3-3. 4-4. 5-5.
The game’s so close, Amalie’s other customers have joined the sidelines to place bets with the crew. Nick bought everybody a pitcher of beer that he announced was really on me, if I lose. He seemed so proud to be in on the shenanigans for once, I folded without protest.
Since we upped the stakes, we’ve never had a game go to eleven rounds, but tonight is the sort of night where nevers go to die.
I never thought Nick and I would have that secret language only couples do, but I’ve spent so long reading him, it comes naturally.
Even the qualities that are new—the smoky haze of lust in his eyes, the way he leans into me instead of away.
I’ve never had this much fun, either. We’re drinking, laughing, sweating. Brushing hands, hips, and thighs when no one is looking.
Yesterday morning we were just friends, but I’ve already forgotten all about what that was like. For the sake of the promise I made Nick, I’m trying, but can I keep a secret? Or can everyone tell I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life? Can they tell it’s because of him?
Jorgensen’s got the guys started on a chant whenever Nick goes up to throw. Cap-tain, cap-tain, cap-tain. I don’t know whether Nick is internalizing the rhythm to time his throws or what, but he’s slinging those darts steady and accurate. Matching me point for point as we switch back and forth.
Finally, I have 112 left. He has 118.
It’s my turn. If I can nail this round, it’s game over. Not easy, but doable.
Nick clears his last throw and tucks the darts into his pocket, snagging his beer off the table on the way over and taking a sip. When he gets to me, there’s a thin line of foam caught on his stubble. I’m dying to lick it off.
The smell of hops on his breath and soap on his skin washes over me as he shifts his weight onto one hip. Dipping his chin to keep his next words between the two of us.
“You look good, Seth. I wish I would’ve told you earlier, but you make me nervous.”
My body heats like I’m hugging a damn exhaust manifold. I know he’s fucking with me, but I can feel that he means it, too. He said it like he’s been holding back all night, and the alcohol finally knocked the confession loose.
I’m not wearing anything special. A gray sweater, a pair of jeans, and an old leather jacket—the same street clothes I always bring for a rare day at port.
But then again, I’ve seen him in the clothes he’s wearing dozens of times too, and now that I know what’s underneath them, it’s only made me want to get him out of them more.
“Just good?” I tease back. “I need to step it up. Yesterday I was gorgeous.”
Nick glances over his shoulder to make sure our crew isn’t paying attention to us, even though their ruckus is doing a fine job overpowering our conversation. “Well, yesterday you were naked…”
I press my tongue against the inside corner of my lip. “Is this your strategy?”
“Is it working? Or am I the only one distracted by how bad I want you?”
Fuck no.
“Seth’s turn!” someone shouts in the background.
I know that. At least, I used to.
But I’m still breathing in the smell of whiskey and beer and Nick until I can taste all three. I’m still thinking about getting naked with him again.
I try to shake the image and focus, calculating my path to victory. I’m aiming for the 12, the Double 20, and the Treble 20.
I hit the 20, the 1, and the fucking wall.
The only ones upset about it are the guys who just put money on me, ignorant to how my opponent happens to be the one thing in this world that rattles my focus.
But me? I take one look at Nick’s self-satisfied grin, and I laugh.
“I didn’t think that would actually work,” he says as he steps up to the line.
I reach for my beer on the table and down the last two inches. “What can I say? You fuck me up, Nicky. Always have.”
His eyes track me as I go to retrieve my darts and stand out of the way.
Everybody falls silent.
He needs a Double 20, Treble 20, and an 18 to keep me from getting another turn.
He goes for the 18 first, to ensure he lands on a Double or Treble, but it’s a narrow miss.
Treble 18. 64 left.
Nick’s brow furrows in concentration.
“Triple 16, Double 8,” Orlov offers up, more invested in the game than I’ve ever seen him.
Those shots are on opposite ends of the board, which makes this trickier, but I have to admit… even I’m rooting for Nick. If I were betting, I’d put my money on him.
He takes a deep breath, and throws. Double 8.
Murmurs break out. Nick’s brows furrow even deeper in concentration as he raises the last dart. Then lets it sail.
Thwack.
Game over.
“Holy shit,” the guys shout.
Beer mugs fly up in the air, sending foamy splatters everywhere as our crew pulls Nick into a celebratory embrace.
He’s smiling like I haven’t seen him smile in forever. Laughing like I haven’t heard him laugh. Batting away Jorgensen as the kid tries to talk everybody into hoisting him up on their shoulders and tossing him around. You’d think they just won a Stanley Cup and Nick’s the team MVP.
And through it all, he catches my eye with something prideful and teasing that makes me want to demand a rematch and lose to him all over again.
Zach comes over and smacks my shoulder way harder than necessary. “Seth’s buying!”
“Yeah, yeah.” I chuckle. “Drinks on me, everybody.”
“I had to make sure you knew. You’ve never done this part before.”
“And I’m never going to again, so don’t get used to it.”
“Never?” Nick joins us. “You sure about that?”
I pull out my wallet to settle the tab with Amalie. “Play me again. Find out.”
Nick’s smile lifts higher on one cheek, his face flushed from liquor and exertion. “You’re on.”