Page 41 of The Monster at the End of This Courtship

"Lunch." I didn't know whether to be proud or offended. I'd gotten all of two sign-ups, period, from my coworkers. After Tuft had knocked on all the doors in the omega wing, and he'd gotten lost one too many times in the grotto, I'd suggested he speak tothe construction crews while they worked. Twenty of those same fickle cowards who had turned me down were now happy to sign up for Tuft's leagues.

"I didn't really do anything," he said. "I asked questions about what they wished we had here that they had on Earth. When they said they missed watching football or baseball, I suggested we could add some bleachers around the different fields for spectators, but it might be more fun to play themselves."

"I said the same thing, but no, they didn't sign up for me."

He laughed. "Are you jealous over a few signatures?"

"No. I'm glad you're doing so well." I meant it. This wasn't a competition. Tuft was in charge, and he took his new career seriously.

On our way to his room in the omega wing that night, I politely waited in the hallway as he knocked on the few doors he'd missed. He had three more signatures before we made it to his room.

"I would invite you in, but I have too much work to do," he said. "Tomorrow's already Friday, and I meet with Priestess Alma on Monday to show her the lists before I post them to our website."

I kissed him goodbye and turned to go, but he called me back.

"Tomorrow's Friday," he said again.

"It is."

"Aren't you going to ask me out on a date, or invite me over?"

"You're a strong, independent omega," I teased. "You could invite yourself over."

He shook his head. "What if you're tired of spending time with me?"

"Then I would say no."

"Is that a no?"

"It's a yes." I kissed him again. "Yes, you should come over for dinner, unless you want to meet in the cafeteria."

He flattened his ears to the sides of his head and shook in the negative. "We spend too much time in the cafeteria. Too many kobolds want to talk to us."

They didn't want to talk to me. They wanted to say hello to Tuft and ask him how the schedule was coming, or some other mundane sports question. When Tuft didn't know the answer, he knew another kobold they could ask.

"I'll use magic to bring the food from the cafeteria, and we can watch movies or listen to one of your books."

"I have a better idea," Tuft said. "We'll play a game over dinner, and then we can cross another of those pesky firsts off our list, for you anyway."

I didn't need to ask. He meant the act I'd been dreaming about ever since the night he'd fucked me. I wanted to be the one doing the fucking, the knotting, the claiming. I couldn't wait.

I had a hard Friday, literally. It was not easy to work construction with a perpetual boner. I accidentally sat on my balls while testing the sturdiness of a set of bleachers, and then I racked myself on a tennis post one of my coworkers had already set up while I was staring at Tuft.

Oblivious, Tuft made the rounds to my coworkers, onlookers, and passersby. He handed everyone a sheet of rules for our recreation facility. He even added some last-minute sign-ups to his list.

We didn't finish until the suns hovered low on the horizon. We still had a long way to go to trace the remaining field lines, but the hardware was all in place. Base plates for the ball fieldswere back-ordered until the following week, and then we would be ready for our grand opening.

Tuft walked me back to my cabin with a spring in his step. He chattered about his spreadsheet system and the new algorithm he used to set up the team matchups each session, so nobody played the same team twice.

Once we sat at the kitchen table, I requested our meal from the cafeteria. They sent us a pizza and breadsticks, which meant someone had run to Earth for supplies and brought back pizza for everyone. I also requested a side salad for each of us, to try to balance out all the grease.

Before we moved to the bedroom, we played another round of what Tuft coined, "Strip Twenty Questions." Instead of asking questions as they came to mind, he provided a deck of cards with three choices each. We could skip, but we had to answer at least one from each card before removing an item of clothing.

"Where did you get these?" I asked after I answered all the questions on his card and took off my shirt.

"Therapy." He ran his finger over an address label on the box. "I didn't steal them, I swear. I had a hard time opening up to my therapist. I'd spend a half-hour dodging questions and giving half-truths. Then, she had me run through a card or two at the beginning of each session. It worked just like an icebreaker for a group project."

"I'm sorry if the game brought back bad memories."

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