Page 8 of The Best Parts of Him
Dabbs paused with his beer halfway to his mouth. “There’s a lot to unpack in that sentence. Let’s start with the fact that I’m not a lady.”
Ryland waved a hand. “Figure of speech. He loves all genders equally. Kind of like me, although lately I’ve been into tall team captains who know how to crush their opponents on the ice. Don’t suppose you want to get out of here and grab a milkshake at Red’s Restaurant, just the two of us?” Because he could already see the rejection on Dabbs’ face, Ryland waggled his eyebrows and added, “We could go together like Timbits and coffee.”
Laughing, Dabbs sat on the rustic coffee table. “Appealing to my Canadian roots. Clever. But are you sure you’re not trying to get into my pants just to pry the secret of how to win the cup out of my head?”
Ryland was about to tell him that he didn’t just want in his pants—he wanted in his heart too—when the rest of Dabbs’ sentence registered. “Um, excuse you. We are going to win the cup next season, with or without your precious secrets.”
“You think so?” Elbows on his thighs, Dabbs loosely held his beer between his knees, looking so effortlessly sexy that Ryland almost couldn’t stand it. “This was the first time in six years that the Pilots made the playoffs. Think you can keep the momentum going?”
Ryland smirked and toasted him with his beer. “Watch us. If we meet in the playoffs again next year, it’ll be a completely different outcome.”
Dabbs winced. “I’m sorry about how that went down.”
“No, you’re not.”
Dabbs blinked, perhaps at Ryland’s vehemence or at his words, Ryland wasn’t sure.
“Yes,” Dabbs insisted. “I am. We wanted to win, but sweeps like that just make us feel like assholes.”
“But probably also really happy.”
“Sure,” Dabbs said with a laugh. “Both things can be true.”
Ryland slid off the arm and onto the couch, his knees brushing Dabbs’ through their jeans. Setting his beer aside, he planted his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “Okay. I’m going to ask. What’s the secret to winning the cup?”
“You’re not going to like the answer.”
“Try me.”
“Honestly? Teamwork.”
Ryland groaned. “Seriously? Come on. Way to point out the obvious.”
“Teamwork, hard work, persistence. Also, we really, really hate losing.”
“Find me an athlete who doesn’t.”
“But you have to hate losing more than you like winning.”
“You’re losing at darts, though,” Ryland pointed out.
Dabbs’ smile slid through him like hot chocolate on a cold winter’s night. “Darts is low stakes,” Dabbs said. Rising, he placed his beer on the bar, grabbed a dart, and stood several feet back from the board.
“Want to up the ante?” Ryland asked, resuming his seat on the arm of the couch.
Dabbs threw the dart. It hit the edge of the board. “I’m not taking a bet I’m guaranteed to lose.”
Ryland pouted.
“You can tell me about that nose ring instead.”
Ryland went cross-eyed trying to look at the tiny silver diamond in his right nostril. “I got it done right after the playoffs. I forget it’s there unless I need to pick my nose. It gets in the way.”
Dabbs let out a bark of laughter. “Not many people would admit to that.”
“To what? Nose picking? Everyone does it even if they won’t admit it.”
The amusement didn’t exactly leave Dabbs’ face, but as he looked at Ryland, taking him in slowly from head to foot and up again, banked heat entered his eyes.
