Page 163 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

It would be a lie to say those words hadn’t hurt. What the hell was I doing, driving away with my hookup instead of joining my family for the holidays? Yet as Damon drove away, “Far from Any Road” playing from the speakers, I couldn’t get myself to feel any remorse.

“I love this song,” I said, dialing up the volume a little.

Damon shot me a glance full of warmth, like melting chocolate, before leaving the campus and driving down the street. “It’s a long drive,” he said. “And the snow’s falling just a little more than I was hoping.”

“You were hoping for a clear, sunny day,” I pointed out.

Damon nodded. “Yeah. So, tiny difference, eh?” His right hand fell into my lap, searching for my hand. I gave it to him without thinking. “I’m a good driver, though,” he assured me.

“I don’t doubt you.”

“That makes one of us,” he said. When he laughed, a little bit of that residual anxiety lifted.

The car was hot, and so was the coffee in Damon’s thermos. I was tasked with pouring cups of coffee for us and managing the snack flow as we drove north toward Clear Lake State Park. Not far from it was a private ranch with log cabins and a mix of rustic vibes and contemporary comforts.

Damon drove slowly, chatting about the trip to Chicago last week when the Titans played against the Steel Saints. “And you better believe they didn’t forget about last,” he said, bragging about the two years of victories.

“Wasn’t it the other way around for a few years before that?” I asked.

Damon shot me a killing glance. “We don’t speak about that.”

“Oh?” I bit my smile back.

“But Griffin and Andrei are now friends with the Saints’ captain and his boyfriend, apparently, so they betrayed us and built a bridge there. Traitors.”

“How dare they?” I cried.

“You get it,” Damon said proudly, then laughed.

Jeremy Messersmith’s “Love You to Pieces came on, and I sank a little lower in my seat. The particular brand of hopefulness and overwhelming melancholy of the song strangled me. We were creating an unforgettable memory with this trip. They would stay with me long after this thing flickered out of existence, as it eventually had to. I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking we’d keep doing this into our eighties and nineties, though it had crossed my mind. I imagined a porch with a little flower and herb garden, and two chairs, and a pitcher of iced tea, and Damon’s wrinkled hand covering mine on the table between us. And then I’d rushed into the bathroom to wash my face because the tears had unexpectedly flooded me.

No, that was never going to happen. But Clear Lake would happen in an hour or so, and I would have it for the rest of my life. I would have the scent of coffee and the sound of music and the warmth of the car and Damon’s wicked, rumbling laughter all to myself for the rest of time.

There weren’t many travelers on the road we took. Snow came and went in flurries, fields covered in an undisturbed blanket of whiteness, smoke rising from distant chimneys.

I looked at Damon, his profile sharp, his cheekbones high, and his lips defined like he was a marble statue come to life. His eyebrows were flat above his eyes, gaze focused on the road, face flushed with the heat inside the car. He was so devastatingly pretty that it physically hurt. I wondered if a good doctor could diagnose this pain. “He was beautiful, Doctor, and I looked at him for too long.”

My heart gave a quiet, aching throb, and I forced my gaze back to the road. We came around a bend, and Damon soon got off the highway. “Almost there,” he said. “I hope you brought your cards.”

“I sure did,” I said, warmth filling my chest maddeningly fast.

Music switched to Tom Odell’s “Another Love,” which felt a bit too on the nose, and I had to look out the window to blink away the sting in my eyes. “You have the same taste in music as my fifteen-year-old cousin. She also likes boys.”

Damon laughed out loud and dialed up the volume, singing along. “You can pretend you don’t like it,” he said after singing a verse. “But I saw you mouthing the lyrics three times already.”

“Yeah, well, if you can’t beat them, sleep with them,” I said.

“You’re most welcome to do just that,” Damon said. “We have four nights and no other entertainment.”

It was a detox trip of sorts. We had our phones with us and an alright connection, but the idea was to be available for emergencies only, and to surrender to the wilderness of the area and the warmth of the fire.

It was another thirty minutes before we checked in to our cabin, and Damon left the car in a garage on the edge of the ranch. There were yards and yards of space, trees, bushes, and mounds of snow between each cabin. Ours was built out of dark logs, making me think of some Nordic winter fantasy. It only had one floor, and amber warmth poured out of its windows as we neared it on foot, snowflakes falling and melting on our faces.

Damon had picked up the keys at the long log house where the reception was. There, we had noticed a large dining area and were told about the breakfast times.

Now, as Damon unlocked our cabin, happiness flooded me so swiftly and fully that I wanted to cry. I was being deeply irrational today, and I had to remind myself of that. It was just a trip, and its purpose was to have good sex and nice company away from sneaking around. No more and no less.

The door opened, and warmth embraced me, pulling me inside until I felt like I was standing in heaven. Every detail was cozy, from the large, soft sofa with a chaise lounge to the built-in fireplace, where fire already crackled, with a stack of firewood nearly beneath it. There was a small kitchen on the side, and a dining table with two chairs was positioned near the large windows overlooking the winter scene. A bathroom was at the back, and a hallway led to a small deck behind the cabin with a hot tub. Up in the loft, there was the bed.