She took a last bite of her fish. He followed the movement of her fork to her mouth, of her lips to the metal, of her jaw and slender throat as she chewed and swallowed. There was a kind of tension in waiting for her to respond that warmed a spot in his chest. She put her cutlery down, properly, the knife and folk aligned to show she’d finished eating.
“You surf?”
“Ah, yeah.” Everyone on the team knew that about him. “Have done since I was a kid.”
“You said you might have to give up your morning surf. Have you?”
He didn’t remember telling her that. Shit, what else had he told her and paid no attention to. “I’ve cut back. But with all the sitting behind a desk crap I get stir crazy if I don’t get out there.” He leaned a little her way, “I’d have skipped tonight to hit the water, but I didn’t think that would go down too well.”
“I had to skip training tonight. I know what you mean.”
“What...?”
Doug tapping a knife against his wine glass stopped his question, blocked his easy way to find out what sport she played. He’d speculated endlessly at night, watching the ceiling fan above his bed. It wasn’t the usual suspects: netball or cricket. It wasn’t the right season for touch footy or soccer. He’d figured it was hockey. Arabella had done a term of indoor hockey at school and hated it because it was fast and rough.
Doug was going on about the competition. How it was an annual tradition in the firm, how it was designed to be both fun and a test of skills. Doug was boring the stuffing out of him. Ant wanted him to spit it out so he could get back to talking with Bree.
“This year it was very close. But two of you were neck and neck until six weeks ago,” said Doug.
“Out with it. You’re costing us money parking,” said Rowan and the group laughed, because a few drinks shouted by someone else could make anything more amusing.
Ant sat up a little taller and paid attention. He’d only had the one beer. That was his rule. Drinking and work were sworn enemies. Drinking and the weekend—mad passionate affair. This was the real reason he’d dumped on a surf and braved the Friday night frenzy. He had no intention of missing this. He’d been refining his investment strategy, had made big money on a few risky moves, gambling on a take-over announcement that had gone from market rumour to fact only two days ago. He had to have this in the bag. He could almost taste the victory, like more beer, and the relief, like a free meal, at having proven he belonged here once again.
Doug said, “And the winner is...”
Ant got ready to be loud about it. Some chest beating was in order.
“It’s Bree. She nailed it.”
Fucking hell! He looked at Bree, laughing as Rowan backslapped her. Doug was going on about how comprehensively she’d womped them all. Ant came second to her, but second wasn’t winning. He curled his hands around the bottom of his chair. He needed to do something to stop from stomping off in a fit of temper. She’d beaten him again.
“Ripped off, Ant,” said Mal, sitting on his other side.
He turned to him. “What do you mean?”
Mal laughed. “Oh come on, Mr Play to Win, gotta sting losing to a chick.”
The silence that hit the table was awkward, but not as awkward as Ant was about to make it. He’d heard the subtle put down in Mal’s comment and it gave his anger direction. “You know what, Mal. That’s fucking offensive.”
All eyes went to hands, the tablecloth and laps. Beside him Bree tensed.
“Ease up, Ant,” said Mal.
Not a chance. Yeah, it stung, but the hurt wasn’t any different than it would’ve been had anyone on the team beat him, but Mal was implying Bree’s win was a lesser thing because she was a chick and so Ant’s loss was somehow more shameful.
“Bree creamed me. Fair and square. Can’t say I’m happy about it, but it’s got nothing to do with the fact she wears a skirt.”
Mal laughed nervously. “I wasn’t saying—”
Ant cut him off, “Yeah, you were.” He stood to make his point all the more effective “You think it’s a fluke Bree won. Like its office politics she’s the senior analyst. I know that’s what you’re thinking, because that’s what I thought. It’s wrong. Bree’s the best of us and she’s just proven it again.”
Christine clapped her hands, bouncing in her seat. Doug tried to smooth things over by loudly asking if people wanted dessert. Ant turned to Bree and shoved his hand out. She swivelled in her chair and took it, looking up at him with a frown. “Congratulations, Bree.” He kept her hand and looked across at Doug, said “Thanks for dinner,” then returned his eyes to Bree, but addressed the table. “Enjoy your sugar fix. I’m taking my sore loser self off to wallow.”
Laughter broke out, most of it nervously filling the awkwardness until Doug started a discussion on gelato flavours and sugar consumption was the new focus.
Bree blinked at him, looking confused, but all of his confusion had vanished. Bree was brilliant. She worked harder than any of them and she’d outsmarted him. She deserved to win and he felt okay, about coming second to her. He smiled at her and stepped away, but she held his hand a moment longer than necessary and he turned back to look at her.
She said, “I’m coming with you.”