On the bus trip to Binghamton, I spent my time discreetly discussing places in Cayuga where a man of my predilections could find another man with similar predilections. It wasn’t going well. I’d spoken to most of the LGBT members of the team, but most had nothing to offer aside from a gay club in Corning.

“Seriously, check out Vespers,” Dan Arou-Kalinski whispered.

“I’m not sure we need to whisper,” I pointed out, but Dan’s dark head stayed close to mine.

“I know you’re funny about things,” he said.

I pulled back to give him a long look over my reading glasses. I’d not read a single word of the book on my lap, but it was a good cover when one was seeking confidential information.

“Funny how, exactly?”

“Well, uhm, funny like backward,” he replied, raking his fingers through his long hair nervously.

“Backward how, exactly?”

“Shy like, you know. The opposite of Vic.” He appeared proud of that reply. “You’re classier, reserved. Modest.”

Okay, yes, I did tend to be a little circumspect. “You’re not wrong.” I closed my paperback spy novel, glanced out of the darkened window at the New York countryside passing by, and found that my reflection wasn’t all that terrible. Sure, there was some gray and some wrinkles. Signs of a good life. “I’m not sure I’m looking for the type of man who hangs out in clubs.”

Dan shuffled in his seat. “I know. I tell Vic all the time we need to find someone to fix you up with. Someone really tasteful and understated.”

“The opposite of your husband,” I teased, with a quick wink for my top winger.

“Oh, totally the opposite of my husband,” Dan chuckled, his gaze moving to Victor returning to his seat up front from a bathroom trip. We waited. Sander had made his move a moment ago and now sat beside Mitch, looking a picture of innocence. The explosion went off pretty much how we’d known it would. The toy shark was whipped at Sander, who expressed his confusion about being singled out for the crime, then threw the shark back to McGarrity. Lots of cursing and laughing erupted. “I guess I better get up there with him before he forgets the jokes are in good fun. Wish I knew what to tell you, Coach. It’s a small village filled with pretty conservative people.”

“Yes, of that I am aware. Thank you, Dan.”

He smiled and nodded then went off to talk down his irate spouse. I pretended to read, then removed my glasses and slipped them into the pocket of my dress shirt. That knitting group at the fire hall was more and more appealing by the day.

Standing behind the bench that night, I had a damn good idea who would be getting solid looks from Boston and Baltimore when training camp arrived come September. Things were going to get interesting. Talk around the league was already firing up and we had three weeks until the newly released expansion draft date of July 4^th. There was no way in hell Sander March or Dan Arou would be left sitting in Cayuga for long. I kept this all to myself, of course. Victor, I was sure, knew it as well as I did, but he was probably suppressing. Not being intimately involved, I could see the bond between Dan and Sander on the ice. They clicked, plain and simple. The Broncos were unable to counter the speed and tenacity March and Arou-Kalinski had out there. Hell, Binghamton could barely find their asses using both hands.

We’d cruised into the second period with three goals to their none. The lone penalty we’d taken midway through the second had been a shit goaltender interference call on Mike Buttonwood, who’d been shoved into the Broncos tender. No harm done, because the penalty kill hit the ice with a fury. Kalinski had sharpened the special teams into a lethal force. The Broncos had no shots on goal during their power play, and that blew a little dust under their bonnets. Frustration began to set in, and with that short tempers flared. Arou-Kalinski pulled a nice penalty, his speed and agility on a breakaway giving the lone defender able to keep up with him no choice but to trip him. Sure, it was what we coaches would call a “good penalty” as it had saved the goal, but with the fangs our special teams had been showing, it was a stupid penalty to take.

Sander socked one in off the faceoff, stunning the Broncos goalie, who had no clue where the puck was. As he looked behind him in dismay, we celebrated the goal on the bench as well as on the ice. The third period was an example of precision defensive play. The boys locked the Broncos down, giving them only two shots on goal in twenty minutes of hockey. When the horn sounded, we’d come away with a decisive win for the first game of the first round.

“Only three more, men!” I shouted in the boisterous away dressing room. The team hooted and threw tape into the air. The men gave March the Cougar Cap, a new tradition that had started back in the regular season. Someone, who it was remains a mystery, had brought in this stupid cap with round yellow ears and a fluffy yellow tail that rode down the wearer’s neck. The outstanding player of the game, as judged by the team, got to wear the cap that night. Then the cap was passed along to another player after the next game. Sander had deserved it. He’d rallied the team around him in short order, and after some issues at the end of the regular season, he’d come back a new man. Now, some said that was love, and some said it was freeing himself from some deeply abusive issues in his past. I say it was both plus a big dollop of old-fashioned determination.

When we returned to the hotel, I fell into the king-sized bed, sighing at the softness of the mattress. My back would be a wreck come morning. Rolling over, I then checked my texts and found a new one from Charles. I opted to call him, since I was unable to locate my glasses and those little letters would make me buggy. Besides, it would be good to hear my boy’s voice.

“Must be a sign of the apocalypse. You contacted me without me haranguing you,” I teased.

“Charity harangued me,” he confessed, and I laughed softly.

“She’s got her mother’s haranguing skills. How goes those finals?” I kicked off my shoes and wriggled back onto the mushy mattress.

“Good. I have two more and then I’m heading to Scotland.”

“Scotland? When did we discuss Scotland? Who is paying for Scotland?” That last question seemed the most important. My bank account wasn’t exactly filled with free cash flowing in.

“Dad, we discussed it at Christmas,” he replied in mild exasperation. “Remember? Professor Switzer is taking a select group of environmental studies students from his hydrologic sciences and policy classes to Scotland to study environmental watershed sustainability and the physical and chemical impact of humanity on several lochs.”

“Oh right, the lochs. I made a joke about being eaten by Nessie.”

“Yeah, you made a joke.” Charles snorted in that amusing way of his. “And I assumed you and Mom were paying for it?”

I drew in a long breath. So much for that trip to the Virgin Islands I’d been contemplating for thirty years.

“Sounds like a great opportunity. Let me talk things over with your mother,” I replied, then crossed one ankle over the other. “She and James are planning a wedding, after all.”

“Yeah, I know.” There was a long pause. “Are you okay with that? I mean her and James getting married in September?”

“I’m fine with it, son, truly. I want nothing more than for your mother to be happy. She’s a good woman, she deserves a man who—”

“Yeah, okay, I don’t need to know what James is doing to my mother.”

“How did a genteel man such as me raise such a pervert? I wasn’t going to say a thing about what James and your mother are doing, I was going to say she deserves a man who will make her happy.” I waited just a tick. “In bed.”

“Ah man, Dad, you’re so gross. I cannot go there.”

I laughed aloud at his histrionics. “You’re too easy, Chaz.”

“Man, I’m shuddering all over the dorm. What about you?” He flopped onto his bed, the squeal of the mattress springs creeping into my ear.

“Are you asking if I have a woman I need to make happy in bed?” I heard him huff and chuckled. “Okay, I’ll stop. No, there is no one I need to make happy in or out of bed.”

“Are you looking? I mean, you do know that Charity and I are completely cool with you dating men.” I smiled at the reflection of myself in the mirror over the dresser. I’d been blessed with amazing children. That talk with them when Betty and I knew we couldn’t go on as we had been any more, had been brutal. I’d been terrified of them hating me. But they hadn’t. They’d been shocked, of course, but they’d shown real compassion and maturity far beyond their years. Guess Betty and I had done an okay job of raising two incredible human beings.

“I’m sort of looking,” I admitted, the smile falling from my face. I glanced at the muted TV instead. “Cayuga doesn’t have a large population of gay men. Hell, I’m not sure there are any unattached gay men in the entire county.”

“There’s got to be one or two. Keep looking, Dad. Oh, hey, my date’s here.”

“Date? What’s her name?”

“Her name is Kelsey, and she’s adorable. Very warrior goddess vibe. I’ll call you after classes are over.”

“Call your mother!”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

And just like that, the phone was quiet against my ear.

“Now what do we do for the rest of the night?” I asked the middle-aged man in the mirror. He shrugged in reply. “Fat lot of help you are.”

We arrived back in Cayuga with two juicy wins under our belts. I’d sat next to Dewey on the ninety-minute ride, tweaking little things here and there that we’d like to see more of in game three. To be honest, there wasn’t much to change. This team was playing better than we could have ever hoped when the season began. There was no strife in the dressing room, the lines were clicking, scoring was up, penalty minutes down, and the air in the locker room was filled with confidence. The coaching staff didn’t want to get our hopes up, but the vibe was there. It hummed and sparked every time the Cougars hit the ice. We were cautiously optimistic that this would be our year. We hoped so. Everyone with a snarling cougar on their jacket or sweater wanted to see McGarrity hoist the Calder Cup before he retired.

“We can go over those power play stats tomorrow before the game,” Dewey said, as we filed off the bus. “Get your head together with Kalinski and talk to the forwards about the need to focus on winning those face-offs. We could be doing better.”

“Will do.” I tapped out a note on my phone and stepped off a cool bus into a hot June day. As an associate coach, part of my job was playing middle man, in a way. The head coach would delegate things to me and then I’d pass along his wishes to the other coaches and players. I also ran drills and collated important facts, such as our minute slip in faceoff wins. “I’ll take care of this tonight. I’m taking a few hours Saturday to attend that music festival by the lake. Unless you want me to hang out after morning skate on Saturday as well?”

I mentally crossed my fingers he would say no.

“No, no need to stay. Work them on it a bit tomorrow morning. They’re not midget league, they know to watch the refs hand and choke up on their stick. Just shine a light on it.”

“Good enough.” I clapped the big D-man on the back and gathered my bag from the luggage storage area. Mario fell in beside me as we made our way to our cars. I told him to bring his faceoff skills to morning skate the following day.

“Ah fun, faceoff drills,” the burly redhead sighed.

“Could be worse. Could be speed sprints,” I joked, pushing the button on my key fob to unlock my Subaru Outback. I’d bought the spiffy new red car the day after I’d moved north, on the advice of everyone I spoke with. Driving in the snow was a new experience for me. One that I was not overly fond of. “You wouldn’t happen to be going to that music festival by the lake Saturday, would you?”

He paused to rub his whiskery chin, the summer wind whipping around the Rader to tug on his kilt.

“I don’t know. Lila might enjoy it.”

“What kind of music are we talking here?” Victor asked, joining us beside my car, Dan at his side, both with duffle bags on their shoulders.

“Folk and R&B mostly, according to the flyer,” I replied, opening then tossing my bag into the back seat.

“Oh Christ, like banjos and shit? We’ll pass,” Vic quickly said.

“Hey, don’t speak for me. I might like to go,” Dan stated.

I gave Mario a look. McGarrity shrugged.

“Babe, banjos.” Victor shuddered. That made me snort in amusement. “I cannot do banjos. I’ll be kicked out of the Disturbed fan club if word got out I was within a ten-mile radius of a banjo.”

“We’ll see,” Dan told me, took his husband by the hand, and led him along, his mouth going like a duck’s backside.

“Marriage. Ain’t it grand?” Mario commented, gave me a saucy wink, and ambled off.

Sliding behind the wheel of my car, snickering over the marital discussion still taking place in the parking lot, I smiled wistfully. Yes, marriage was indeed grand. Someday, maybe, I’d like to try it again. I’d truly enjoyed being that close to another person. Nothing made me happier than coming home to spend the night with family. My days of sowing wild oats were long past. Sitting on the porch, swinging, tea in hand, dog at my feet, and a sweet man at my side sounded like Nirvana.

“Well, hell, I just described a Hee-Haw skit,” I chortled to myself.

“Hey!” I jumped a good six inches, my gaze flying to Dan leaning on the open window. “Oh, sorry Coach. Vic and me are really looking forward to going to the music festival with you.”

I peered around the short Canuck. Vic was throwing their bags into his big black SUV—and I do mean throwing.

“You sure he’s looking forward to it?” I jerked my thumb at the irate special teams coach.

Dan threw a quick look over his shoulder. “Ah yeah, he is. Ring when you’re ready to roll. We’ll meet you at the gazebo by the dock.”

“Thanks kindly.” I gave Dan my hand to shake.

He smiled, shook, and then made his way back to his husband. They had a few words and then, amazingly, Dan moved in for a soft kiss that made me yearn for that kind of relationship. Well, maybe not one where my mate was that volatile, but one where two souls could have a spat over banjos and end up kissing like young lovers.

“Right. Stop gawking, you dirty old man.” I tore my sight from the two men embracing each other and hurried to back out of my parking slot. Driving home with some Marshall Tucker Band playing, I found myself getting excited to be having a day out with some of the team. Sure as hell beat going by myself.

Saturday came in with a light shower bright and early. I was up with a cup of coffee to greet the day. We’d beaten the Broncos last night; Mitch’s second shutout of the series was well-earned because Binghamton had come to play. They’d reconfigured a couple of their lines and hit us with everything they had. One goal had been the deciding factor. One goal. Forty-six shots on goal from us and forty-one for the Broncos. Both goalies had been exemplary, but Mitch, bless his cartoon-loving heart, had been just that little bit better. Tomorrow afternoon’s game would be an all-out battle. The Broncos were now desperate. They had to win or be eliminated. We were already talking about putting up certain defensive pairs to face certain aggressive players. As much as we were trying to coddle Mario, this upcoming game was his kind of game. He’d be happy to beat the grits out of someone if we let him off the leash. Time would tell if our Scottish/Italian bulldog would be turned loose or not.

My back had been giving me some trouble, nothing huge, just some tightening when I’d lay in one spot too long. It was an old injury and tended to flare up with damp weather. Thankfully, the shower passed quickly, and the sun rose over the lake, a glowing golden ball that made the water shimmer like a sequined dress Betty used to have. From my vantage point overlooking the shore, I could watch the trucks from local wineries and eateries pulling down onto the wet grass. People scurried around like worker ants, setting up booths and flags and tents. The soundstage had been in place for a few days, but now it was a hive of activity as musicians hustled here and there. Lights and sound systems were checked. I smiled into my coffee. This was going to be a great day, I could feel it in my bones. Even the achy ones in my spine.

I stepped out onto my porch, the wet boards cool on the soles of my feet. The rain clouds had moved off and the air was sweet with that clean, fresh smell a shower brings. The temperatures were supposed to drop a wee bit today, mid-seventies with low humidity. A perfect day for what appeared to be one hell of a jamboree. Tossing back my coffee, I then grabbed a shower, got dressed, and walked to the arena, my jug of sweet tea in hand.

Morning skate was, at its core, me and Dexter, the goalie coach, babysitting twenty-some adult males. We ran them through some faceoff drills because we still weren’t thrilled with our win-loss ratio, and then the team basically took over for itself. Kalinski sat on the bench, fiddling with a notebook and stats. I thought to go over and offer to help, I knew numbers fogged him up a bit, but stayed put after some thought. If he were struggling he’d look mad, and he didn’t. Last thing that man would want was me going over to help him. I’d likely skate off with that tablet rammed up my ass. Best to observe.

Skate wrapped up quietly. Dexter stayed behind with Mitch to work on fine-tuning his glove work. I spent about forty minutes getting my thoughts down on my laptop then I sent them to Dewey. He’d gather up all the assistant coach’s input—goalie, defensive, special teams, and mine which tended to be mainly the forwards—and get everything fed into his head.

“Got to get things lined up in my noggin,” he’d say when inundated with stats and numbers. “Just slow down and let my brain take one thing at a time.”

When I stood and stretched, my back popped loudly. I winced, then sighed at the flare up. Damn my stupid adolescent ass for being a showoff.

I downed two Advil and went home, walking with a little less speed than normal. The closer I got to Cayuga Lake, the louder the music grew, and the more people I saw heading to the water. There were cars on both sides of every street I strolled down. The parking lot of the Methodist church and the fire hall a few blocks back had been full. Families, kids, and dogs moved past old grandpa here, many with blankets and beach chairs. The excitement was contagious. I ran into my old ranch home, tossed my tea jug into the sink to be washed later, and hurried off to change.

Denim cutoffs, a sloppy old Allman Brothers Eat a Peach tank top, and creaky leather sandals were my festival outfit. Out of the back door I went, my phone and my wallet in my back pockets. I paused on the porch, drinking in the first performers who had hit the stage. They were a classic folk band, the harmonies of the men and women in the group, perfect. I locked the back door and checked the sliding door to make sure it was locked as well.

Then I ambled down the rather steep hill to the boat ramp, the waters of the lake lapping at the shore. Hands in my front pockets, I walked along the lake’s edge, smiling at kids rushing past with balloons and whirligigs. The tent flaps and booth awnings rustled along with the thick green leaves that lined the lake. I sniffed as I got closer to the huge gazebo that sat in the middle of the lakeside park. My stomach rumbled at the smell of onions and green peppers frying. I’d not had much of a breakfast, or any breakfast, to be honest, so I stopped at a small booth, the first in the maze of local food, wine, and crafts and purchased a sausage sandwich loaded with onions and peppers. The mustard was sharp and zippy, the sausage sweet, and the onions and peppers just a little bit firm. I took another bite, bought a glass of blackberry wine and made my way to the gazebo, chewing in beat to a lovely rendition of the Mama’s and Papa’s California Dreaming floating over the crowd. I lingered on the steps of the gazebo, sitting and eating, until I was joined by Mario and Miss Lila. I rushed to stand, my fingers still a little greasy from my sandwich, and bowed low over Lila’s offered hand.

“Such a vision on a summer day,” I murmured over her soft knuckles. I got a playful swat with a program from the beautiful black woman in white.

“Oh, you Southern men are sinful,” Lila laughed, then took the plastic glass of white wine from Mario. “Did you stop by the booth for the local LGBTQ advocacy group?”

“No, I got a little sidetracked by food and wine, and a beautiful woman of course.” I patted her hand.

“Okay, chum, go find your own woman to slobber over,” Mario said, then removed Lila’s hand from mine and placed it on his arm.

“You two do know how to bolster a lady’s fragile ego. I think we should all make an effort to visit the advocacy tent.” She waved her program at the purple tent with the rainbow flags snapping in the wind. “They’re handing out condoms and trying to drum up support for a proposed youth center where the old dollar store sits. Lord knows, this community could use somewhere for our youth to go and simply be in peace. If I had had access to such a place as a gay youth center, I’m sure my rocky road from Joseph to Lila would have been far easier.”

“Amen, baby,” Mario said around his wine glass.

“I’ll make sure I stop and visit,” I assured Lila.

She inclined her head, took a sip of her wine, and then leaned into Mario’s side. His arm came around her protectively. It warmed my heart. I sucked down a bit more wine and went off to find the rainbow booth, stopping at every artisan tent to browse, chat, and buy some early birthday gifts for my kids. A woven bracelet for Charity and a hand-beaded bookmark for Charles. I spent several minutes at the LGBTQ booth, talking to organizers and signing up to volunteer over the summer. It was wonderful to see the majority of the festival goers visiting with the LGBTQ coalition. Of course, there were quite a few people who glowered at the sight of condoms on display, as well as at young gay people laughing and holding hands. Fuck them. I had little patience for that type anymore. It was because of stilted hateful prigs that I’d spent half my damn life miserable.

Maybe some of the fault was mine, actually more than some. I could have been stronger, braver, less fearful. I left the tent feeling a mishmash of emotions. The stage was right in front of me, the bands changing. Knowing I should go back to the gazebo to spend more time with my friends, I lingered by the stage, dropping my ass to the soft ground. A small group of men stepped out to a large round of applause. The trio consisted of a drummer, a bass player, and a stunning man on lead guitar. I pushed to my feet, my shorts damp from the spongy soil.

The lead guitarist smiled at the crowd. All the air left my lungs. He was beautiful. Tall, stocky, short hair, and a smile that bedazzled. The black man began to speak, his voice smooth and masculine with a strong northern inflection. What he said at first I didn’t know, I was too spellbound by his perfect face and wide shoulders. Smitten. I was smitten. Majorly so.

“Thank you for having us here. We’re The Studebaker Foxes. That’s Leon Draper on drums.” The gangly white guy held up his drumsticks. “To my left is Luis Cooper on bass.” I made myself stop staring at the gorgeous man front and center to peek at Luis and clap politely. “And I’m Townsend Harris. We’ll be here for the next hour, so settle back and enjoy some rhythm and blues under a beautiful New York baby blue sky. We’re going to open up with a little something from John Lee Hooker.”

The trio ripped into Boom Boom, and my soul left my body when Townsend began to sing and play. I’d not seen a man put so much passion into an electric guitar in ages. The rhythm and blues music infected the crowd. They were up and moving in seconds, clapping their hands over their heads. And then, Townsend Harris sang, and my soul—which was hovering somewhere above the stage—soared right up to Heaven. His voice was strong and smoky, sensual and gritty. I had heard my daddy preach about the rapture, but I had never thought to experience it while wearing an old Allman Brothers band shirt and creaky sandals.