Was it too outrageous for a forty-one-year-old man to linger around the backstage area like a teenage girl at a K-pop concert? Shameful perhaps? Yeah, I knew it was, and yet there I was, mouth dry, pulse skipping a little faster than normal, trying my best to work up the courage to actually go over and speak to Townsend Harris. Sweet Lord, the man was beautiful. I wished I had my jug of tea, or more of that wonderful Finger Lakes region wine to wet my whistle. Townsend was talking to the other performers as he packed up his electric guitar. The band on next gave him and the rest of the Studebaker Foxes—what an unusual name—high fives then ran out to loud applause. That applause was due to Townsend and his band mates. They’d electrified the crowd with rocking blues tunes ranging from First Love to The Thrill is Gone and I’m a King Bee, that had me and everyone else on the green shaking our asses.

When he snapped his guitar case shut, I felt compelled to move forward, slide around the other musicians and newspaper photographers, and say something to him. That was the sticking point. But, even with a mushy brain and no clever words on my tongue, I pushed my way past a large man with a camera and found myself looking into deep brown eyes that would linger in my dreams for a lifetime.

“Hey,” Townsend said, guitar case in his left hand.

“I love your music and your eyes. Please come have a glass of wine with me?” Oh, sweet baby Jesus. The corners of his mouth twitched, pulling his plump lips up into a playful sort of smirk. “Forgive me. I’m usually much better spoken than that.”

“It’s fine. You’ve got pretty eyes too. Usually I like to get the name of the man asking me to have wine with him before I indulge.” He extended his right hand. “Townsend Harris, but you can call me Town. Everyone does.”

I wiped my hand on my shorts and pressed palm to palm. His grip was firm. “Lancaster Hart, but you can shorten that any way you like. Most drop it down to Lan, because it is a mouthful.”

“Is that a family name?” he asked, still holding, and shaking, and looking at me with those eyes of his.

“Yes, sir. Goes back over several greats to Lancaster Brownlee, who was part of the 6^th Georgia volunteer infantry that mustered out of Atlanta. He was part of Colquitt’s Brigade and…well, you don’t give a tinker’s fart about my musty old family tree.”

Town smiled fully. Good thing he was holding my hand, or I might have swooned.

“Actually, I find genealogy pretty damn fascinating. Maybe we can chat about old Lancaster Brownlee over that wine?” His eyes were asking something of me, and I thought I knew what it was, but I’d not been at this thing long. Maybe I was reading his gaze incorrectly.

“You’re saying you’d like to have wine and talk with me?”

“Yeah, I’m saying that.” He still held my hand. I might’ve been pretty virginal at this whole out gay thing, but I did know that most handshakes didn’t go on for over two minutes.

“Okay, well then…good.” He released my hand. I shoved it into my front pocket. “There’s this tiny booth over yonder that has some nice fruity wines to sample if you’re into fruity things.”

“You know, I do like fruity things.”

“Oh hell,” I muttered when what I’d said sunk in. Good Lord. “I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded.”

Town laughed. “You’re adorable. Let me stash this bulky thing in the trunk of my car and we’ll go have us some fruity wine.”

I nodded like a dullard. “Would you like someone to accompany you to your car?”

“That’s not necessary, I won’t get lost. I live four blocks from here.”

He did? How in God’s green earth had this beautiful man—who I was pretty sure was gay and had no ring on his finger, because I’d checked umpteen dozen times over the past hour and a half—not stepped into my radar?

“How have we not laid eyes on each other before now?” I had to know how fate could be that cruel to a lonely old boy like me.

“Do you spend much time at the mayor’s office? I live two doors down from there.” He had long legs which kept him and me on an even pace, although I was a few inches taller than he was.

“Where’s city hall?”

“No, there’s no city hall, the mayor’s office is attached to the fire hall, I work there as Ben Knapton’s aide.” He gave me a peek as we made our way up the bank and to the street. “How long have you lived here?”

“Little less than a year.” He nodded, the climb up the knoll making us both sweat a little. He looked fit and leggy. I’d always been a leg man. Men in kilts were the stuff of fantasy for me. Hopefully, Mario would never find that out or I’d be getting thigh flashes for the rest of his time on the team. “I don’t get out much. Hockey takes up most of my time.”

“Yeah, your team is bringing all kinds of attention to our village. Revenue too. Everyone in the mayor’s office sure appreciate both the media interest and the money the Cougars are adding to the city coffers.”

“We’re happy to oblige.”

We ambled along until we came up to a blue Ford Fiesta, a newer one, and he popped the trunk and placed his guitar into the trunk gingerly, taking care not to bump the case as he wiggled it in.

“So, you’re one of the mayor’s aides,” I offered up in an attempt to keep my eyes off his ass. The cargo shorts he was wearing pulled tight when he bent over to throw a blanket over the guitar case. “You tucking that guitar in?”

He stood up, closed the trunk, and turned to face me. I wasn’t sure which view of the man sent more blood to my cock, the front or the rear. Both were sinfully attractive.

“A man should treat his Les Paul and his lovers with the same gentle care,” he informed me, his voice as smoky as side of bacon. I had to glance away before I did something unseemly, like grab him and pin him to the car while I licked deeply into his mouth. “Hey, did I just step over a line? I was reading things between us right, wasn’t I?”

My sight left a robin flying overhead and returned to him. His brows were tangled in confusion. I tried to push my hands deeper into my front pockets, but there was no room.

“No, you were reading right. I just…” I was glad to see the confusion lifting from his face. “I just, well, I’m a little…I was married.”

“You’re not now though, right?” And his sleek brows knitted up again.

“Oh no, nope. Divorced about two years ago. I just…it’s been a long time since I was out playing the field. Things are different this time around.” A foursome of young girls in swim suits ran past, giggling like only teen girls could giggle.

“How long were you married?” He indicated we should walk with a wave of his hand. I fell in beside him.

“Twenty-one years, nearly. She’s still one of my best friends and—”

“She?” He stopped cold. I nodded. “So where are you coming at me from here, Lancaster? I’m picking up some strong gay vibes but…”

“Yeah, I’m more than a little awkward. I’m gay, been gay since forever, but back in Billow Ridge, Georgia, the son of the preacher did not chase boys. Or marry them.” I paused when another gaggle of teens raced by, boys and girls this time. “Betty and I have two children. I’m out now, happy for it too, but I’ve not actively pursued many men since I came out.”

“Have you pursued any men?” he asked, his tone lighter now.

“Counting you? One.”

His face, which I’d noticed was quite expressive as he’d played, showed just how surprised he was. Then a slow, sensual sort of burning smile played on his lips.

“I’m honored to be the one to pop your dating bubble,” he said, but his words held a different meaning, in my ears at least. Dating bubble hell, I wanted this man to pop more than a dating bubble. I wanted him to pop everything I owned that was poppable.

“Be gentle,” I replied, getting a rich snort of amusement.

“I’ll use lots of dating lube, don’t worry. So, the fruity wine stand?” He gestured to the festival below us with a mock bow.

“To the fruity wine stand,” I said, and we made our way down to the green, twangy folk music floating out over the water. Our arms brushed during the walk, each rub of his skin over mine making me just a little harder. Thankfully, my shirt was stretched out and two sizes too big, so the outline of my erection was hidden.

We each bought a bottle of local wine, him a dark red cherry wine and me a beautiful sapphire-colored blueberry wine. I picked up brochures for wine tours for the famed nearby wineries. We were given plastic wine glasses. Then we went to a cheese booth and filled a cloth tote with various cheeses like gouda, cheddar, and a zippy pepper jack, all made right there in the Finger Lakes region. With our purchases in hand, we ambled to a small dock far enough from the soundstage that we could hear the music but not have our conversation drowned out.

He heeled off his sneakers and pulled off his socks. I slid my feet out of my sandals. We sat side-by-side on the dock, our feet dangling in Cayuga Lake, sparks of attraction leaping from his dark skin to my paler flesh.

“We have a problem,” Town said after a long moment spent just staring into each other’s eyes. I raised an eyebrow. “No corkscrew.” He held up his bottle of cherry wine.

“What kind of redneck would I be if I didn’t have me a jackknife?” I enquired, dug around in my left front pocket, and pulled out a small Swiss army knife, complete with corkscrew.

“Praise be for sexy Southern men!” Town hooted.

We popped the first cork of the day, his cherry wine, and then talked. And talked. We talked even more, ate cheese, and then talked about which cheeses we liked. We talked about me, about him, about where the name The Studebaker Foxes came from—a truck his grandfather had owned that was red like a fox and played only old-time blues, which was where he first fell in love with the genre—about where I grew up and where he grew up—Pittsburgh—and how we’d somehow managed to find ourselves here in Cayuga, New York, sitting on a dock, sipping fruity wine with the one of the sexiest men God ever put breath into. The sexy man and God breath was all me. I wasn’t sure if Town thought I was all that magnificent, but he sure did like to sit close and touch. I enjoyed both.

“Okay, so I need you to tell me how a boy from Georgia got into hockey,” he enquired. I poured the last of my blueberry wine into his plastic wine glass, mine was still half full. “I mean no offense to your sport because I’m sure it’s amazing, but isn’t there some law in Georgia that you have to live and breathe football?”

“There is that law, yes. I think it’s in the state charter somewhere.” Town snickered, his foot probably as wrinkled as mine, resting under my sole. It had been there for at least ten minutes and was making it difficult for me to speak normally. A foot. A man’s wet foot was doing all kinds of delicious yet dangerous things to me. His foot. I was sure that this was not a good sign, but it felt damn fine. “My general answer is that it got me out of the heat, but in all honesty I just love the game. The flow of it, the grace and grit, the beauty and the brawn…”

He began rubbing my foot with his. “I can tell you adore the game just the way you talk about it. I’ll have to get to one soon.”

I gave him a sly glance, my lashes low, trying to see if I could read him. His attention was out on the water, on a pair of loons that were gliding effortlessly over the surface. I watched the birds as well, but as lovely as they were, they paled in comparison to the man on my left. The sun warmed my face as it slowly sank closer to the horizon.

“We’ve been here for hours,” I commented, when the realization hit me that dusk was coming soon. “No wonder my ass is numb.”

“Yeah, yeah, mine too.” He took a sip of his wine, licked his lips and then gave me a look that was hard to read. His lips shone like a freshly washed cherry in the setting sun, slick and tempting. Too tempting. I made to lean in to kiss him then drew back. “Do it.”

“I shouldn’t be presumptuous.” My cock throbbed painfully. It been hard or semi-hard for several hours now.

“Do it. Kiss me. Let’s get at least one bubble popped today.” He turned to face me, his shorts scrubbing on the dock, and then he licked his lips again, slowly, pink tongue slipping over his lower lip.

I leaned in and put my mouth on his. And here I’d thought hearing the man sing had been rapturous. His lips under mine put the songs of angels to shame. My eyes drifted shut. I felt his hand light on the back of my neck, his fingers biting in just a bit, applying pressure. He tipped his head to the side, steering the kiss with mouth and touch. Town licked at the seam of my lips questioningly, and I opened for him. His tongue was sweetened with the lingering flavor of cherry and blueberry wine. More pressure now on the back of my neck. His tongue slid over mine. A low rumble of pleasure rolled out of me as he lapped at my mouth. My pulse throbbed in my cock. My hand moved from my lap seeking him. Any part of Town would do. I needed more touch, more taste, more of everything this man had.

The dock rocked and groaned. I rubbed my tongue over his, my hand finding a firm thigh to squeeze.

“Well I can see why you forgot to meet us at the gazebo eight hours ago,” a highly familiar and snarky voice broke into the kiss that was rocking not only my world but my whole damn universe.

Town quickly released me as Victor strolled onto the dock, looking summery in shorts, a yellow tank top with SLAYER emblazoned on the front, and ratty old sneakers. His shoulders and cheeks were red from the sun.

“Sorry, Vic,” I coughed, my cheeks a little red as well, but not from the sun. I got to my bare feet and then tugged Townsend up. “I sort of got led astray in a most pleasant way.”

“Yeah sure, be all poetic. Do you hear that?” The tall Pole waved in the direction of the stage.

“Sounds like bluegrass,” I offered.

“Right. It is. I had to sit through three different bands. Three.” He held up three fingers. “Three hours of Roy and Buck picking and grinning, while four feet away from ten tents selling wine.” I wasn’t sure why wine was a problem. Everyone loved wine. “And Dan saying that we have to be here for you since you’re lonely, which, looks to me like you’re not.”

“It’s been a most pleasant afternoon,” I confided, giving Town a quick peek. His mouth curled up into a warm smile, then he nodded.

“Yeah, I gathered. You’ve used ‘pleasant’ twice already. Victor Kalinski, I work with Bo Duke here, who seems to have forgotten all them Southern manners he’s always on about.” Vic jabbed an open hand at Town, who took it and shook it soundly.

“Sorry, I’m all out of sorts. Townsend Harris, Victor Kalinski. Town works for the mayor as an aide and fronts one incredible R&B band.”

“I’m not sure we’re all that incredible,” Town replied modestly.

“You are, trust me.”

Victor gave us both a long, intense look. “Okay, well, I’ve been sent by the troops to come round you up, so we can have some funnel cake because, I don’t know why, but funnel cake eating is now a group sport?”

“You up for a funnel cake?” I asked Town.

“Hell yeah,” he replied.

“Lead on then, good sir,” I said, with a deep bow to Kalinski.

“Just how much wine have you two ingested?” he asked, his sight darting down to the empty bottles and cheese wrappers stuffed into our tiny cloth tote.

“Just enough to make me use ‘pleasant’ numerous times,” I parried. Vic snorted, shook his head, and stalked off, leaving us in his wake. “Guess we better go meet the gang. Truly, if you’re not into meeting my friends please say so and—”

Town took my hand and held it between his. “Right now I’m into just about anything that gets me more time staring into those beautiful eyes of yours.”

Damn, but I wanted to say something witty or funny, but my words were all log-jammed inside my head. Instead, I grinned like the local village idiot.

Someone nearby whistled, loudly. Kalinski no doubt. “Guess we should move our feet then,” I suggested. Town and I both giggled nervously, gathered up our tote, slid our pruned feet into our footwear, and followed Victor back up to the big white gazebo. At a picnic table under a copse of trees, sat Mario and Lila, Dan, and Mitch, our goalie. Dan was holding Victor’s son, Jack, who had passed out and was napping in Dan’s arms.

“Found him down on the dock being ‘pleasant’ with this hot rock god,” Vic announced to the whole world. The man had no knowledge of the words understated, tact, or delicacy.

“I’m more a blues god,” Town said as I sputtered mentally.

I stepped up to introduce Town to my friends and coworkers, and then sat on the far side of the table, leaving room for the hot blues god to wiggle between me and Lila. The next band that came on was a traditional folk trio—two men with acoustic guitars and a woman with a tambourine—with a very distinct Peter, Paul, and Mary sound.

“God above, take me now,” Victor moaned when they opened up with Don’t Think Twice, It’s All right.

Dan chuckled as he rubbed the back of Jack’s sweaty blue tank top, the lad’s red head nestled into Dan’s neck. I recalled those kinds of moments, when one of mine would run out of gas and crawl into my lap to sleep no matter where we were. I missed those days. I loved my adult children and was proud of the people they were growing into, but there was much to be said about holding a wholly trusting little soul close to your heart as they slumbered.

“You look sad, Coach,” Mitch said from across the table.

“Just recalling when my kids were little,” I replied, easing the mask of worry on our young goalie’s face. Mitch was a good kid, odd in that goofy goalie way, but a good sort.

“How old are they now?” he asked, then took a sip from a wine glass filled with something fizzy.

“They’re both twenty. You enjoying your Coke?”

“Oh, it’s not Coke, it’s root beer.”

I chuckled. You can take a boy out of Georgia…

“Down where I come from, all soda is Coke, even if it isn’t Coke,” I explained, getting quite the odd looks from my tablemates.

“That’s cute,” Town said, giving me a soft smile before being pulled back into a deep conversation with Lila. I sat back and simply was. The night slowly fell over us, Victor and Dan headed out first to get the boy into bed. Mitch then ambled off to be with a group of younger folks down in the water. That left me, Town, Lila, and Mario, the old fogies, to swat at mosquitoes and sip on another bottle of fruity wine, this one a sweet, sweet peach.

“I’ll make sure to talk to Ben first thing Monday morning. We’d love to have the backing of some of the Cougars for the fund-raising drive for the youth center. And Lila, you’re such a well-known advocate for trans rights in this community that your voice and support might get this some notice outside of this county.”

“I will be honored to meet with the mayor and lend my support in whatever manner I may. Seamus will of course back this endeavor, won’t you darling?” Lila wiggled around to speak to her boyfriend.

“Mm, yep, sign me up,” Mario said around a yawn. “That wine is making me sleepy. Guess we should roll out, babe. Matinee game tomorrow and this old goat needs his sleep.” Mario pushed to his boots, shook our hands, and then assisted Lila up from the bench with a tender hand to her slim arm.

“We’ll talk more Monday. I’ll visit the mayor’s office,” Lila promised Town, then waved a quick goodbye as she picked her way carefully across the litter-covered grass.

I leaned my forearms on the picnic table and stared openly at Town. He looked even sexier with the soft white lights from the stage illuminating his face.

“You’ve got nice friends,” he said, then cocked an eyebrow when he caught me ogling. “What?”

“You’re a beautiful man. Would you like to do dinner with me tomorrow after the game?” He didn’t reply right off. “Was that too presumptuous? I’m generally not this forward but I just…well, I’m smitten.”

The corners of his kissable mouth lifted. “I’m kind of smitten, too. Dinner sounds fine. I’ll cook if you’re up for a meal at my house?”

“I would love that.” I fished out my phone and slid it across the bumpy table to him. “Put your number and address in there, then add what time I should be there.”

Town tapped away on my phone, handed it back, and then tipped toward me to grab a soft kiss. It sent sparks of lust right down to my still soggy toes.

“See you at six tomorrow. Bring some wine and that drawl of yours,” he whispered over my lips, before getting to his feet to leave.

“I’ll make sure to have both when I show up,” I told him.

He ran a hand over my shoulder and ambled off up the hill. I sat there watching him walk, enjoying the way his body moved, until he blended into the darkness and was gone. The last band was on now, a soft rock group that reminded me of Betty’s love of all things Hall & Oates. I’d have to call her someday soon, just to check in and see how the fall wedding plans were coming. Tonight though, I had to buy some more fruity wine for my date. A date with Townsend Harris, blues god. I nearly floated to the wine booth to make my purchases.

The following day, I was halfway through a good run on my treadmill when my phone rang. Looking for an excuse to stop, because all the wine yesterday had given me an ugly headache this morning, I turned off the machine, stepped down, and grabbed my phone off the table that held my water and a towel. I peeked at the caller ID in case it was a telemarketer starting off my Sunday with a pithy sales pitch, but it was my ex. Dabbing my face with the towel, I took the call, walking out of the guest room that held my treadmill, a desk, and a twin bed, in case one of my kids dropped by over the summer.

“Morning, Betty,” I mumbled through a sweaty towel. The run had done little for my ugly head, but the alcohol lethargy in my muscles was now gone.

“Have you heard from our son?”

“A few days ago. I told him to call you,” I said, as I made my way into the kitchen for water. Water was good for a hungover body. It was even better if it had been turned into tea and then sweetened properly. There was an art to sweet tea, one that no one above the Mason-Dixon Line seemed to have fully grasped.

“I’m going to tar that boy,” Betty said in exasperation. “It would be nice to know when he was coming home, and for how long.”

“I’m sure as soon as he knows himself, he’ll call. He does need money for that trip after all,” I teased, feeling pretty okay, aside from the dull pressure over my right eye. Tonight I’d be seeing Town again. I’d barely been able to sleep with nervous energy last night. Well, that and lust. I’d gotten myself off to a fantasy of me on my knees sucking on Town’s dick as soon as I’d slid into those cool sheets. “You know nothing spurs a child to contact their parents faster than when they need money,” I said, then laughed.

“Well amen to that,” she laughed. “You sound perky today. Usually, you’re a bit of a bear in the morning.”

I did feel perky, headache aside. I took my glass of tea out onto the back porch to breathe in the fresh smell of the lake and enjoy the sun coloring the surface gold, pink, and purple.

“I met someone,” I whispered, as if telling Betty might jinx it somehow.

“Oh, Lancaster! I am so happy to hear that, darling! Tell me all about him. Is he tall, dark, and handsome?”

She was gushing with happiness. That was my Bettina. Nothing made her happier than seeing those she cared for happy.

“As a matter of fact he is, and he’s a musician by night and a mayoral aide by day. He’s funny and smart too, and he loves music, well obviously, since he sings and plays, but he’s open and knowledgeable about different genres. He likes them old corny horror movies like I do, and wine and cheese. He laughs easy and so prettily, and his lips taste like…well, I figure I shouldn’t be telling you that I kissed him on the same day I met him, you’ll think I’m a man of loose morals.”

“Bless your heart,” she said in that perfectly diverse Southern way. “He sounds amazing. What’s his name? Are you seeing him again? Do the kids know? When can I meet him?”

After a litany of questions and answers, I finally managed to wriggle away from my ex-wife to shower, grab a bite, and head to the Rader to prepare for the fourth game of our series against the Broncos. If we could win today, we’d clinch in four and then move onto the second round against the Hartford Huskies, a team who had just entered the northern division after the league had shifted some teams around. My old team, the Augusta Cottonmouths, had rolled through the central division like Sherman tanks after being moved as well. Pundits and hockey bloggers were already predicting it would be Cayuga and Augusta facing off for a chance to play a western team, probably San Diego. We’d see. I wasn’t one to put the cart in front of the horse, and I told the team that as we geared up for the afternoon game. Coach Dewey had given the room to me after a brief talk about what he wanted to see defensively and offensively.

“We play one game at a time. One period, one shift. Don’t sit back on your heels. This team is going to be hungry and desperate. That desperation can work in our favor. Desperate players make mistakes and we need to capitalize on any errors they make. I know y’all have been reading and listening to the press, but all that praise means nothing today. What you did so far is jack and shit. Today is all that matters. Play this game. Play it smart and play it hard.”

The men yelled and pumped the air. I sauntered out with Kalinski at my heels. “That was pretty good rah-rah for a man who’s been smiling like a damn butcher’s dog all morning.”

I paused and gave him a questioning look. “What does one thing have to do with the other?”

“Not much, I just wanted to bust your balls about that dumbass grin on your face.” He followed me into my office as I worked to remove that dumbass grin but found myself wholly unable to. “Here’s a hint. Stop thinking about him.”

“I do wish I’d been here when you went ass over tin cups for Dan,” I said, before dropping down into a crouch to root around in my little fridge.

“Pfft. Trust me, it was all Dan chasing my fine ginger ass.”

“Uh-huh, well I reckon by the dumbass look on your face every time you gaze at your husband that whole sentence was more than likely grade-A horseshit.” I stood, sweet tea in hand, and met his rolling eyes with a raised eyebrow.

“Whatever.” He spun on his heel and went off to twist someone else’s balls into a knot.

I took a swig, patted myself on the back mentally, and then blew out a steadying breath. Vic did have one thing right, I had to put Townsend and his sweet-as-wine lips aside for the next three hours. And so, with a little focus and a lot of good old determination, I put the man out of my mind. I also wiped off that smile that Kalinski had caught me wearing, and replaced it with my laid-back coach face.

My prediction about the Broncos coming out with a kinked tail was dead on. From the moment they hit the ice, they were fiercely aggressive. It took all we had behind the bench to keep our men focused on the game and not retaliation. McGarrity was amazingly timid, given how many times he’d been bounced off the glass. We hung in tight though, focused, and our boys began to wear the Broncos down bit by bit. I spent fifty minutes yelling at the team and the referees, Dewey preferring to delegate to his assistants. With less than ten minutes left, we were up by two goals, so I kept shouting and pounding on well-padded shoulders. We did not want to get a penalty now. We’d been clean all along. Being shorthanded would give them an advantage we did not want them to have.

“Nice! Way to step up on him, March!”

“Keep your cool. Keep your cool. Don’t let them draw a penalty on us now.”

“Tighten up the forecheck!”

I was in the middle of bellowing about over-backchecking when Sander March pulled an amazing play out of his ass that won us the game. He’d been cued up and took a blistering slap shot at the Bronco’s goal, his stick snapping in half which weakened the shot. The bobbling puck was picked up by a Broncos winger, who passed to the center, a big strong fourth liner who’d sooner spit in your eye than say “Howdy do”. Sander had been on his way to the bench for a new stick when he spotted the five on three developing. He raced back out and threw himself into the path of a cross-ice pass, deflecting the puck with the back of his skate back into the Broncos offensive zone. It was an incredible display of hockey vision and sheer grit. Defending without his stick, he killed what was going to be a huge scoring chance.

“Jesus hairy Christ, March, do not make me say good things about you!” Kalinski roared when Sander dropped a leg over the boards.

“Well done! Well done!” I shouted, moving down the line to bend over Sander’s left shoulder after he’d sat down. His smile was wide and bright. “That’s how teams win championships.”

I patted his helmet and moved along, talking to the players who were energized, where before they’d been getting sloppy and irritated. Now they were enflamed, but in a totally different way. One small play. A quick decision in a split second. That’s all it takes sometimes.

The remaining minutes raced by. The Broncos never gave up though, they battled like bulldogs all the way to the final horn. When that buzzer sounded, the Cougars rolled over the boards like a tsunami over a tidal wall. We made our way to the ice so that the coaching staff from both teams could congratulate each other, while the players formed the handshake line. I always loved to dally a bit and watch that wonderful example of sportsmanship. Two teams who had battled and bled and bullied each other now were shaking hands and complimenting their opponents. This is what sports was all about, or a large part of it. Winning with gentlemanly grace.

We men in suits headed in as the Cougars met at center ice to lift their sticks to the fans.

“Holy fuck nuggets,” Victor announced, while feeding cash into the Coke machine. “Only two more rounds and that cup will be sitting on our mantle.”

“You must have a damn wide mantle, Kalinski,” Dewey joked, slapping the big redhead on his shoulder.

We went into the dressing room and greeted each player with a handshake and well-deserved praise. I moseyed to one corner and clapped for our head coach’s short but heartfelt speech. I hooted when Sander March was presented the Cougars Cap, and posed for the sports photographers who had sauntered in. I spoke with reporters, smiled for cameras, sipped some tea, and eyed the clock over the door. The smell of men, sweat, and pads was thick, as was the crush of male bodies in a small area. After chatting with a skinny man from a local sports blog—I had blanked on his name—I slid out into the corridor with Dewey.

“You joining the men for dinner and a night out in Corning?” Dewey asked, loosening his tie with a huge sigh of relief.

“No, I have plans here in town. You need me for anything else tonight?” I did not want to be late for my first official dinner date with Townsend.

“Nope, go on ahead. We’ll meet up tomorrow and start planning for the second round once we see if Hartford grabs it tonight.” He slapped me on the arm then slid into his office.

I hightailed out of the Rader, stopping outside to sign a few programs for the fans who were gathered around the players’ entrance. I jumped into my car and drove home to change into something casual and grab the wine. It was nicely chilled. I placed both bottles into a cloth grocery tote, gave myself a fast look in the mirror by the front door, and raced back out into the warmth of a June evening. The walk was pleasant. I didn’t go that way often, as the arena was the other direction, as was the only grocery store in the area. It was a nice little stretch of Americana, with small homes and barking dogs, a fire hall, and a library inside an old farm house. Following the map on my phone, I was at Town’s little red brick house in fifteen minutes.

It was tucked back into a copse of trees, all cool and shady. The white shutters appeared to be freshly-painted and the flowerbeds were thickly mulched. Pink and red begonias sat in pots along the three front steps. I ran a hand over my shorts, wishing now that I’d pressed the thin cotton fabric. My shirt could have used an iron as well. The baggy Hawaiian print was as wrinkled as my shorts. Damn. I checked my watch. I didn’t have time to go back and—

The door opened. My gaze flew from my wrinkled shirt to Town. He smiled, and all thoughts of wrinkles and ironing boards flew out of my head.