by V. L. Locey
“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.
4
“Right on time. I like a punctual man,” he said, then kissed me on the cheek.
I held up the bag of wine. “I brought some fruity wine.”
“Thank you! I love this winery. They run tours every weekend, but I’ve never gotten around to taking one. Come in, I just have to toss the salad and we’ll be ready.”
He held the door open for me. I stepped into a cute bungalow, cooled by the canopy of trees shading the house. The living room was small but nicely decorated, very masculine, with bold blues and browns. The walls were a soft tan, the carpeting nearly the same rich brown as Town’s eyes. An electric guitar and an acoustic, both on stands, sat in the corner.
“Nice place,” I said, following my host through the living room to a large kitchen where a pot bubbled on a shiny white stove. The appliances were all new, the walls old red brick like the exterior, and some wonderful meaty smoke rolled through a yellow screen door.
“Can you do me a huge favor? Pull the steaks off the grill while I toss the salad and take the green beans off the stove?” He handed me a platter and some tongs.
“My pleasure.” I hustled outside and over to the grill. Lifting the lid, I saw two fat steaks sizzling away. I took the two T-bones from the fire, turned the flames off, and walked to the round picnic table which was set for a romantic dinner for two. Red cloth table covering, flowers in a Mason jar, place settings and flatware, and an empty ice bucket. “Want me to just put them down on the table? Which looks great.”
“Thanks, and yeah,” he shouted back, coming out a mi
nute later with a big bowl of leafy greens in one hand and a bowl of steaming beans in the other. “I know this is all kind of basic, but I had no idea what you liked.”
“Can’t go wrong with steak,” I said and smiled as he slid the bowls onto the table. He dropped the potholder beside his plate then waved at the redwood bench. “This is really nice. The table, the lawn, I’m kind of out in the open a bit.”
“Ah, but you have a lakeside view,” he said, sitting across from me and shaking out his white cloth napkin. “Sometimes I’d like a little sun. Place gets a crypt feel to it during rainy spells. And the bricks always need power-washing to remove the moss. Dig in.”
I smiled weakly, battling down the urge to lower my head and pray. As I said, my faith and me were not exactly on speaking terms.
“So, Lancaster Hart, I hope you’re not upset but I got you a gift.” He passed me the salad.
“Oh, well, I don’t have anything but the wine…”
“Shit, the wine. Which do you want with the meal, the peach or the cranberry?”
“Maybe something tarty?”
“Cranberry it is.” He popped up and jogged inside. His shorts and button-down shirt weren’t wrinkled. I felt like a slob. If my mama could have seen me looking so disreputable at someone’s dinner table she would have boxed my ears.
“Here we are!” He grinned at me as he wiggled through the screen door with wine, ice trays, and a little gift bag dangling from his pinkie finger. A soft wind rustled the leaves on the trees and played with a wind chime that hung from the corner of the bungalow. “I’m a terrible host. The last time I had my parents and sisters up I forgot dessert. They had to eat ice cream sandwiches.”
I chuckled at him. He was so friendly and full of life. Outgoing as well, but one would have to be to work in the world of politics.
“Tell me about being a mayoral aide,” I said, after he’d dumped cubes into the ice bucket, the icy squares making a racket as they tumbled into the container. “I’ve never met the mayor, well, no, that’s a lie,” I quickly corrected, then dug into my pocket for my jackknife when he glanced at me beseechingly, the bottle resting in his hand. “Here you are. I did meet him once, after a game. Tall man, big ears, infectious smile.”
“Look at you saving dinner,” he laughed, taking the jackknife, and pulling the corkscrew out. “And yes, that’s Ben. He’s newly elected, and so we’re hoping to make some big changes in this tiny conservative town.”
He tugged the cork free then poured us both a half a glass of candy-apple red wine. I took a small sip and the tart taste puckered my lips instantly.
“Good,” I coughed, anxious to try another sip after getting some beef into my mouth. “So what is it that you do for Ben, exactly?” Town sat and held out the tiny bag. I wrinkled my nose. “I feel terrible that I didn’t think to bring you a small token of my thanks for—”
“You brought wine, that’s enough. And trust me it’s not a big fancy gift. It was in my den, to be honest, and after you won…well…it seemed fitting.” He shook the tiny bag and I reluctantly took it and peeked inside. A smile lifted the corners of my mouth. I extracted a tiny broom, perhaps all of four inches long. “Because your team swept the Broncos. I might have listened on the radio as I tidied and cooked.”
“This is so thoughtful. Thank you.” I knew just where to put the tiny straw broom. Right on the empty mantle in my living room. “What did you think of the game?”
“Well, I didn’t understand much,” he admitted, while handing me the steak platter. “But the announcer was into it, and that made it fun to listen to.”
“We’ll have to get you to a game,” I said, forking the smaller steak, then frowning when Town shook his head to indicate I take the larger one. When I dropped the larger one to my plate he smiled that smile that made me woozy. “Lord, but your smile is pretty.”
The playful grin slipped a little. His gaze grew heated. “Yeah, yours too.” We sat there, meat platter between us, staring at each other until a fly buzzed past. A little embarrassed titter broke free from both of us. “Right, yeah, you asked what a mayoral aide does. Well,” he paused to pour some ranch dressing on his salad. “I’m basically an administrative assistant on steroids.” I chuckled and started cutting into my steak. Red juice flowed from the meat and my stomach rumbled in approval. “I collect information for Ben to use in discussions, committee meetings, and town halls with his constituents. There’s also lots of time spent typing, taking calls, setting up events and public appearances. Sometimes, I assist the aldermen or run to get Ben’s dry-cleaning if he forgets a speaking engagement. I make travel arrangements and handle daily correspondence and complaints from citizens. Those calls from citizens are always fun. Not.”
“So you sit on the right side of the king,” I tossed out, then forked a fat chunk of beef and popped it into my mouth. “Oh sweetness,” I sighed when the taste of heavily-peppered rare beef hit my tongue. “Mm, this here…is perfection,” I mumbled around the food in my mouth. My poor mother must’ve been aghast up there in heaven.
“I like seasonings,” he admitted as he chased a cherry tomato around in his salad bowl. Children’s laughter could be heard out on the street. “As for Ben being a king, he’d be the first to deny that claim. He’s the first democratic mayor in this town for over forty-five years.”
“You’re proud of that,” I said, after swallowing.
Town nodded, his chin still raised. “I am. We campaigned our asses off to get Ben into office. He won by a very narrow margin, young voters who had never voted before came out for him, progressives mostly. This town needed some new ideas, fresh thinking. Coming from a big city like Augusta, I bet you’re suffering culture shock living here and seeing how backward small towns can be at times.”
I pushed a bite of steak around, soaking up the rich juices as I contemplated how to reply. “While I did come here from Augusta, I was raised in a small town called Billows Ridge, population maybe a thousand, depending on if the Colton triplets were calling Billows Ridge home or if they were holing up in the next county with their uncle Burly, who sells meat out of the back of his truck. He claims it’s beef, but it’s pretty gamey for beef.” Town snickered a bit. “My father was an evangelical preacher, deeply devout, and I grew up on scripture, hellfire, and brimstone. My mother passed when I was eight from an aneurism. Since the day I told my father that I was gay, I have seen some righteous fury. He banned me from his life, his home, and the church that I’d grown up in. That was only two years ago.”
Town blinked at me, his tomato dangling from his fork. “Lancaster, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound as if—”
I lifted a hand and smiled at him with as much feeling as I could muster. “Town, please, don’t apologize. I’m in this odd place with religion at the moment. It was hard being cast out, yet it was freeing. My father and his congregation hate men like us, and there are days when I feel like weeping because I can finally be me, and then the next day I feel like weeping because I miss that support system the church provides.”
He reached over to take my hand in his, his eyes dewy with unshed tears. “I’m sorry for bringing up such a distressing topic.”
“No need to fret, truly. As I said, I’m walking a long path trying to find my own thoughts and feelings about the church now that I’m outside looking in.” He bit down on the inside of his mouth. I pushed up, leaned over the table, and put my lips to his. Ah yes, there was that feeling again. The blinding brilliance of finally coming home. Perhaps I didn’t need to look any farther for the glory than Town’s soft lips…
“You do kiss well,” he sighed a moment later. I sat down, inclined my head, and fought off a creeping blush.
“At least I do one part of this gay stuff well,” I mumbled, glancing up to give him a tender smile.
The meal moved on at a leisurely pace, neither of us broaching any talk of politics or religion. Dessert was fruit salad that we took, with our wine glasses, to a wrought-iron swi
ng that hung from an A-frame sitting back by the tree line. The table was cleared, and the dishes washed and dried. Seemed Town was a tidy man. I liked that. I ran to being neat myself.
The sounds of the neighborhood slowly began to quieten as dusk painted the sky heather and watermelon, the clouds wispy and pleasing to the eye.
“This is good,” I said as I plucked a fat grape out of my bowl with my fingers. “Finding good fruit up here is rough. I spend a ridiculous amount of time squeezing and sniffing peaches when I shop.”
“Give it time. Summer’s just starting here.” He offered me a chunk of pineapple. I bit down softly on the tines of the fork and pulled with my teeth. Sweet pineapple juice coated my tongue. I chewed and swallowed, thinking to comment about how our famed Georgia peaches would have already been ripening for weeks if we were back in Billows Ridge, when he fed me another chunk of pineapple, this time using his long fingers to pluck the square out of the bowl.
“My hands are clean. We just did the dishes.”
“I recall,” I murmured, letting the fruit sit between my lips, hoping that he’d lean in and take it from me. He did, his thick lashes lowering as his mouth covered mine. He tongued the pineapple from me, giving my lips a lap before pulling back a little to chew and swallow. I leaned back in the swing, smiling, and plucked a cube of watermelon out of my bowl. That I put between my teeth as well then waggled an eyebrow. Town chortled, the laugh a gruff, raspy thing that made my balls tingle.
“I like this game,” he purred, then swept in to take the pink square. He pressed it to my lips with his tongue, smashing the small chunk. Juice coated my lips and chin that he then licked off, his tongue going down over my Adam’s apple to the small hollow of my neck.
“I like it too,” I whispered to the encroaching night as he began nipping at my throat. I pushed back, the chains holding the swing creaking, while he nibbled and sucked. Sticky fingers slid up over his shoulders to his closely cropped hair, my grip on his skull intensifying when his lips found mine again.
