5. Bryson

"Hey, hey, hey! We've got a real-life NHL dad in the house. Give it up for Bryson Milligan," Vinnie Kiminski announced in a booming sportscaster voice.

Or maybe that was his game-show voice. Either way, the diner erupted in an instant, everyone hopping to their feet to cheer and offer hearty congratulations. Awkward.

I shook my head as I made my way to the counter and perched on the empty stool in the far corner next to where Vinnie was busy wrestling his son, Alec, into one of those toddler backpacks.

"Uh…where are you getting your information, Vin? Jake hasn't been called up. Yet."

"Oh." Vinnie widened his eyes, then returned to the business of fastening Alec into the contraption, kissing his son's chubby cheeks and deftly hefting him onto his back. "Really?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure Jake would have mentioned it when we talked this morning."

"McD told me he got a call and"—he winced—"I should know better. The guy was my agent for twenty years before he was Jake's. He's a windbag and a half. On the bright side, the fact that he'd mention it at all must mean something's in the works."

"Maybe, but now the whole town is going to congratulate Jake—and me, by proxy default for something that isn't true," I pointed out, thanking Dierdre for the breakfast menu.

"Ouch." Vinnie stood, bouncing the towheaded toddler strapped securely behind him as he waved his hands above his head. "I apologize, Elmwood. That was false info. Jake is still making us proud in Syracuse. Enjoy your breakfasts!"

Amused grumbles and sighs filtered through the diner.

"I think you owe us free coffee for that one, Kimbo," Dean Johnson chortled, lifting his empty cup.

Someone else chimed in with a good-natured jibe that had Vinnie rolling his eyes and adding a snarky comment.

The early morning atmosphere was small-town congeniality at its best. Everyone here shared a history of sorts.

For example: Mr. Johnson was a retired grade-school teacher and if I remembered correctly, he'd taught Vinnie and his husband, Nolan, many years ago. That alone would be more than enough reason for Vinnie to agree to pay for his coffee, even though the older man was clearly joking. In a town as small as Elmwood, those ties were the glue that bound the citizens together.

Perhaps that sounded a tad provincial, but it was true.

Elmwood Diner was over a hundred years old and was owned by the same family, the Moores. Nolan Moore married Vinnie Kiminski, who happened to be the best friend of his older brother, Ronnie. Mr. Johnson was an Elmwood native who'd been tight with Coach Moore, Nolan and Ronnie's father. See?

Coach Moore had passed away over a decade ago, but the man was still a legend in these parts. In fact, Vinnie openly credited his former coach for laying the groundwork that had inspired Vinnie's crusade to put Elmwood on the map. And with the help of some talented retired NHL stars like himself and Riley Thoreau, he'd done it. The summer camp run by professional athletes had become an international sensation and had propelled Elmwood into the spotlight as a hockey mecca of sorts.

Hell, Dean Johnson's three grandsons attended those camps, played club hockey, and one of them was on the brand-new Elmwood High team. Dierdre's niece played Bantam, and the fry cook's cousin was one of the top goalies in the country.

The folks in this tight-knit community took their hockey very seriously. It had been front-page news when Jake signed on with an AHL team, but going to the NHL? The last Elmwood native to go all the way was Vinnie Kiminski, and he'd retired years ago. So Jake getting called up would have been huge news, all caps…if it were true.

But it wasn't.

"You know, since Vinnie's paying, I'll take a coffee too, Dierdre. And Jean-Claude's veggie scramble, please." I slid the menu across the counter.

"You got it." Dierdre snickered as she turned to Vinnie, lifting the carafe. "Shall I put that on your tab?"

"Yeah, yeah." He sighed dramatically. "But no more coffee for me. This munchkin and I are heading to the park. Aren't we, kiddo?"

I tugged at Alec's sleeve playfully. "Have fun, little guy."

The eighteen-month-old babbled adorably and stuffed his fist into his mouth. I chuckled at his toothy grin, fixing his miniature ball cap just as Riley bounded into the diner, marching purposefully toward me.

"Hey, I was just about to text you."

"Me?"

Riley fist-bumped Vinnie in greeting and blew raspberries for Alec before replying. "Yep. I have a new client for you. Possible client, that is. I'm trying to hire a high school hockey coach and it's been brutal, but there's a slim chance my prayers have been answered."

Vinnie frowned. "What happened to the guy from Wisconsin?"

"He found a job closer to home, but…we have a new candidate. A really fucking good one."

"Watch your language, Uncle Riley," Vinnie scolded, hiking his thumb at the drooling toddler behind him.

"Sh—sorry. My bad." Riley peeked into the kitchen, waved to his husband, then plopped onto the stool next to me. "I gave him my ‘Elmwood is so great' speech and I'll show him the rink later. I think he's interested. He even asked about housing in the area, which is a good sign. I need to wow this guy. Number one, I'm running out of time. If I don't find a coach in two weeks, I'm going to have to do it myself. And number two, he's perfect. Experienced player, experienced coach, takes no BS but still likes to have fun…"

"He sounds like a good fit," I agreed, giving Riley a moment to catch his breath.

"Absolutely! I don't know how long he's in town, but would you mind giving him a call and maybe offering to show him a house or two for rent?" Riley shot a pleading glance my way. "Sorry to dump this on you at the last minute. I'm just…"

"Desperate?" Vinnie supplied.

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Why I agreed to be Elmwood High's athletic director is a mystery. I need to pass this gig off to someone else, stat. It's too stressful," he griped, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Riley had taken on a bigger project than he'd probably bargained for when he'd spearheaded the mission to build a high school in Elmwood…with a world class athletic program. After years of planning, construction, and a hiring boom, school was in session. But it hadn't all gone smoothly.

According to my friends, the first year had been a comedy of errors in almost every department. They'd needed more qualified teachers to meet the demand of enrollment, which meant they'd had to recruit from neighboring towns or even out of state.

I admired Riley's dedication and if there was any way I could assist, I certainly would.

I smiled kindly. "I'm happy to help. Tell me about him."

"Okay. Uh, well, he's from Detroit and—shit—I mean…shoot. You know him!"

"I do?" I raised my coffee cup to my mouth.

"Yeah, the D-man Jake punched on his final game of last season." Riley smacked the counter and grinned. "Smitty Paluchek."

I promptly sprayed the counter with java and lapsed into a coughing jag.

Vinnie patted my back. "You okay, man?"

"I'm"—cough, cough—"I'm fine. Just went down the wrong pipe."

What the fuck?

Smitty. Here?

I curbed the impulse to look over my shoulder, half expecting him to waltz through the door. I couldn't believe he was in my town. I mean…not my town, but—he wasn't supposed to be here. He'd said he took a different job and we'd agreed our paths would never cross again. We'd made a deal. Sort of.

I took a slow, deep breath, nodding at whatever Riley was saying. Smitty was great with teens, Smitty was smart, and what he lacked in practical experience he made up for in grit. Smitty would put Elmwood High's hockey team on the map. We needed him.

Riley leaned in. "Look, I know he might not be Jake's favorite player, but Smitty is fu-amazing. We'd be lucky to land him…if he agrees. I know he has other options, so the only way to sway him is to show him how awesome this town is. You're the best man for the job."

I dabbed the corner of my eye with a napkin. "Right. Okay. Um, I'm just surprised. I thought he turned you down."

"He did. But I gave it one more shot, and he's here."

"Here."

"Yeah, he's staying at the Black Horse Inn." Riley pulled out his cell and typed a message. "I'm forwarding Smitty's contact info now. If you have time today and wouldn't mind meeting up this afternoon for a beer or coffee to get an idea about what he's looking for, that would be…incredible."

"Uh…okay."

"Thank you." He sighed, flashing a relieved grin. "I owe you big-time, man."

Yeah, he did.

More than he knew.

It had taken weeks to shake that man out of my system. Weeks. I'd chalked it up to a combination of loneliness and the best sex I'd had in years. Maybe ever.

I'd felt like myself with Smitty. My real self—not someone's father, son, brother, neighbor, or reliable buddy. In that one night, I was the old me who'd known how to let loose and have a good time without second-guessing. Of course, the old me used to get in a lot of trouble, so maybe I should have been wary all along.

Whatever. It had happened, and even though I'd woken up the next morning with a hangover from hell and a sore ass, I'd had no regrets, because no one would ever know. That night was mine. And our paths weren't supposed to cross again.

But now he was here.

Fuck.

Listen, I didn't think Smitty would roll into town and blab to everyone he met that Jake's dad and their dependable real estate agent was a damn ho who'd nearly cleaned his tonsils out in a hotel hallway before propositioning him for a good time…no clothes required. I just didn't like that he was in Elmwood.

The prospect of seeing Smitty—possibly even today—rattled me. I could barely choke down my scramble. If Jean-Claude happened to pop in from the kitchen to say hello to his husband, he'd notice and ask a dozen questions I couldn't answer. Thankfully, he stayed put.

I left half my breakfast and more money on the counter than necessary, then said my good-byes.

I hurried out of the diner and pulled my cell out with shaky fingers.

This is Bryson. You're in Elmwood?

I stared at my phone for a good minute, eventually cluing in that I was acting like a high-strung teen. Ugh, what was wrong with me?

Buzz buzz

I jumped up, swallowing hard as I read the new text.

Hi. Yep, I'm staying at the Black Horse Inn. Want to meet me at the bar at 5?

No, I didn't.

I didn't want to meet him at all. Not at the bar, the coffee shop, the market, the diner, the bakery, or anywhere in Elmwood. Christ. I did not want him in my town. This was supposed to be my safe space, and one-night stands with professional hockey connections were the opposite of safe.

Smitty had a lot of nerve showing up after four months anyway. The timing was weird, and I just…didn't like it. Irritation chased my nerves away, and that felt so much better. He didn't belong here, and I was not okay with this.

He had to go.

At 4:55,I stepped out of my Mercedes, surveying the half-full lot in front of the Black Horse Inn as I mentally prepared a speech to kick the hockey player to the curb.

No hard feelings. I like you, and that night was amazing, but we had an agreement, and you should go. Now.

Yeah, that would do it. I fussed with the collar of my oxford shirt and pulled the door open, tucking my sunglasses into my pocket. I definitely wouldn't need them in here.

The Black Horse Inn was a throwback to rural Vermont's idea of sophistication circa the middle of the last century when drinking martinis in dark smoky bars with low ceilings and red leatherette booths was the epitome of cool. Seventy-five years later, the only things that had changed were the flat-screens behind the bar. Oh, and smokers were now banished outdoors.

I scanned the small space as my eyes adjusted to the cavernlike atmosphere. It was early still, so the high tables were empty and only two of the booths were taken.

A boom of laughter caught my attention and there he was—all six foot five inches of massive human man straddling a barstool, nursing a beer and chatting amicably to Bill the bartender and Rick McIntyre, a local banker I'd sold a few properties to. I'd been hoping for a little privacy, but this wasn't some chain hotel in Upstate New York—this was Elmwood.

Bill greeted me heartily. "Ah, long time no see! What can I get you, Bryson?"

I smiled politely, nodding to Rick as I approached. "The usual, please."

"You got it."

Rick swallowed the dregs of his drink and stood. "Take my seat, man. You need to talk real estate with this guy. I can't believe our luck. Dustin is going to freak out when he hears Smitty Paluchek is the new high school coach. I don't know what kind of magic hockey spell has hit this town, but I'm all for it."

I braved my first glance at Smitty, idly sipping foam from a mug, his casual gaze locked on me.

And God, he looked good…rugged, rough, and bigger than I remembered. In fact, there was more of him everywhere. His hair was longer, his end-of-day beard was scruffier, his muscles were broader. That last one might have been a trick of the light. Or maybe the black tee hugging his biceps like a second skin added to the illusion.

Bill slid a beer toward me and chuckled. "Now the trick will be talking Jake off a ledge. We all saw that punch. Ooh! That boy got you good."

Rick hooted, bending his large frame to squint as he signed his receipt. "Never seen him fired up like that. But that's just hockey for ya. I bet Jake will be as thrilled to welcome a fellow pro in town as the rest of us. I better head out. I told Lizzy I'd stop by the store on my way home. G'night, fellas."

Smitty swiveled to face me. "Hey. Take a seat."

"No," I said coolly, gesturing to the row of booths lining the back wall. "This way."

He lifted a brow, but followed without comment, sliding into the very snug, very intimate booth I chose in the darkest corner of the bar.

Okay, this might not work. The original architects of the Black Horse had obviously not accounted for men of our height and stature when they designed this place. The seating was small and tight, and the booths were usually avoided by locals unless they happened to be on a date. But if we didn't want to be overheard, this was the best option.

Smitty grunted as he settled into the faux-leather bench seat. "This is insanely uncomfortable."

"That's okay. This won't take long," I replied stiffly, knocking my knee against the table. Ow, fuck, fuck, fuck. I bit the inside of my cheek and rearranged my smile…congenial, but cold. "What are you doing here?"

His lips quirked in amusement. "Not so happy to see me, eh?"

Pleasant and cordial were my default. No one wanted to buy a house from a dickwad with a bad attitude, but I wasn't interested in selling him anything. So…truth time.

"Not really." I darted my gaze around the bar and leaned forward. "Look, I don't mean to be a jerk about this, but I'm surprised. Riley mentioned that you were thinking of taking the coaching job and he wants me to show you housing options, but…why? You said you had a job. You said this town sounded like a bad episode of The Twilight Zone. You said?—"

"I didn't say a bad episode," he interrupted. "And don't get your panties in a twist. I'm not staying for long."

"Oh." I picked up my glass and set it down again. "Why not?"

Smitty's eyes crinkled at the corners, giving him a downright wolfish vibe. "So…you are a teensy bit happy to see me?"

"Yes. No! I mean…" I opened my mouth and closed it. "That night would never have happened if I'd thought for one second you'd take Riley's offer. I specifically asked you and?—"

He held his hands up in mock surrender. "I get it, and it's okay."

"No, it's not okay," I snapped. "What's going on? Did your job fall through?"

Smitty shook his head. "No, but they don't need me till October, so?—"

"Does Riley know about that other job? You have to be honest with him. He's trying to fill positions at the high school and?—"

"Whoa, steamroller, give me a fuckin' breather," he huffed. "Relax."

"Relax. Right." I sipped my beer and furrowed my brow. "Christ, you didn't come here for sex, did you?"

His grin was instant and meteoric. The kind of megawatt smile that could power a grid for a day. "I don't think I should answer that one. Only a real creep admits to traversing state lines for a booty call after four months, and a real liar claims it's the last thing on his mind. The truth is always somewhere in between."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm just sayin'…if you're interested, I'm down to clown. If not, that's cool too." Smitty raised his glass in a toast and winked.

I sputtered indignantly, spilling beer on the sticky surface. I wiped it as best I could with the thin cocktail napkin Bill had given me, then scowled.

"Down to clown," I repeated derisively. "Are you a fucking college student?"

He chuckled softly. "You're funny when you're wound up."

"I'm glad you think so, because I don't find any of this amusing," I hissed. "You shouldn't be here."

"So, are you saying that if you were the sheriff, you'd run my ass out of town? If so, please tell me you'd be wearing a cowboy hat, 'cause that would be fuckin' hot. And your glasses too."

I fixed him with my fiercest glare. "I'm not laughing."

"Okay, okay, sorry. Hey, the truth is…I don't know why I'm here either," he admitted with a sigh. "I was on my way to Toronto and it occurred to me that I didn't have to be anywhere in particular, so why not check Elmwood out? And yeah, knowing you live here and that there was a chance I'd see you was kind of a bonus. If you were interested."

"I'm not."

"Got it." Smitty pulled a comical face and gulped theatrically. "Man, you're scary when you're mad."

"I'm not mad. I just…don't like surprises."

"I'll remember that," he said, draping his arm over the back of the booth.

We held eye contact for so long, it became a staring contest. He won.

"I'm guessing that looking at real estate was a ruse to meet with me, but since you have no intention of taking that coaching job, you need to let Riley know so he can find someone."

"Huh, good suggestion, but—ow. Fuck." He shifted his legs and winced in pain. "They're gonna have to surgically remove me from this table if I don't get up now."

I stood and waited for him to unfold himself like a paper accordion. "Uh…okay. I'll, um…pay the tab."

"No need. I already told Bill to put it on my card."

I inclined my head and followed him outside, preparing for the world's most awkward second good-bye. I felt another twinge of anger toward him for showing up here and ruining that night with an unwelcome dose of reality, but it couldn't be undone now.

"Thanks for the beer." I set my sunglasses on my nose like a shield and pulled my keys out.

"No prob and no worries. Pretend I was never here." Smitty made a fade-away motion like a magician preparing an exit behind a curtain, then crouched to grab a bucket lying next to the ice machine. He inhaled sharply and froze for a beat.

"You okay?"

He looked perfectly fine. Even better in daylight, honestly. He was a muscular handsome god and?—

"Yeah, but uh…my back is fucked up from the drive. Would you mind filling the bucket with ice?" he asked, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Uh, sure. Of course." I pocketed my keys and took over ice duty. "It's heavy. I can carry it to your room if you want."

Smitty widened his eyes. "You're not trying to get in my pants, are you, Sheriff?"

I cast a panicky look around the parking lot, growling as I closed the distance between us and slipped an ice cube down his shirt. "Very funny. Now where's your goddamn room?"

"Fuck me, that's cold," he yelped, shaking the ice out. "All right, all right. It's upstairs."

I walked behind him at a respectful distance, holding the bucket while he opened his door. I braced myself for yet another weird good-bye, but he charged into the room ahead of me and made a beeline for the bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand.

I set the bucket on the standard motel-issue dresser and scanned the room. Unlike the bar, where nostalgia was a selling point, the rest of the inn had been remodeled recently.

The walls, curtains, and bed linens were white, accented with tasteful shades of forest green in throw pillows. Artwork featuring black-and-white photographs of the woods in the surrounding area were hung in groups of four. I eyed the open sliding glass door beyond the neatly made king-sized bed and the incredible view of the forest.

The Black Horse Inn was situated along the winding road leading into Elmwood in a truly picturesque setting. Every room had views of the glorious sea of evergreens—or so I'd been told. I'd never actually stayed here.

I stepped to the window instinctively. I was used to pointing out the beauty of the area, but I was off-duty and this guy was on his way out of town anyway. I could afford to be nice…ish.

"Hockey injury?" I asked.

Smitty snorted as he swallowed the pills. "More like two decades worth of hockey injuries. I'm fine, though. I haven't had a chance to stretch, and that's kind of crucial."

"Have you been to the sports center? There's a nice gym and a sauna. It might help work out the kinks."

"Kinks, eh?"

I rolled my eyes and marched to the door. "All right, this was interesting. Safe travels and?—"

"Hey, I was kidding. Sorry. I spent most of my life in locker rooms. My sense of humor is pretty low-brow." He gave a sheepish half laugh as he sauntered toward me. "I saw the rink and Riley told me about the gym and rec center, but he was tight on time. I might wander over there tomorrow and check it out. I'm assuming it's not hard to find."

"It's a couple of blocks north of the rink, adjacent to Saint Finbarr's. Just look for the steeple, and you'll see it."

"Any idea what time it closes?"

"Eight or nine o'clock, I think. You might want to call Riley and ask him for a tour. It's brand-new and state-of-the-art, and…it'll give you an opportunity to talk to him."

He snorted ruefully. "Got it, Dad."

I shot him a quelling look and turned the knob. "Best wishes to you."

"And salutations?"

"Has anyone told you that you're kind of an asshole?" I countered.

Smitty's lips curled into a lopsided grin. "Has anyone told you that you're kind of uptight?"

"I'm not uptight."

He pinched his fingers together and winked. "Just a little?"

No, I was a reformed "bad idea" junkie, determined not to let a one-night bender ruin years of rehabilitation—no matter how enticing it sounded. But he didn't need to know that.

"I'm trying to be the adult in the room and maturely deal with an unexpected situation. That's all. I wish…I wish you hadn't come and I feel like a jerk for saying that, but that night wouldn't have happened if I'd known we'd see each other again—here in Elmwood. And I really liked that night, so?—"

"Me too," he replied in a gravelly voice that went straight to my dick. "But I understand, and I'll do my best to avoid you for the next few months."

I froze. "Wh-what?"

"I offered to act as an interim coach until Riley finds a replacement."

My jaw dropped like a cartoon character, complete with bugged-out eyes. "Wait. You said you were leaving."

"No, you said I was leaving," he corrected calmly.

"But you're staying?"

"Temporarily. He needs the help, and I'm free till mid-October." Smitty shrugged nonchalantly.

"Mid-October." I slumped against the doorjamb. "Oh."

"Hey, to be clear, I didn't come here looking for a repeat. I think I'm going through a little transitional phase, and it didn't seem healthy to wait around for life to start again in Toronto. And definitely not in Detroit. So I talked to Riley this afternoon, and we came up with a mutually beneficial solution. But I respect your wishes and I'll stay far, far away if that's what you want. Don't worry about me. It's all good, man."

Oh. Wow.

Just. Wow.

I licked my lips and nodded. "Right. All good."

"Except…"

"What?"

"I can't stay in this hotel for months. Can you find me a short-term rental?"