9. Bryson

Everyone in town was talking about the handsome high school coach. That wasn't an exaggeration. I couldn't run a simple errand without someone asking how our newest citizen was settling into his new home.

Is the house too big? Is he going to paint the living room? It's a rather unfortunate shade of yellow. Does he have furniture? Does he know the Calmezzos have a foosball table in the basement closet?

Yes, the friendly folks in Elmwood literally knew what was in your basement closet. It only made sense that they'd be curious about the state of his refrigerator too. I'd bet big bucks that whoever was working the till at the market would report to anyone interested that Smitty had purchased an obscene amount of Top Ramen.

Poor guy. He had no idea that he'd be barraged with hot meals and desserts every day once hockey season was under way. No one here liked to think of Smitty struggling to cope in a foreign environment.

And yes, the fact that he was an eligible bachelor hadn't gone unnoticed. Whether he knew it or not, Elmwood buzzed with speculation about his love life. We considered ourselves to be rather enlightened, and no one made assumptions regarding sexuality.

I'd overheard a whispered "Is he bi or is he straight?" debate at the bakery and had caught a group of teenage girls shamelessly ogling him as he walked into the bank yesterday. Penny Henderson wanted to set him up with her niece, and Dean Johnson thought his granddaughter might want to meet him. If that wasn't enough, my receptionist commented on Smitty's hotness daily.

"Guess who I ran into at Rise and Grind this morning? Sir Hotcakes."

I'd spit out my coffee the first time I'd heard that one. "Sir Hotcakes?"

Tracy had grinned in unrepentant glee. "Sheila McNulty made that one up, and I couldn't agree more."

Well, me too, Sheila…me too.

They would have been surprised that I'd been intimately familiar with those hot cakes and even more surprised to know that I was doing my best to keep my distance. They'd think I was insane and maybe they were right, but I had my reasons. And I didn't invite any speculation regarding my personal life.

People knew I was gay, knew I'd been married and divorced. They even knew my ex-wife. That was more than enough. I had a role to play here, and I did it well. I was the realtor, a town council member, a volunteer, a good neighbor. But first and foremost, I was a father. None of those things excluded having a love life—unless the person in question was a closeted hockey player.

The crazy thing was that I wanted…him. I was lonely as fuck, and I wouldn't bother denying it.

I had a vision in my head about meeting the perfect guy—someone roughly my age with shared experiences. Maybe he'd be a dad too and hopefully close to his children. He'd probably be a businessman or a teacher. He'd enjoy a quiet life…no drama and minimal baggage. And most important, Jake would love him.

Smitty didn't fit my admittedly narrow criterion. At all. He was younger than me, in between careers, and the weight of his personal baggage was unknown. Oh, yeah…and my son hated him.

"Tell me it's a joke, Dad," Jake insisted on the phone. "No way is Smitty Paluchek living on our street."

I adjusted my ear buds as I pulled a bottle of Pinot Noir from my wine rack. "He is."

Silence. My guess was that he was either stunned or stumped or too angry to formulate a sentence.

"I can't believe it," he huffed. "That was the only house available in all of Elmwood?"

"Yep."

"Ugh. That's going to make it very hard to ignore him when I come visit."

I perked up. "Oh! When are you coming home?"

"Next month. I have a few days before the season opener, so I figured that might be a good time."

"That's a great time! I can't wait to see you." Geez, could I be any less chill?

"Same. But Dad…"

"Yeah?"

"Do not get all buddy-buddy with that jerk."

I frowned. "I—what?"

"I know you. You're always ‘Mr. Welcome to Elmwood' and Smitty is the one guy who shouldn't make the cut. Don't become best friends. He's not worth your time. Trust me on this…I've heard stories about him. On and off the ice, he's a piece of work. If I'm lucky, he'll be long gone next month anyway."

He changed the subject and had to hang up soon after.

Just as well, since I was about to have dinner with his nemesis.

Look, maybe this made me a bad dad and a worse human. Maybe I should have tried harder to avoid Smitty. At the end of the day, I just didn't want to.

I wasn't sure what that said about me, but it couldn't be good.

Twenty minutes later,I leaned against Smitty's kitchen counter, sipping Pinot while he stirred marinara sauce and told me about his first practice at the high school.

"We kept it simple and fun. They were too anxious to really get in a groove. And yeah, they might end up surprising me, but my first impression was…yikes. They're fuckin' terrible." He speared a rigatoni from the boiling water and held it up for me. "Taste this. Do you think it's done?"

I bit into the pasta, aware of his heated gaze locked on my mouth. "Yes."

He licked his lips as he turned off the burner. "Great. I have a big delivery of basic household items coming soon. In the meantime, I've got two bowls, two forks, and two chairs. Let's eat."

We sat at the peninsula, which was more of a cramped bar area. There was no way to avoid the press of his knee or the occasional brush of his elbow. I probably should have suggested eating at my house instead. Then again, I would have missed the pleasure of having a sexy hunk in gray sweats, a snug tee, and bare feet cooking for me. That hadn't happened in…well, ever.

"This is delicious," I said, scooping up a meaty marinara bite.

"Thanks. It's my specialty. I have a few things I cook well, and this is one of them. After that, I barbecue—chicken, shrimp, beef, salmon with a veg or a salad and I'm set. How about you? Do you cook?" he asked in a mad rush.

"Yes. I had to learn for Jake's sake. And mine. There's only so much boxed mac and cheese a person should consume in a lifetime, and I'd reached my limit when he was a toddler."

Smitty hummed. "Did you teach yourself?"

"Yeah, I cut out recipes and followed directions. Nothing overly ambitious. Piper helped out in the beginning too. She'd send us off with Tupperware containers of premade meals and instructions, but I clued in pretty quickly that she was enabling my ineptitude. I didn't want my ex-wife taking care of me. And…I didn't want to give anyone ammo to say I wasn't fit to parent my child." My cheeks heated instantly.

Whoa. That was TMI.I reached for my wineglass and twisted toward the adjoining living area furnished with a flat-screen and a huge beanbag chair. He'd already mentioned that Court and Ivan were going to lend him their old sofa, but furniture was a safe, neutral topic, right?

"Piper." He took a big bite, regarding me thoughtfully as he chewed. "It seems like her name comes up whenever yours does. At least among older folks."

My smile felt brittle. "We've been divorced for over sixteen years, and Piper's been remarried for ten. It's just small-town association, I guess."

"I'm surprised I haven't run into her yet."

"She travels a lot. Her husband retired a year ago. They built a mini mansion in Pinecrest, much to Elmwood's chagrin, but spend half the year on cruises and private tours of exclusive destinations."

Smitty pulled a face. "Jealous?"

"No, no. I'm happy for them. Piper and I are good friends. And Eric is a nice guy. We've celebrated holidays together for years. It started as an awkward attempt at making the divorce palatable for a five-year-old, but somewhere along the line, it became something we all enjoyed. I honestly miss Piper when I don't see her for months on end. I think they're in Brazil now, but I can't recall." I shrugged. "I'll see her more often once hockey season starts."

"That's cool. And very…civilized," he commented.

"How about you? Are you on good terms with your ex?"

The question was asked in the spirit of deflection. I didn't like talking about my divorce, but I didn't mind commiserating over someone else's. The tic on the side of his jaw indicated that it wasn't Smitty's favorite topic either.

"We're fine," he replied. "We don't see each other often, and that's probably a good thing. But we share close mutual friends, and every once in a while, we end up in the same room acting like strangers. It's fucking weird."

"Imagine how much weirder it would be if you had kids to worry about too."

The tic was a full jaw clench now. I had a feeling I'd stepped into a minefield. Yep…I should definitely ask about that sofa. I pointed at the living room, but he was talking now.

"If we'd had kids, we'd still be married," he said softly, eyes fixed on something over my shoulder.

"Oh. Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't?—"

Smitty waved aside my apologies with the flick of his wrist. "I know. Don't worry about it. Our marriage lasted five years. The first two were great, the third year was fine, but everything after…sucked. It wasn't that we fell out of love—at least not right away, it was more like…we came into the marriage with expectations that couldn't be fulfilled. For me, that was worse."

"Are you still in love with her?"

He shook his head. "No. Good thing, since she's remarried and expecting her first baby soon."

"Oh."

"Yup. Oh." He slugged back the last of his wine, gathering our bowls as he stood and moved into the kitchen. He turned to me with a sardonic laugh. "Sorry. I swear I used to be fun. Nothing says buzzkill quite like talking about your ex."

"I think I'm responsible for that. Although you did ask about Piper, so…"

Smitty's smile lit his eyes this time. "So it really was my fault. Geez, I gotta work on my sexy game. I'll never get you naked again at this rate."

I burst out laughing and met him at the sink. "I thought we agreed?—"

"That I should try harder? Done."

He bent slightly, brushing my nose, breathing in as I breathed out. I closed my eyes and curled my fingers in his hair. His hand drifted to my waist and his lips parted before slanting over mine. And oh, my God…this was what I'd been craving for months. No, for years.

The kiss was sweet, almost tender—soft lips and a gentle glide of tongues. It was tentative yet unafraid. There was untapped power here, so much need and desire. We didn't push it, we didn't rush it, but we didn't hold back. The taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of his strong arms and firm body…had I honestly thought I could convince myself I didn't want this again?

I tugged his bottom lip between my teeth and sucked his tongue, moaning greedily as I clutched at the front of his T-shirt.

Smitty set his hand over mine and broke the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead on mine. "Damn, we're good at that."

I nodded. There was no point in denying it or feeling guilty, though I probably would later.

For now, I was going to let it go.

"Smitty…"

"Okay, okay." He set the bowls in the sink and held up his hand like a white flag. "Listen…I have one word for you. Foosball."

"I—what?"

"You heard me. The owners left a sweet foosball table in the basement. It would've taken me a while to find it if the goth girl barista hadn't given me a tip."

"Mazie?"

"Yeah, I guess she grew up with the Calmezzos' kids, and they used to have a nice game room downstairs. It's in good condition, but I obviously can't play by myself, so…what do you think?"

"I haven't played foosball since Jake was a teenager."

He rolled his eyes. "That was what…three years ago? Trust me, this is not a life skill you lose without practice."

"All right. But I'm bringing the wine." I sighed, grabbing the bottle and trying not to chuckle at his triumphant fist pump.

The basement had indeed once been a party center in this house. It was almost easy to tell from the height of the old power outlets in the wood-paneled walls where the video game console had gone and which section was used for exercise equipment or basic storage. The space was empty now. Except for a foosball table.

Smitty cracked his knuckles and narrowed his gaze. "Blue or red?"

"Uh…red, I guess." I grasped the handles on my end of the table. "I'm ready."

He twisted the knobs and— "One point for me. In competitions, you play to eleven. At this rate, we'll be there in three minutes or less."

I glowered. "I wasn't ready. Redo."

"You said ready," he reminded me.

"Yeah, but I didn't know you were aiming for the jugular."

Smitty cast a cocky look my way. "I am never not aiming for the jugular."

I huffed derisively. "Is this foosball smack talk?"

"You know it," he singsonged.

I unbuttoned my cuffs and rolled my shirt sleeves up. "All right. Let's do this."

The next fifteen minutes was an animated back-and-forth with ridiculous taunts and jibes. Smitty threw his whole body into each twist of a pole, swaying left and then right. He was light on his feet, playful one second and borderline vicious the next.

He scored his fifth point in a row and raised his arms triumphantly. "Wooooohoooo!"

I stepped away from the table, setting my hands on my hips. "Has anyone ever told you that you're an obnoxious winner?"

"Me? Obnoxious?" Smitty gaped incredulously before yanking his T-shirt over his head, waving it like a banner as he did a victory lap around the basement.

It was so over-the-top that it was funny. His second lap turned into a third, complete with jumping jacks and high kicks, and yes…it was hilarious. My amused snicker morphed into a belly laugh. I wiped tears from the corner of my eyes, bracing one hand on the table so I didn't keel over on lap four.

"Oh, my God, cool it." I snorted.

Smitty stopped in front of me. He tilted his head and grinned…a little cocky, a little manic, and a lot sexy. "Foosball is fun, huh?"

"Maybe, but I think it was more fun for you than me."

He nodded and glanced away briefly. When our eyes met again, the energy in the room shifted, sizzling with an electric current. I swallowed hard as humor faded, replaced by something a thousand times more potent.

Holy shit, I wanted him.

Who was I kidding? I'd wanted him for months. And here he was, tattooed, bare chested, muscles glistening, and his cock thick behind the thin barrier of his sweats. Smitty Paluchek was a fucking dream come true. I licked my lips and shamelessly studied the planes of his toned abs.

"You're killin' me, Bry," he rasped. "You know that? I'm trying to be good, but I want you so bad I?—"

I lunged for him.

I wrapped my hand around his nape and crashed my mouth over his. He didn't miss a beat. Smitty pulled me close, angling his head to deepen the connection as he swept his tongue alongside mine.

We made out in a feverish haze, licking, sucking, and nipping. If there was a reason I wasn't supposed to want him, I couldn't remember what it was. This felt too good to be wrong. And the obscene bulge in his sweats made me brazen with desire. I hadn't touched a man since this man. I needed this.

I hooked my thumbs under the elastic, biting his swollen lip as I broke the kiss. "Is this okay?"

Smitty shoved his sweats and boxer briefs over his ass in response. His rigid cock bobbed between us, begging for attention. I didn't hesitate. I curled my fingers at his base and stroked him.

"Fuck, yes."

He watched me with hooded eyelids, his breath hitching on the upstroke. I wondered if he had any idea how sexy he looked or how much I wanted to plaster myself against him, climb him, ride him. His fingers were on my belt, unbuttoning my khakis, undoing my zipper. And his hand was in my briefs, his thumb grazing my crown.

Smitty teased me with featherlight touches as he ravaged my mouth, dirty and greedy. The contrast was a jolting turn-on. I was practically vibrating, vaguely aware this was in danger of ending way too soon. That wouldn't do.

I pushed my khakis and briefs to my knees and licked my palm, then stood on my tiptoes, gripped our cocks in a tight hold, and jacked us both. When breathing and kissing became a challenge, Smitty rested his forehead on mine, his eyes locked on our dicks, growling low and deep.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come," he grunted, spurting over my fist.

I used his cum as lube and two strokes later, I trembled through one of the strongest orgasms of my life. "Oh, oh, oh…fuck."

My whole body quaked as if I'd been poked with an electric prod. I kissed him, slow and lazy while my pulse returned to Earth. Kissing him was so easy. So good. And it kept reality at bay.

I wasn't sure what I was worried about, though. This was Smitty.

"We should have dinner every night," he blurted.

I pursed my lips and nodded. "Well, you do have a lot of ramen."

"And foosball."

"True. But I'm not gonna let you win next time."

His comedic triple take made me laugh. "Let me win? Oh, my…wow. Yeah, it's on. Best two out of three, baby."

It was hard to take a naked man with his sweats around his ankles and dried cum on his stomach seriously, but I supposed that was Smitty's charm. We didn't have to overthink this attraction or give it a name. We could hang out—laugh, talk, play games. We could be something simple. Something easy.

And that was how the next chapter started.

Simple and easy.