Any Man Of Mine

He chuckled. “And that’s your real name? You’re not just shitting me?”

“Not shitting you.” She’d always hated her name. “I know. It sounds like a retirement home. Like Meadow Lakes or Summer Vil age.” She kept her eyes on his face in a desperate bid not to rudely stare at his chest and drool. Although real y, staring at his face was no hardship. “Here you go.” She shoved the sunscreen toward him.

Instead of taking it, he lay back in his chair. “Your name doesn’t sound like a retirement home. More like one of those paradise destinations.”

A thin golden happy trail ran down the middle of his six-pack, circled his navel, and disappearing beneath the waist of his shorts, pointing the way to his paradise destination. God help her. She wanted to say something clever. Something smart and sexy, but she couldn’t think of anything. Not when the blood was draining from her head.

“The al -inclusive kind,” he added. “The kind that promises endless pleasure and an al -you-can-eat buffet.”

Autumn had a choice. Run like hel . Again. Run and save herself from endless pleasure and the al -she-could- eat buffet laid out in front of her like a smorgasbord of sin.

She rose from the lounge chair, looked down at al that yummy temptation, and popped the top of her Coppertone.

Chapter Six

Any Man of Mine:

Fits into My Life

Sam left his truck running and groaned a little as he hoisted Conner to his shoulder. Beneath the neoprene ice pack wrapped around his waist, the muscles in the smal of his back tightened, stil in protest over the hit Modano had put on him in the third frame. He leaned a bit to his left and carried his son up the concrete, the soles of his leather loafers a thump on the concrete. He was getting old. His body couldn’t take the same punishment at thirty-five that it had at twenty-five.

The weak porch light shone down on his head as he rang the doorbel . The cool night air seeped through the tight weave of his thin gray sweater and white T-shirt beneath. He’d had Natalie cal Autumn to tel her that Conner was staying after the game to meet some of the guys. He wondered if she’d mentioned that Sam would bring him home.

The door swung open, and Autumn stood within the soft glow of the entry. She wore a yel ow T-shirt with a white wiener dog on it, yel ow-and-white flannel pants, and white wiener-dog slippers. Her deep auburn hair shone like fire beneath a brass chandelier, but she didn’t look al fired up to see him. Not like last time.

“He passed out about ten minutes ago.”

Autumn opened the door wider and let him in. He fol owed her up a set of stairs and down a hal lined with framed photos. The house smel ed of homey things. Like cooked meals, wood polish, and old carpet. It wasn’t the kind of house he expected her to live in with his son. It wasn’t a bad house. Not al that much different from what he’d lived in as a kid, but she could afford newer.

They moved into a bedroom painted with cartoon characters, and his muscles protested as he laid his son on a bed covered with a Barney quilt. Conner hated Barney. Didn’t he?

Sam straightened, and Autumn took over. She unzipped Conner’s jacket, and his eyes fluttered open. “I got a foam finger,” he said. Her hands moved over him, and she helped him sit up as she pul ed at his jacket. “Did you have a good time, little nugget?”

He nodded and yawned. “Yes.”

Sam moved to the doorway and watched Autumn careful y pul Conner’s arms through his Chinooks’ T-shirt. It had been a couple of years since he’d seen mother and son together. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Autumn so… soft.

“Dad told me a joke.”

Her head whipped around. Her eyes huge.

Sam put up his hands. “A knock-knock joke.”

“It was funny.” Conner laughed, sleepy and sil y. “Knock knock.”

Autumn returned her attention to undressing Conner. “Who’s there?”

Conner waited until the shirt was pul ed over his head before he answered, “Goat.”

“Goat who?”

“Goat is at… Goat ask…” He lay down, and Autumn moved to the end of the bed and untied his shoe. “I forgot.”

“Goat to the door and find out,” Sam provided.

Autumn turned her face and looked at him as she untied his laces. A smile worked one corner of her lips, and she rol ed her green eyes as if she went through this sort of thing a hundred times a day. “You’re right. That is funny.” She took his shoes and socks off his feet and dropped them on the floor.

“Peee–yew!” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Those are the stinkiest feet in the whole world.”

“You always say that, Mom.”

Conner and Autumn had a whole ritual, a whole life that he knew nothing about and that had nothing to do with him. He’d always known it, of course, but actual y seeing it made him a little uncomfortable, and he real y couldn’t say why.

He took a step backward into the hal . “I’l go get the foam finger.”

“And my puck, Dad.”

Sam looked into Conner’s sleepy eyes and nodded. “Okay.” He moved back down the hal , past the wal s lined with photos of Conner and Autumn and Conner with Vince the idiot. The smal of his back hurt like hel as he moved down the steps and out into the chil y night air. When he got home, he’d shove a bag of peas against his back. He preferred peas over anything else. They fitted better to his back or knee or shoulder, and when they were hard, they kind of massaged his muscles like cold beads.

The Ford F–250 was stil running, and he thought about turning it off, but he figured he wouldn’t be much longer and left it on. A guy didn’t buy an F–250 because he worried about gas consumption. He drove it because of the payload and because it hauled serious ass. Although he never hauled anything heavier than his sports bag, it was good to know it had the power if he ever decided to tow twenty four thousand pounds. He moved to the passenger side and found Conner’s foam finger and the puck Johan had given him while he and Nat had sat in the lounge waiting for Sam to finish with reporters and getting his back iced in the locker room. You’d have thought the puck was made of gold, the way Conner had acted about it. Shit, if he’d known his kid would get so excited about a puck, he would have given him one years ago. He shut the truck door and headed toward the house. You should know. You’re his father, his guilty conscience reminded him. His conscience seemed to be more active lately, a fact that bothered him as much as his guilt. He didn’t like to feel guilty about anything. Seeing Autumn again had triggered something inside him, and seeing that his son lived in an old split-level in Kirkland while he lived in a five-mil ion-dol ar loft in the middle of Seattle didn’t sit very wel with him either.

The front door to the older house squeaked as he opened it. She could afford better. He paid her enough in child support to make sure his child lived wel . He paid enough that he shouldn’t feel guilty about anything anymore.

He moved up the stairs and looked around the living room. At the oak furniture and sofa and love seat that were made out of durable microfiber. The house was crammed with little homemade knickknacks and art projects. Pictures of Conner at every age and stage of his life were al over the place. He had photos of Conner, too, but nothing like this.

The cel phone in the front pocket of his black wool pants rang, and he pul ed it out. Veronica’s number flashed across the screen, and he sent it to voice mail. He was tired and not in the mood to talk about Milan or Paris or wherever the hel she was staying. If by chance she was in Seattle, he wasn’t in the mood for that either. Sometimes he just wanted to crash by himself. Tonight was one of those times. He set the big blue finger and puck