Any Man Of Mine

Beneath lowered lids, Sam looked at the clock. It was just past eight. He cleared his throat. “How long have you been standing there?”

“A long time.”

Which could mean an hour or a minute. “You wanna climb in here with me?”

“No. I want Toaster Sticks.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in?” Sundays were his only days to sleep in. The rest of the week he was practicing or playing, often both in the same day. “I could turn on the TV.” He pointed to the big screen across the room.

“Nope. I’m hungry.” That’s one thing he knew about Conner. The kid liked to eat the second his feet hit the floor. Sam groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Get the toaster out while I take a leak.”

Conner smiled and took off out of the room, his little feet thumping across the carpet and hardwood floors. The bottoms of his pajamas fit snug around his calves instead of his ankles. Conner had always been tal , but it seemed as if he’d grown a few inches over the summer when Sam hadn’t been looking. He stood and, after using the bathroom, joined his son in the kitchen.

He’d bought the loft a year ago and had the kitchen remodeled with brushed nickel, glass, and Italian marble. Instead of a conventional wal , a waterfal separated the kitchen and the dining room. From the ceiling, continuous water slid down a thin piece of glass giving the appearance of a sheet of water. The interior designer cal ed it a “water feature,” and it was Conner’s favorite place to play. Everything in the loft was modern and masculine and suited him. Sam opened the Sub-Zero freezer and crouched to look inside. Freezing air hit his bare chest as his gaze roamed over the contents: frozen juice, ice packs and numerous bags of peas. “I’m out of Toaster Sticks.”

“Mom makes me heart pancakes.”

Which explained a lot. “I don’t have anything to make pancakes.” Not that he’d make them into little hearts even if he did.

“I like Egg McMuffins,” Conner piped up.

“Your mom feeds you that crap?”

“When we’re in a hurry.”

“Wel , don’t eat that stuff. It’s not good for you.” He opened the pantry. “In the morning, a guy needs 80 percent carbs and 20 percent protein to start his day right.”

Conner sighed. He’d heard it before. “I hate oatmeal.”

Sam knew that and grabbed a box of Cheerios. “Oatmeal wil fil you up, give you energy, and put hair on your chest.”

“I’m in the kindergarten.”

Sam laughed and turned to look at his son, sitting at the bar on a tal stool, his blue eyes bright and alert. “You don’t want to be the only kid in your elementary school with a hairy chest?”

His eyes got even wider. “No!”

He took the milk out of the refrigerator and grabbed a cereal bowl. “Wel , maybe next year.”

“Maybe in sixth grade.” Conner lowered his gaze to intently study the dark blond hair growing across Sam’s chest. Then he pul ed out the neck of his pajama’s and peered inside. “Does it itch?”

“When it first grows in.” He set the bowl in front of Conner and poured the cereal.

“My nuts itch sometimes.” He rested his cheek on his fist. “But they aren’t hairy. Mom says I can’t scratch my nuts in public.”

Sam smiled. That was such a boy thing to say. Sam sometimes worried that Autumn raised his son like a girl. Made him wimpy. Good to know he thought like a boy.

“Did you wash your hands?”

He looked up from the bowl. “What?”

“You gotta wash your hands when you cook.”

Sam rol ed his eyes and moved to the sink. So much for sounding like a boy. “You obviously live with a woman.” He turned on the faucet and pumped some antibacterial soap into his palm.

“Mom yel s at Uncle Vince about it al the time.”

Good. Someone needed to yel at the idiot. Sam grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands.

“Does that hurt?”

“What?

He pointed to Sam’s bare arm. “That?”

“This?” Sam ran a finger over the heavily inked veni vidi vici tattooing his skin from the inside of his elbow to his wrist. “Nah. It did a little when I had it done.”

“What does it say?”

At one time it had said his mama’s name. Something he rarely recal ed any more. “It’s Latin and means: I came, I saw, now someone’s gonna get his butt kicked.” He wondered if Autumn had covered over his name on the inside of her wrist.

Conner laughed, showing his little white teeth. “Butt. That’s a bad word.”

“Butt? ” He purposely cleaned his language up for Conner. Always did. He shook his head and threw the paper towel away. “What do you say instead of butt?”

“Bum-bum. ”

“Bum-bum?” He was right. Yet more proof that Conner spent too much time with a woman. “Butt isn’t a bad word.”

“Mom thinks so.”

“Just because your mom’s a girl, doesn’t mean she’s always right. Bum-bum is a sissy word and wil get you beat up. Say butt instead.”

He thought it over and nodded. “I got a picture.” He jumped off his chair and ran from the kitchen. When he returned, he set a piece of white notebook paper on the bar.

“You drew it?” Sam poured cereal and milk into the bowl.

“Yeah. I’m a good drawer.” He crawled back up on the stool and pointed to two lopsided figures with yel ow hair and blue eyes. One was smal er, and it looked like they were standing on an egg. “This is you, and this is me. We’re fishin’. ”

“Fishing?” He grabbed a banana and sliced it up.

“Yeah.”

The only time Sam fished was in Cabo. And that was more about drinking with the guys than actual y fishing. He dumped half the banana in Conner’s cereal, the other half in a blender. He grabbed a spoon and slid the bowl to his son. While Conner ate, he tossed some frozen strawberries, milk, protein powder, lecithin, and a splash of flaxseed oil into the blender. He pushed smoothie, then poured his breakfast into a big glass.

“I saw you on the boat.”

“What boat?” He was pretty sure no one had taken photos on those trips. It was kind of an unwritten rule. He turned and raised his glass to his lips.

“In the paper.” A Cheerio stuck to the corner of Conner’s mouth, and he pushed it in with the back of his hand. Ah. That picture. The one taken of him on a yacht last June pouring beer from the Stanley Cup on a few big-busted bikini models.

“I didn’t like those girls.”

“That’s ’cause you’re five.” Sam lowered the glass and licked his top lip. “You wil someday.”

Conner shook his head, and one disapproving brow rose up his forehead. Good God, he looked just his mama. “Take me on your boat. Not those girls.”

“That wasn’t my boat.”

“Oh.” Conner took a big bite and chewed. “Josh F’s dad takes him to the kindergarten,” he said around a mouthful of Cheerios. “Dads should take their kids to the kindergarten sometimes.”

How had they jumped from boats and fishing to kindergarten? “Doesn’t your mom take you?”

Conner nodded and swal owed hard. “You can take me, too.”

“Maybe when I’m in town sometime.” He took a drink. “How do you like ‘the’ kindergarten?”

“It’s okay. I like my teacher, Mrs. Rich. She reads to us. And I like Josh F.”

“Is he your friend?”