Chapter 1 #5
Heat washed up Devon’s cheeks and ears. “Stop, I’m blushing.
” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So anyway, I was moving back to the area, and my sobriety coach”—after all these years he could say that without wincing—“suggested it would be good for me to find something to focus on. Something that was removed from hockey but that I would have to take responsibility for. And Amber—her great-aunt used to own this place—was looking for a business partner to help her take over, but she was more interested in the wool part of the business. Well, and picking the lamb name themes.” Which was how he ended up with a Gritty—that year’s theme had been NHL mascots.
“Seems like it suits you.”
“Thanks.” Devon still found it difficult to feel pride in his recovery, but against all odds, he did love the sheep. Even the demon dick. Speaking of—“I should go out and do my last check of the night. You need anything?”
“Uh, water, maybe? And painkillers if you have them? I don’t have a migraine yet, but I can kind of feel it coming, and I left my meds in the car.”
Shit. “There’s a pitcher of water in the fridge, glasses in the cupboard. I don’t have anything stronger than Advil or Tylenol, though.” For obvious reasons.
“That and water will be perfect as long as I can get some rest tonight,” Noah said. “Uh… sorry for having to ask. Kinda didn’t think about that.”
Devon waved him off, happy to just forget about it. Or at least stop talking about it. “Not a big deal. Tylenol’s in the kitchen too. Come on, I’ll show you.”
TRUTH TOLD, Devon probably didn’t have to check on the sheep. But he did need to get out of the house for a minute to regroup.
The snow had finished falling, at least for now, so he fired up the tractor in the pole barn and cleared the driveway and the paths around the paddock while he mulled things over.
It had been a long time since he told anyone his story.
He expected it to feel raw, the way it had every other time.
Instead he just felt tender, like he’d spent half an hour under the elbows of a very determined massage therapist who had a personal vendetta against the knotted muscles in Devon’s chest.
Was that the effect of time? Or the fact that he was, for once, telling his story to someone he knew would understand?
Or was Noah just that easy to talk to?
Maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it was the fact that they were stuck together by circumstance and the storm had knocked out most of the entertainment options, and now they had to make small talk.
Not that a summary of Devon’s struggle with addiction could really be called small talk.
He finished with the snow, put the tractor away, and stomped into the barn.
The barn smelled like sheep. Sheep smelled like sheep shit. These were just two facts of life on a farm. By this point Devon barely noticed, especially in the winter. He topped up the water troughs and checked the feed, made sure nobody was limping or looking poorly.
One of the summer lambs nudged his hip looking for a treat—apple or carrot—and Devon gently shooed it away.
Its ear tag had a daisy on it. “Sorry, Flower. No snacks after sunset. You know the rules.” Maybe it was superstition, but Devon swore someone always escaped if he fed them treats when it was dark out.
Maybe Noah had a point about the demon-sheep thing.
Flower bleated pathetically until Devon petted her head. “Tomorrow,” he promised.
Nelson had finished rounding up the sheep for the night, and now he was sitting patiently by the door, pointedly shifting his gaze between Devon and the sheep.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Devon grumbled, but he closed the doors to the pasture and then ducked into the office in the building’s interior to grab his guitar.
FOR THE first few seconds Noah thought he was hallucinating. It had been a long day, he was on the edge of a migraine, and the last time he was this tired he’d had the excuse of a traumatic brain injury.
But now that the snow and wind had stopped, the night was quiet. Sound carried, and the house was old and probably not very well insulated. Noah could hear the occasional sheep bleating.
So it made sense that he could hear the music too. But this was a live rendition of, if Noah was not mistaken, “Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other.” Being sung to sheep. At bedtime.
Maybe he was having a stroke.
A few minutes later, when he’d finished his third glass of water, Devon came in from the cold, humming under his breath. Nelson trotted in after him.
Fuck it. “Did you call the guitar Waylon?”
Devon’s cheeks were already red from the cold, so Noah couldn’t tell if he was blushing. “Don’t be silly. Guitars are female. How’s the headache?”
Noah wagged his hand back and forth. “Not worse. Not better. I should go to sleep, probably. That should fix it.”
He hoped that would be a big enough hint—please tell me where to sleep. Noah didn’t want to go snooping through the rest of Devon’s house looking for the right bed. Well, he did, but he didn’t want to get caught and make things awkward.
“Right. You want to give me a hand with the pull-out?”
That would work. “Sure.”
“Normally I just leave it as a couch when the power goes out,” Devon said as Noah helped him move the armchairs farther away from the woodstove so the sofa could move forward.
“The generator doesn’t have enough power to run the heat, and the bedrooms get pretty cold, so it’s sleep in here or wake up stiff.
But I don’t snore, or if I do, Nelson hasn’t complained. ”
“I’m definitely going to rest better here than I would’ve. I’m not picky.” They locked eyes across the living room as they each lifted an end of the sofa. “I will steal the blankets, though.”
Devon laughed as they set it back down again. “I’ll get you your own set.”
Putting the bed together was the work of a few moments. Devon left Noah to pile up the couch cushions while he rustled up more pillows and blankets than Noah had ever owned at one time.
“I didn’t mean I needed enough to smother myself with,” Noah joked. “Or are those to make sure I stay on my side?”
Somehow Devon managed to lob one of the pillows at Noah’s head. “Maybe I wanted to indulge your kleptomania kink.”
“Ha ha.” But Devon knew Noah was gay, and he was willing to share a bed with him and make jokes about sex, so he decided to push his luck. “Do I get a lullaby too?”
Devon dropped the bundle of bedding on the mattress. “Not on the first date.”
Noah successfully fought down the urge to fist-pump—the impending headache helped—but he didn’t bother trying not to smirk. “Didn’t realize I’d agreed to the first one.”
Together they tucked the fitted sheet around the mattress. “You get in bed with a lot of guys before the first date?”
“Historically, I’ve been known to indulge.” Noah flattened out a wrinkle and then caught the quilt Devon tossed in his direction. “I don’t think I’ve ever made the bed first, though.” And then, well, turnabout was fair play, right? “What about you?”
Although Devon and Noah were still in the process of putting the blankets on, Nelson took that moment to hop up on the bed and settle in.
“Hey, hey, troublemaker. Down, please.”
Nelson grumbled and gave Devon an unimpressed look, but didn’t budge.
Devon pointed at the floor. “Move, dog.”
Nelson slithered off the mattress, looking even less impressed than Devon. Noah swore he could feel the dog’s eyes on them as they continued to pile on blankets, and he suspected the process would repeat itself the second they let their guard down.
He narrowed his eyes at Nelson. “You’re just a big fluffy menace, huh?”
Nelson yawned.
“Wow. Thanks for your sympathy, you ungrateful brat,” Devon said wryly. “Which part am I answering first? One-night stands, fucking men, or pre-date laundry?”
They’d finished assembly at this point—even Noah could not wish for more blankets to steal. He lay down on top of them, put his hands behind his head, and fluttered his eyelashes. “Dealer’s choice.”
Devon laughed at him. “You’re dangerous.” But he lay down on the other side of the bed anyway. Nelson joined them and curled up between their feet. “Sleeping with men is a post-retirement hobby.”
Noah shook his head, mock-despairing even as he turned to face his host. “Couldn’t just get a sports car,” he teased.
“Absolutely not. I had one already, for starters.” Orange firelight danced across his features.
He’d always been handsome, Noah thought.
Back when he was playing hockey, but when he came to Noah’s rescue too.
He was especially striking now, vulnerable in the dark.
“One-night stands—gave those up with the drugs. And the sports car too, if I’m honest.”
“Oof.” Triple whammy.
“Right?” Devon said. “But they were kind of all intertwined, for me. I didn’t want to take any chances. The truck’s more comfortable anyway.”
And more practical for living on a farm. Still…. Noah reached out and touched Devon’s wrist. “Should I stop flirting with you?”
“Only if you don’t want to stick around.” He hooked their pinkies together. “I’m a hot mess, but I’m a hot mess with stability. Scheduled bedtimes. Regular rotation of sheep lullabies. Pretty boring stuff.”
But Noah could see that he needed it—that it gave him the framework he needed to live a healthy, fulfilling life.
Besides— “I mean,” he pointed out, “a regular-season schedule’s not so different.
Naptime at three. Dinner at six. Game at eight.
” He’d done fine with that. “Coaching high school hockey’s the same, just with more leeway for the kids to throw bush parties and put off their homework. ”
Tommy had despised routine. Noah tried to institute “new-recipe Monday,” even did all the research and shopping and cooking for it, but Tommy came in the door the third week and said, “I’m not feeling yellow curry tonight. Let’s go out.”
Yeah, in retrospect, that relationship was probably doomed from the start.