He caught himself glancing at the door. Twice. Three times. Wondering if Leo was still at the Lakeside Inn or if he’d found a place. He hadn’t seen him at the bar, but that wasn’t unusual; most players didn’t spend their off time tossing back beers in a small-town bar.
He didn’t want to give Leo this much of his mental energy. Didn’t want to be wondering if he’d figured out that the diner on Main Street had the best coffee or if he was still drinking whatever gas station shit tourists bought on the highway. Didn’t want to care whether some arrogant city kid who thought Port Haven was beneath him was adjusting to a town that would chew him up and spit him out if he didn’t drop the pretentious edge to his attitude.
He closed the book and left it on the bar. Finished his beer standing up and dropped cash next to the bottle. He needed to go home, shower, and stop thinking about a guy he’d spoken ten words to.
Gunnar watched him go but didn’t say anything.
Dawson sat in his truck in the parking lot for a long time, hands on the wheel, engine off. When he finally started it, he drove home the long way, past the lake, windows down, hoping a drive would clear his head.
The only thing it did was give him more time to think about everything he’d show Leo if given the chance to prove Port Haven was slower paced but worth his time.
CHAPTER THREE
Leo dodged a kid in a Stags jersey who came tearing through the crowd at knee height and nearly took out a church lady carrying a tray of brownies. The kid’s mom yelled something that got swallowed by the noise, and Leo sidestepped into Ski, who didn’t notice because he was already waving at someone across the fairgrounds.
“You’re going to want these.” Ski pressed a pair of foam earplugs into Leo’s palm without breaking his wave. Tommy Kowalski—Ski because it seemed these hockey players didn’t know how to leave the nicknames on the ice—had been talking since they’d pulled into the gravel lot. One hand on the wheel of his truck, the other gesturing at landmarks Leo couldn’t distinguish from each other.
The 4-H barn, which confused Leo because it was actually an entire compound of buildings. The track where they held a demolition derby every fall. And for some reason, the spot where Mrs. Jankowski fell off the Tilt-A-Whirl in ’09 and sued the county.
“Earplugs,” Leo said. “How loud can it be?”
Ski gave him a look that suggested Leo had just asked whether water was wet. “Trust me.”
Leo pocketed the earplugs and followed the group through the gate. The air hit him first—fryer grease and diesel and something sweet underneath, funnel cake maybe, mixed with the dust that rose off the packed dirt paths every time someone walked through. Gunnar and Wes led the group, Gunnar’s hand resting at the small of Wes’s back.
Ford had his daughter next to him, one hand on her shoulder to keep her from darting into the crowd. Charlotte had a stuffed animal tucked under one arm and was pulling on Ford’s shirt with the other hand, talking up at him with the intensity of someone delivering classified intelligence.
Ford nodded as they walked, steering her aside when she nearly collided into a group of teenagers.
“She’s explaining the rules of tractor pulling,” Ford said when he caught Leo looking. “She’s got strong opinions.”
“She’s five.”
“She’s been coming to this since she was two. She knows more about it than you do.”
Leo held up both hands. “No argument here.”
Novo walked along the edge of the group, hands loose at his sides, watching the crowd without engaging. He’d nodded at Leo when they’d met up at The Penalty Box that morning and hadn’t said much since. Leo had tried twice to start a conversation. The first time, Novo said, “Yep.” The second time, just a shrug. Leo had laughed, filled the gap with a joke about the heat, and Novo had almost smiled before looking away. Close enough.
The fairgrounds were packed. Church groups sold food from folding tables. The volunteer fire department ran a dunk tank. A booth for the Stags booster club had a woman in a foam antler headband handing out schedules for the upcoming hockey season. She spotted Leo and lit up.
“Oh! You’re the new one! Gunnar told me about you.” She grabbed his hand and shook it with both of hers. “We are so excited for this season. You boys are going to do great things.”
“Can’t wait.” Leo matched her grip and gave her the full smile. She beamed.
Ski stopped every ten feet. Everyone in the county seemed to know him, and he knew them back: first names, kids’ names, whose cousin just had surgery, who was selling their boat. Leo hung at his elbow and let Ski make introductions, shaking hands and cracking jokes and matching whatever energy the person in front of him needed. Warm with the older couples, easy with the guys, a little extra shine for anyone who seemed excited to meet a Stag.
“You’re the new guy from Florida, right?” A guy in a Packers hat, arms crossed, sizing Leo up. “How you liking Wisconsin?”
“Still figuring out where everything is. But the cheese curds are no joke.”
The guy laughed. The woman next to him laughed. Ski clapped Leo on the shoulder and steered him toward the food stands, and Leo let himself be steered, still riding the laugh, already scanning for the next person to win over.
They stopped for food because Ski insisted. Cheese curds from a stand run by St. Anne’s. “You haven’t lived till you’ve had fair curds, Vargas.” Leo took one and burned the roof of his mouthbecause nobody warned him they came out of the fryer at the temperature of the sun. He hissed through his teeth and grabbed the napkin Wes held out. Gunnar’s mouth twitched.
“There’s a learning curve,” Wes said.
“Could’ve mentioned that before I lost feeling in my tongue.”
