“Are you imagining me in tight pants, Professor?”
“No, but now that you mention it.”
Carter chuckled and leaned a shoulder against the wall next to Lincoln. “I wasn’t in one place long enough to play most team sports, but in high school, a coach saw me throwing a ball around with one of my foster brothers who was on the team. I was on the team a week later.”
Carter was a foster kid. That was one explanation for the sealed record Lincoln had run into eight years ago when he’d tried to research the class menace. But that wasn’t the point, and Carter wasn’t done with his story.
“I was a closer, the pitcher who?—”
“Comes in at the end,” Lincoln said. “I went to UNC. SportsCenter is a mandatory course.”
“Great, you get the sports questions at trivia night.” Carter smirked when Lincoln’s middle finger twitched again. He sobered, though, as the memory pulled him back in. “I spent seven to eight innings of every game feeling like I was gonna throw up. Waiting to go in.”
Not exactly the same but pretty damn close. Lincoln had heard stories of athletes experiencing something like stage fright too, especially hockey players who were predisposed to throwing up in their helmets. Or maybe that was just in The Cutting Edge. Also beside the point but his mind tended to wander when he was nervous. “How’d you make it go away?” he asked, striving to get back on track.
“Coach told me that when I went out there I was the number on the back of my jersey. Not Carter Last-Name-of-the-Week. Not the weird foster kid. Just the pitcher, Number 3. Told the PA guy to announce it that way too.”
Lincoln got where he was going. “So I just need to be Mr. Polk?”
“That’s right.” He pushed off the wall and stood in front of Lincoln. “Not Lincoln Monroe, musical prodigy.” As he straightened Lincoln’s jacket, vest, and collar, the backs of his hands brushed Lincoln’s jaw, the scratch of the bandages distracting him in a good way. “You’re Professor Lincoln Polk, the new university librarian, who is also gifted at music and gifted with a smoking-hot husband.”
“Cocky,” Lincoln said, rolling his eyes.
Then righting them as the backs of Carter’s fingers brushed his cheek, intentionally. “There he is.”
“Did you keep playing?” Lincoln asked, genuinely curious, and genuinely trying not to think about where Carter’s touch and this closeness between them could lead, in a fucking church.
All those thoughts died with the death of Carter’s smile. He dropped his hand and stepped back, out of Lincoln’s space. “I was moved before the end of the season. Foster brother didn’t like that I took his spot on the team.”
Lincoln’s chest ached, imagining a teen Carter conquering a fear, only to be uprooted for that success. He pushed off the wall. “Carter?—”
Carter cut him off with an extended hand. “Ready, Mr. Polk?” The smile wasn’t exactly forced, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. It was a cover.
Which was what Lincoln needed to sink into, for Ruby’s sake. And for Carter’s. He slid his hand into his partner’s, squeezing gently. “Ready, Mr. Polk.”
Ready only lasted the ten minutes it took the minister to call the congregation to order and introduce him.
“Good luck!” Susanne said, looking the part of proud schemer.
Jennifer’s “I can’t wait to hear you play” was a tad more genuine, but Lincoln has having a hard time being generous when his heart wanted to beat out of his chest. Or was that his stomach trying to escape?
Carter stood and stepped out of their row into the side aisle. Lincoln followed and nearly tripped over his own feet. Carter’s hand drifted over his lower back, steadying him. “You got this, Professor.” And steadying him further.
Professor Polk, he continued to repeat to himself with every step closer to the piano positioned on the raised chancel, in front of the choir and beside the waiting soloist and choir director, across the stage from the minister’s pulpit. He managed the few stage stairs without incident and exchanged quick introductions with the soloist and choir director. “What are we playing?” He purposely hadn’t looked at the program. Better to be in the moment than worrying about the notes he’d potentially fuck up.
“‘How Great Thou Art,’ to start,” the soloist said.
“Wendy usually does the first verse a cappella,” the choir director said. “And then the piano and we come in at the chorus.”
Lincoln let out a held breath. That he could do with his eyes closed if need be. “I’ll give you a note to start?”
“Perfect,” Wendy said with a warm smile.
He carried that warmth with him to the bench, sitting behind the piano. Recalled Carter’s big warm hand at his lower back as he adjusted his vest and collar. Felt the warmth of his stare as he spread his fingers over the keys. The ivories, and his insides, didn’t feel so cold.
Carter liked to think it was his words and his touch that kept Lincoln upright on his way to the front of the church. For this part, Carter remained in the side aisle, pretending to admire his husband, who spoke briefly with the soloist and choir director. It wasn’t totally an act—he was admiring Lincoln in his pressed slacks, his starched collared shirt, the rainbow argyle vest and sport coat he wore over it—but Carter was also observing the choir that stood behind him and the congregation that filled the pews. The entire town really was here, and Carter didn’t spot a bruised face or roughed-up hands on anyone. Granted, the former could be covered with makeup, the latter with gloves or a scarf, but no one struck Carter as suspicious.
A note sounded up front, and Carter whipped his gaze back around. Lincoln was seated behind the piano sans sheet music. He straightened his back, tested the pedals with his feet, and spread his fingers over the keys.
