Page 81 of Muscle Cub

I groaned. “Can’t I get away with, like… a rubber clown nose?”

“Gunner’s already pulled something for you. He likes to style everybody. We all get together and raid his trunk, do shots, and try on looks. A bunkhouse pregame with the boys on a Friday night—that’s my happy place.” Of course Austin could define happiness.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said. “What time should I get there?”

“Any time after three. Just come up to the lodge. Jim knows where to put you. If Luke checks you in, and he doesn’t already know, tell him to ask Jim. Oh! And if you have a fanny pack, bring it.”

“I don’t have a fanny pack.”

“No worries. Somebody’ll have an extra.”

“Alrighty, then.” I didn’t ask any further questions. “Bear Run, here I come.”

27

I arrived at the entrance to the campground at 3:03 p.m. with inflamed sinuses and a flushed face that broadcasted Took a dick pill; came to fuck. But it was worth it. I’d woken up with a hard-on so promising, even pressure from the seat belt during the drive had been a trigger.

I wouldn’t be disappointing either of us.

After being buzzed through the gate, I headed toward the lodge, carefully navigating mud puddles left from the thunderstorms that had passed through the previous night.

I immediately spotted Austin stocking bags of ice behind the pool complex. I stopped in the middle of the road to watch him. I’d spent days scrolling through his social media pics, but none of them captured how handsome he was. As if he’d felt my presence, he looked my way.

When he recognized my truck, his face lit up. He yelled for me to wait, quickly padlocked the freezer, and came running across the wet grass. He was wearing my red sneakers.

“Hi there!” He leaned in through the open window to give me a salty kiss. The part of me that had pined for him all week finally unclenched.

A car honked. Glancing in the rearview mirror I saw there were two vehicles waiting to get to the lodge.

“I’ll ride up with you.” Austin ran around the front of the truck and hopped into the passenger seat, throwing his radio into the cup holder.

His citrusy scent filled the cab. He laced his fingers through mine as if he’d done it a million times.

The car behind me honked again, impatiently this time.

Austin grinned. “Ride or die!”

I pressed the gas.

Three men sat in a row of camp chairs at the foot of the steps leading into the lodge. Considering there were benches and rocking chairs up on the deck, it seemed an odd place from which to take in the view.

Austin leapt out of the truck and started flexing and posing in front of them. A few observers scattered around the parking lot erupted into catcalls and whistles. Austin looked back and winked at me. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

Having seen him the past few times on my home turf, it was an uncomfortable reminder of how much he belonged to this place. These men adored him. I couldn’t fault them for it. He portrayed the Best Cub they wanted him to be—it was his job—and I’d try to be a good sport about it.

When the audience response died down, Austin curtsied.

Score paddles popped up from the laps of the three seated men. First a ten, then another ten, and finally, after a long pause and a playful glare, the last man finally turned his paddle around.

A nine.

Austin cried out, threw back his head, and clutched his chest. As he moved past them and started up the steps he muttered, “Bitch!” to the third judge, but they grinned at each other.

I followed, and the score paddles popped up in rapid succession.

Ten. Ten. Ten.

Austin cheered, and there was a smattering of applause. A steady stream of vehicles had been coming up the mountain, and there were more people in the parking lot than I’d realized.