I bent to grab two mic stands from the van floor and thrust them into his hands before he could argue. “Just because you’re VIP doesn’t mean you don’t help carry.”
He adjusted his grip automatically, metal clanking together. “I’m so confused right now.”
I laughed softly, feeling him fall in step beside me as I headed for the side gate, arms full of gear, the gravel crunching under my boots while the band hauled the rest of their stuff behind us.
The gate creaked open and I stepped through first, gravel giving way to trimmed lawn that stretched wide behind the main building. Flower beds bordered the fence line, bright with petunias and marigolds. Picnic tables dotted the grass under wide umbrellas. Along one side, a row of barbecues hissed and popped, lids propped open while volunteers in paper hats worked tongs over burgers and sausages. A folding table sagged under bowls of potato salad, plates of pre-lunch snacks, and pitchers of lemonade sweating in the heat.
The place looked less like an institution and more like someone’s backyard on a holiday.
Behind us, the guys filed in with amps and stands. A few residents turned in their lawn chairs. Then more. Applause started near the patio doors and rolled outward as they recognized instruments being carried toward the far end of the grass where a low platform waited.
Aiden paused beside me, mic stands still balanced on his shoulder. He took in the umbrellas, the red, white, and blue balloon arch near the drinks table, a cluster of white-haired women already clapping in rhythm to a band that hadn’t played a note yet.
“You weren’t kidding,” he said.
“Why’d you think I was kidding?”
He looked at me, then back at Melvin guiding the newly fixed speaker cab into place. “Last time I saw you guys, someone crowd surfed into a dartboard, somehow without spilling his beer.”
“Paid actor. The band likes to initiate viral moments for their seventeen Instagram followers.”
A laugh broke out of him before he caught it, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be having fun at this.
We set the mic stands down near the platform. Mike crouched to plug in cables while Rich adjusted the drum stool. Ramona gave me a look that said ‘behave’, and went to tune up her voice.
Aiden wiped his hands on his gym shorts. “You’re enjoying this.”
I turned toward the grills where a volunteer was fighting it out with a stubborn flame. “Who doesn’t love a good, old Texas cookout?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I took a plastic cup from the drinks table and filled it with lemonade, handed it to him without answering. The cup left condensation on his fingers. He glanced at it, then at me, suspicion still there but thinner now.
We walked between tables while the band finished setting up. Conversations floated past us about blood pressure and gooseberries being in season and whether the potato salad needed more mustard. A breeze lifted the edge of the banner strung near the patio, and for a few minutes I let myself exist inside something uncomplicated. Sun on my shoulders. Music gear clicking into place behind us. The low murmur of people who’d come out because it was warm and there was food.
Aiden nudged my elbow. “Just so you know, I’m not misconstruing this as some kind of fucked up amends or sign that you’re into me, or whatever.”
“Good to know.” My words snagged on the lump in my throat but he didn’t catch it, thank God.
We had just stepped around a table of women comparing bingo cards when a man near the fence straightened in his chair and squinted at Aiden.
“Well I’ll be,” he called out. “You’re number forty-seven, aren’t you?”
Aiden stopped. His posture shifted before his expression did, shoulders pulling back as if someone had tugged a string.
The man waved him over. “Henry Collins. I’ve been a Surge fan since the first games, about twenty years ago now.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“I’ve got every roster memorized,” Henry went on, tapping his temple. “Starters, benchwarmers, all of you. Folks around here don’t pay attention, but I do.”
Aiden’s jaw flexed at the word, but his smile never wavered. He had way too much practice for that to happen.
I stepped up beside him before I could talk myself out of it. “If you’re keeping track, you should know he’s been getting a lot more ice time lately. Not exactly glued to the bench anymore.”
“I saw that. McAvoy finally giving you your due.” Henry pointed a finger at Aiden’s chest. “Keep your head up, and remember... Takes the whole team to lift a cup. Depth wins championships.”
Aiden nodded. “That it does, sir.”
