That Saturday afternoon around four, while I worked in the barn cleaning out stalls, I heard a throat clear behind me. I turned to see Sam leaning against the stall door near where I wielded a pitchfork. The fact that he looked good in snug jeans and a dark blue polo shirt was so not the point of his being here, though it was a good distraction.
“Sam,” I said and went back to forking hay in a corner. My sweat-soaked shirt was emergency-vest orange today, matched by a bandana in the same color holding hair and some sweat off my forehead. I still hadn’t managed to cut it.
“Bo.” He watched me for a bit before adding, “Glad you’re participating in the tournament. I’m officiating that day, so I won’t be playing. But it occurred to me that this might be something you’d enjoy, given what you’ve
