He left them to get dressed. Did it ever get below zero in Atlanta? It wouldn’t be below zero tonight, but he did expect a very cold twenty-eight degrees or so. The air always felt colder when it was damp and when you were sitting outside on metal bleachers. With any luck, the freezing rain would hold off until the game was over, but in case it got wet out, he would give Bea’s Romeos a good coating of Huberd’s Shoe Grease for protection.

Once the shoes were rubbed down to his satisfaction, Mitch headed to the kitchen, stepping over Steve to reach his good thermos. As he filled it with coffee, he thought of his father and his stomach roiled with a touch of guilt. When he’d told his dad earlier that he couldn’t get an appointment until next Friday, he’d neglected to mention his failure to call in a timely manner was to blame. His dad had sounded discouraged.

Then there was the football game. Bea hadn’t exactly invited him along when she told him they were going tonight, but of course she must assume he would go, too, right? He went to all the home games. And it made sense to ride together in his truck. Why bother with two vehicles?

Not to mention he didn’t want people seeing that Toyota thing with its hopeless tires anyway. They were never going to make it through a Montana winter. And not to mention Jeremy didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. Mitch had made that disappointing discovery while they were discussing the ride arrangements.

At least he’d managed to dodge having Marge tag along. She’d been in her front yard pruning back her peonies when he’d come home from work, and she’d done her best to rope him into offering an invitation to the game. He’d wriggled out of it like a calf in the tie-down event at Ponderosa’s annual rodeo.

He chuckled to himself, even as a heaviness landed on his shoulders. It was the kind of story Frank would get a kick out of. Mitch’s fingers itched to dial up his old friend and tell him about it. Tell him about everything going on. Tell him his son-in-law couldn’t even drive a stick shift. But he didn’t know how to cross back over the bridge he’d burned two years ago.

A loud clatter made him jump, tossing thoughts of Frank from his mind. Ugh. That stupid ice machine. Now it was spitting out ice cubes whenever it felt like it. His tinkering had only made it worse. A chunk of ice slid across the floor and came to rest in front of Steve, who sniffed at it with contempt.

“Don’t blame me.” Mitch scowled at the cat. “It didn’t start acting up until you got here.”