“Hey Cain.” It was Dave Edmonds, his old football coach. The gravelly voice was distinct though not as robust as he remembered.
It seemed his delicate mission was going to be interrupted by every damn person he knew. Figures.
The man shuffled over from the pharmacy counter, and they chatted for several minutes about the weather, football, music, and the upcoming fundraiser. Coach Edmonds had aged, but his humor was as sharp as ever, as was his opinion, which was strong on most every subject imaginable. He thought Cain’s music was crap and that he’d be more successful if he had a banjo in his band. And a fiddle.
“Well, sorry to bother you, Cain. I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you’re doing.”
He shook Coach’s hand and then gestured crazily. “Thanks, I’m just trying to find the right ones…” His words trailed off as Cain took a second to glance at the shelves in front of him. They were crammed full of products—feminine products, to be exact, in all shapes, sizes, colors, and—he cringed—wings. What the hell? His eyes narrowed. They even had them for thongs?
Coach Edmonds frowned and shook his head, a weird look in his eyes. “Sorry. This is beyond my scope. I can’t help you with this.” Coach took a step and paused, laughter underlying his words. “Good luck with that.”
Cain grimaced and nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” He waited until Coach was gone and crept to the end of the aisle, a smile widening his mouth as a memory rushed through him.
The first time he ever bought condoms, it had been a group effort. He’d come in with the boys—Jesse, Jake, and Mac. It had been late, a Friday night. The Super Drug was open until midnight, and they’d waited till Brenda Borstrano had left for the night, leaving only one of their schoolmates at the register. If not, she’d have spread it all over town that the Bad Boys were rubbering up.
They’d had no clue what to buy and in the end had grabbed a box of every kind that there was. Size large, of course.
He smiled at the memory. They’d spent a small fortune, and as it was, most of the condoms they bought had never been put to use. Even then their dreams had been larger than their reality.
Cain pretended to walk by the aisle, shot a covert glance toward his prize, and was happy to see that Mrs. Lancaster had moved on from the jock itch. He turned quickly and headed straight for the rack of condoms. His eyes scanned the variety that was there, and for a second he was that kid from back in the day. Confused and entirely way too excited.
He had no idea there was so much to choose from, mostly because he’d only ever had straight-up, normal condoms.
Where to start? Christ, there were glow-in-the-dark condoms, flavored condoms, studded-for-his-and-her-pleasure condoms, and warming condoms. Warming?
Shit. He grabbed the closest one and raised an eyebrow at the name emblazoned along the side of the box in bold neon green, Rough Rider. It was somehow…appropriate. A grin cracked his face and he chuckled. It was one of the studded brands. Why the hell not?
Another box caught his eye. He hesitated and then grabbed it too. He’d never even heard of a vibrating condom ring before, but hell, it couldn’t hurt to try. He smiled wickedly at the thought. It sounded very interesting.
He turned and nearly ran over Mrs. Lancaster. The woman was scrunched near the display of antifungal creams, and there was no way he was getting around her. He was about to head the other way when she spoke.
“You played football, didn’t you, Cain?”
He glanced down at the box in his hands and froze. The neon color seemed to pulsate beneath the harsh fluorescent lights above. Damn, anyone other than her and he’d have been fine. But Mrs. Lancaster? The pastor’s wife?
“Cain, are you deaf, my dear?”
He turned, kept his right hand behind his back, and smiled. “Mrs. Lancaster, sorry, didn’t see you there.” He nodded. “Sure, I played some ball.”
“You ever get the jock itch?” She straightened and peered up over her glasses.
“No, ma’am.” He chuckled. “I never had a problem in that area.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Hmm, well, this isn’t common knowledge, so I’d appreciate it if you could keep it under your hat, but my Franklin sweats a lot.”
Okay, that’s not what he’d been expecting to hear. “Ah, sorry to hear that, Mrs. Lancaster.”
“Yes, well, it’s been his cross to bear”—her eyebrow arched—“so to speak.” She pointed toward the display behind her. “I Googled it.”
“It?”
“Jock itch. He’s got this rash, and it’s something fierce to behold.”
“Oh.”
“Playing football and all, I thought you might have a suggestion as to which antifungal cream or spray is better.” Her face was screwed up into an intense frown, as if this was a life-and-death decision. “There’s powder too, but I’m just a little confused.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Lancaster, I don’t know which is the best, but I’m sure they’re all equally effective.” He shrugged. “Maybe a cream?”