A warm, rough hand clasped down on my shoulder. It held me back just at the edge of the stage’s shadows. One more step and I’d have been in the full light of the stage, and full view of the audience.

“Robin,” a masculine voice called out from behind me.

That must be the name of the woman with the black bob and the clipboard.

“I think you might have skipped me?” the voice was calm, and deep, and full of rich, warm tones. His hand still held my shoulder firmly.

I glanced behind me, trying to seem cool and unfazed by the fact that he’d abruptly stopped me. And that he’d touched me — was still touching me — and that I could almost feel a tingling in the space where our skin was touching.

The first thing I noticed about him was how tall he stood. A square jaw under a short blonde buzz, he towered a full head and shoulders above me. And those shoulders were thick and broad, with muscles like coils of rope wrapped around a sea mast.

He was looking out on stage, towards Robin, who I could hear clicking her heels back in our direction with frustration in each step.

“Greydon, Michael” he called out, “I think you skipped it. It should have come before Gretzky, no?”

Robin stopped a couple feet from us, and furiously flipped through the pages in her clipboard.

“Greydon? I have that with an ‘e’ – Is that a spelling error?” She asked confused.

“No, that’s right,” he replied calmly.

I had meant to only glance at him for a moment, but I had trouble pulling my gaze away now. He didn’t meet my eyes, but I think I spotted something like acknowledgement flicker in the corner of his mouth. That warm tingling feeling spread from his hand and rushed down my spine. I could feel my face getting flush. I wonder if he felt this same sensation.

“Well, Mr. Greydon,” Robin cut back with venom in her voice, “‘-et’ does come before ‘-ey’, or can’t you spell your own name?”

He let out a sigh of realization, and released my shoulder.

“I must have suffered one too many sleeper-holds last season. Thank you, Robin.”

He turned on his heels and walked back to the waiting area. His back was as strong and defined as his shoulders, tapering down just slightly to a square waist that was supporting — I had to blink a few times to double check — the roundest bubble of a butt I’d ever seen. The folds of his towel were nearly pulling apart in the back, as if his cheeks were getting ready to part curtains and step into a spotlight.

I heard a loud snap a few inches from my head. I turned to find Robin tapping her wrist vehemently. She wasn’t wearing a watch, but I got the picture.

As soon as she turned around, I shot a hand down to my groin to check on 'the situation'.

Somehow, despite the warmth of Michael’s hand, and seeing the absurd shape of his backside, any stiffening had disappeared.

Could he have noticed? Had he stopped me on purpose?

Robin stomped a foot down on the ground out in center stage. It was loud enough to snap me out of my thoughts, and I hurried over to her.

“Gretzky, Adam,” she called out to the audience and the administrators by the scale. It was a tall, simple machine with an LED screen at about my height.

Robin moved away and I stepped in front of the scale. The two towel bearers — both lithe, balding older men — looked at me expectantly.

Thank you for not being half-naked Adonises, I thought to myself.

I opened my towel into their hands, letting them hold it up like a banner in front of me. They kept their eyes modestly pointed past my head towards the back of the stage.

Nothing for them to see, nothing for me to fear.

I stepped onto the scale. It beeped on, and a digital display started counting up rapidly.

Well, nothing beyond the shame of not making weight.

The scale paused, and then blinked once to indicate it had finalized my weight.

I stared at the number.

Well, shit.