She's there every Friday night, perched on the same bleacher in the same aisle, wrapped up in her blue and white blanket even though it's rather warm for an October evening. He noticed her the first game of the season-how could he not?, what with that dark hair that just teases her shoulders, a strand of which she continually tucks behind one ear, and full lips that are always tinted either a warm burgundy or a deep red. She's stunning, there's no question, and he'd hardly be a man, much less a single man if he didn't notice her.

But she's a loner in a sea of faces, just like he is. And that's what draws him to her most.

He really ought to say hello tonight. It wouldn't take much effort on his part, a mere sliding down and over a few rows, a polite query as to if she'd like a cup of coffee or maybe a hot chocolate. But he holds back, cursing himself for his cowardice as she pulls the blanket even tighter around her petite frame. She's cold. Perhaps his moving next to her would offer an extra modicum of body heat that would help her warm up.

Just do it, you dolt.

He inhales sharply and decides to make his move, laughing at himself as his knee protests a bit too loudly for his liking, feeling more like his teenage son with his first crush than a fifty-one year old widower who hasn't been on a date in longer than he can remember. There are similarities, he supposes, and he promises not to laugh at Roland's unrequited crush on that junior cheerleader again as his own face heats up and his palms begin to sweat.

Here goes nothing.

"May I join you?"

She looks up at him, her eyes such a rich shade of brown they arrest him on the spot.

"No one's stopping you," she returns, scooting over a fraction, allowing the leftover warmth of her own body heat clinging stubbornly to the bench to tease him through his jeans. He's careful not to sit too close, yet close enough to get a whiff of her perfume, something rich and spicy he suspects hints at her personality.

"My son is number twenty-nine," he says, pointing towards the sidelines. "He's a freshman, and new to the school, so he's not getting much play time just yet."

"Does that bother you?" she questions, a hint of challenge peppering her voice.

"Not at all," he returns with a shrug. "Players have to earn their stripes, and Roland is still young and rather inexperienced. But he's making friends, enjoys being a part of a team and already adores his coach. That's what's most important, in my opinion."

She smiles at that.

"Coach Nolan is young and somewhat inexperienced himself," she states. "But we've seen a major improvement in team morale and performance since he was hired two years ago. The boys like and respect him, and he's an excellent history teacher."

"Sounds like he's the right man for the job, then," he says, distracted by the manner in which she tugs that stubborn strand behind her ear again. It's streaked with gray, he realizes, and something primal hits him right in the groin, giving him a partial boner rather embarrassing for a man his age. He crosses his legs, hoping she doesn't notice even though he suspects that she does.

Yep. She's smirking at him in a way that makes him want to simultaneously crawl under the bleachers and kiss her senseless. Shit.

One of their boys makes a run down the field, gaining over fifty yards and energizing the crowd. They clap, and he breathes in the cool air, thankful for a moment to settle his middle-aged hormones and get his lower anatomy back in line.

"I'm Robin," he volunteers after the hubbub dies down. "Robin Locksley."

"Regina Mills," she answers, accepting his outstretched hand from beneath her blanket. "You're not from Storybrooke, are you?"

"No," he confesses. "My kids and I just moved here over the summer."

"New job?"

"New everything."

She raises an eyebrow, and he takes a deep breath.

"My wife died four years ago," he states, amazed at how he can now speak those words without his voice and demeanor shattering. "Ovarian cancer."

"I'm sorry," she says, looking down at her blanket for returning her gaze to him.

"Thank you," he returns. "We're moving on with life, day by day, week by week. But it's been hard on the children and me, and I finally decided it was time for a fresh start for all of us-somewhere new."

"A second chance?"

"We all deserve one, don't you think? Especially in a place…"

He pauses, watching his baby girl clap her hands with her friends on the sidelines in front of the cheerleaders. Her braids bob up and down, and she tosses her head back and laughs, cinching his heart in a manner that lets him know they did the right thing by moving.

"Especially in a place where everything doesn't remind you of what you've lost," she cuts in, her words hitting home with precision.

"Precisely," he says, looking at her with interest. "You've lost someone, too?"

"My fiance," she replies, looking out on the field as their team breaks out of the huddle. "But that was over twenty years ago."

They're interrupted by a touchdown, and they both stand and cheer along with the crowd. She's closer to him when they sit back down, and he smiles, allowing himself to hope that it was a deliberate move on her part.

"Is that what brought you here?" he asks. "To Storybrooke?"

She chuckles.

"I grew up here," she states. "But losing Daniel is what brought me back home."

"You wanted to be near your family?" he muses.

"My dad," she returns. "My mother and I had a somewhat contentious relationship, you might say."

"Has she passed on?" he asks, noting her use of the word had.

"Three years ago," Regina says.

"I'm sorry."

She shrugs.

"It's okay. I still have my dad, even if he can't get out much these days."

"I lost my dad when I was in college," he offers, applauding after the kicker makes the extra point. "My mum passed right after Abby was born, so it's just been me and the kids for a while."

"Abby's your daughter?" she asks, and he smiles, the way he always does when he thinks of his little girl.

"Yeah," he returns. "She's standing down there by the cheerleaders-the one with the messy brown braids and denim jacket." She's his sunshine, there's no question, this second child they'd nearly given up trying to conceive.

"She's adorable," Regina says with a smile.

"She's ten going on sixteen and looks just like her mum," he returns, thinking of his Marian, thankful he can do so now without searing pain. "Both of my kids do, actually. You wouldn't know they were mine to look at them."

She smiles and leans slightly in his direction.

"My son doesn't look like me at all. Then again, he's adopted."

He chuckles, edging a bit closer to her. God, she smells nice.

"Is he on the team?" he asks, scoping the field as the offence takes a break and the defense takes over.

"No," she responds. "He's in the band. First chair trumpet."

The pride in her tone is unmistakable.

"Abby can't wait to go to middle school so she can join the band," he says. "She's determined to play the flute, even though I still have my old saxophone and wouldn't have to pay for a new instrument if she went with that."

Her laugh is soft and decadent.

"Isn't that always the way it is? Henry wouldn't touch my clarinet with a ten-foot pole. It was trumpet or nothing for him."

He nods.

"If he's first chair, he must be quite good."

Her smile is broad, her teeth perfection.

"I think he's brilliant, but then again, I'm his mom." She pauses to give him an actual once-over. "What do you do for a living, Robin Locksley?"

He rubs the back of his neck.

"I'm a network engineer," he states. "Currently in charge of electronic medical records across the state of Maine."

Her eyes widen at this.

"Not that that's important, or anything."

He shrugs.

"Somedays it feels like more trouble than it's worth," he admits. "But I do get to work from home for the most part, which has been a lifesaver for me as a single dad."

She nods and licks those lips of hers, prompting his nether regions to take notice yet again.

"What about you?" he asks. She grins and gives him the side-eye.

"I'm the mayor," she replies. "Of Storybrooke."

Shit.

"Not that that's important, or anything," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck again, his ears heating up at least ten degrees. "Well, I really fucked that up, didn't I?"

Her devilish grin is delicious.

"You're new. I'll give you a pass this time."

Her face is close now, so close he wants to reach out and caress that marble skin of hers, to lose his fingers in that sumptuous black hair, to press his lips against her temple and breathe all of her in.

"Does that mean I can make a pass at you?" he asks. "We are at a football game, after all."

Her eyes narrow as she licks her lips again.

"That depends."

"On?"

"On whether or not you're prone to fumbling."

His entire face gets hot in a flash.

"I prefer complete passes to fumbling my own balls," he counters, figuring in for a penny, in for a pound.

"I'll bet you do," she hums, her brow creasing. "So you're a player?"

"Not in the slightest," he returns, all bluster deserting him just when he needs it most. "In fact, I'm rustier than I care to admit, especially to a beautiful woman like you."

She's quiet for a second.

"Been a while?" she asks, her pert nose just daring him to reach out and touch it. Somehow, he restrains himself.

"Four years," he admits. "I haven't wanted to be with anyone-to go out with anyone since my Marian died." He clears his throat, swallowing hard. "Until now, that is. So this-flirting-is sort of new to me-really new for me, actually."

She stares at him openly, quirking her brow just so.

"You don't mince words, do you?"

He laughs.

"I suppose I prefer the bold and audacious approach. That is, if it's working. If not, I'm game to try something else."

"Worried I might toss a flag on your play?" she questions, the tease in her voice tickling his insides and squelching some of his concerns.

"I'd have to question the referee," he counters. "I mean, to understand the reasoning behind the flag."

"So you're thorough?" she asks, nearly making him choke on his own saliva.

"Very much so," he states. "At least I strive to be."

"And you're hoping for a touchdown on the first play?"

That hint of challenge is back now, tinged with interest and a wariness that's only natural.

"No," he confesses. "I think I'm just as much of a tease as you are." She looks down and blushes, a sight so adorable it hits him squarely in the gut. "But dinner might be nice"

She blinks a few times, looking back up at him with intensity.

"Do you like Italian?"

"My favorite," he replies. "Along with Mexican, that is."

"My enchiladas are passable," she says. "But I make a mean lasagna."

He licks his own lips, his stomach fluttering at the turn of their conversation.

"I'll bet your enchiladas are more than passable," he grins.

"God, you're a flirt."

"Only when it comes to food and sex."

She tries to squelch her chuckle, making it all the more attractive.

"Keep your chips out of my salsa, Locksley-for now, anyway."

He grins, and she joins him, their fingers rubbing against each other, their pinkies finally linking together.

"You're beautiful, you know."

The vulnerability he'd noticed from a distance steals back over her in a flash.

"I'm getting old."

"Aren't we all?"

He pauses to applaud the team as the halftime buzzer sounds and the game comes to a temporary halt.

"I'll be fifty-two in a few weeks," he confesses, wondering once again where time has gone.

"So I know I'm older than you are."

Her gaze is somewhat sheepish.

"I turned fifty. In July. I'm not exactly a spring chicken."

"You're gorgeous," he states. "And I hope you celebrated turning fifty. That's quite a milestone."

"To middle age," she sighs before scrunching her nose in distaste. "And I had to celebrate, I didn't have a choice. My family threw me a surprise party."

Her expression is absolutely adorable.

"I take it you didn't enjoy it that much."

She sighs and presses her lips together.

"Too many people, flat beer and a lackluster band. Not exactly my idea of a good time."

He grins, wishing he could have been there to make it better for her.

"I'm more of a small group kind of person," he says. "Big crowds exhaust me after a while."

"Same here," she states. "Which is why I'm still having a difficult time forgiving my cousin for setting the whole thing up in the first place." She sighs and leans a little more in his direction. "She's dating Coach Nolan, just so you know."

"Who?"

"My cousin Mary Margaret. That's her, the woman sitting on the bleacher closest to the team with all the signs and noisemakers," Regina continues, shaking her head. He spies the young woman in question, her pixie-hair cut streaked with the team colors, holding a blue pom-pom in one hand and a cowbell in the other.

"She's enthusiastic, it would seem," Robin muses, earning himself a look he could eat.

"That's one way of putting it," Regina mutters.

He pauses, breathing in steadily before taking the final plunge into what could be frigid waters.

"And what about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

He nearly jumps out of his skin when she clears her throat.

"That depends."

"On?" he questions, swallowing down his nerves.

"On whether or not you like my lasagna."

He smiles in relief as the band begins moving into position on the sidelines.

"I've no doubt that I'll like your lasagna. In fact, I'm quite certain I'll want seconds, possibly even thirds."

"Sticking with bold and audacious, I see," she replies with a grin.

"That approach would seem to be working," he returns. "So why fix what's not broken?"

They sit in silence a few seconds, their pinkies linking once more, and he realizes how natural this feels, sitting here with her like this, watching football, talking about their families, flirting outrageously in public while nobody notices. She's familiar yet exciting, a combination enticing every cell in his body, making him feel like he's falling into a part of his life he now welcomes rather than dreads.

"Next Saturday night work for you?"

His pulse takes off before the rest of him can catch up.

"Next Saturday it is," he manages, trying to hold on to at least some sense of composure. "Shall I bring some wine, or would you prefer flat beer?"

She chuckles before tossing him a glance he'd like to bottle.

"A good red would be lovely. A pinot or a cab, maybe?"

"I have a favorite zinfandel," he returns, waving to Abby when he notices her trying to locate him in the stands. The girl grins when she spots him and starts to make her way in his direction.

"If you bring zin, I'll make a chocolate dessert," she states, casting a glance down to his lap. "Just no fumbling. And watch that tight end of yours."

He laughs just as his daughter and her best friend begin bounding their way up the bleachers, certain she's going to ask him for money for refreshments. He pulls out his wallet and retrieves a ten dollar bill before looking over at Regina with a sly grin.

"I'll do my best. But you can't blame me if I get carried away and attempt a pass. Especially when you call my almost fifty-two year old ass tight."

Her resulting laugh makes him warm all over.

"Game on, Locksley," she hums before standing to applaud as the band takes the field, a proud mother if ever he's seen one. He grins as he hands the money to Abby, taking the time to introduce her to Regina before she and her friend Ella wave a hasty good-bye and dash towards the concession stand.

Shit, she's beautiful, and classy, intelligent-is there anything wrong with this woman with whom he's now sharing a bleacher? Regina tugs the rebellious silver streak back into submission before reclaiming her seat beside him, and he chuckles, thinking that perhaps these middle-aged years might usher in a time of new beginnings and plot twists rather than concluding chapters. God knows he's ready for someone to shake things up, to add her own spice and challenge into what has become an all too predictable existence, and the brunette to his right would appear to have just the recipe he's been craving.

Game on, indeed, Mayor Mills.