Hawk: The Boys of Summer #4

by Heidi McLaughlin

  “Dude, no freaking way.”

  How does one answer a statement like that? What would be the appropriate thing to say? “Dude, yes way”?

  I smile, nod and hand him my twenty.

  “You’re Hawk Sinclair.”

  Um . . . duh?

  “Hey, man,” I say because what else can I say to something like that?

  “You’re my favorite player ever. What are you doing in Montana?”

  I do my best not to grimace. If I’m his favorite, surely, he knows what I’m doing here. “Just checking out the sights.”

  “Right on. Mind if I get a selfie?”

  Before I even agree, the kid is turning around in the window, has his thumb up and takes what must be the worst selfie ever because I’m barely in it. If I were truly his favorite, I’d consider getting out of the truck so we can take a proper photo.

  He finally gives me my change and my food. I take my foot off the brake and speed off before he can say another thing. There’s a park not far down the road where I pull over to eat. I long for the days when I can multitask, wishing I could read what’s going on in the world of baseball. The BoRe reporter has been kind enough to keep me updated, as if I would miss a single thing about the Renegades.

  With the last bite of my burger in my mouth, I put my truck into reverse and head toward Richfield. The less than half hour drive to town goes by rather quickly. I’m not exactly eager to go back to the ranch so I take another tour of Main Street, only to find it busier than I’ve seen in a long time and decide that since I’m back in town, I should probably check in with the director of the youth center. After I had the field built, I left it to the youth center to manage. It was easier that way since I spend all of baseball season in Boston — there was no way I could do both.

  The parking lot is empty except for another truck. I pull up next to it, park and make my way to the front. The bell hanging from the door clanks back and forth against the glass, announcing my arrival.

  “For Pete’s sake, we’re closed until three.” I chuckle at the old gruff sound of my former coach. I turn into the office and find him hunkered over a desk. On the wall are pictures of all the teams that play at the field and in the center is a large picture of me digging the first hole for the fields and another of me cutting the ribbon for the grand opening. The rest of the area is filing cabinets, house plants, and a watering station.

  “I thought you had an assistant.”

  David Farmer looks up from the paperwork and a slow smile starts to form on his face. “Well I’ll be a son of a bitch. If it isn’t Hawk Sinclair! How the hell are you, son?” We meet halfway and hug awkwardly. My arm really prevents much contact. “How’s the arm?”

  “Healing. I’m just coming from therapy.”

  “I thought I heard your old man say something about you coming back to rehab here, but then I thought there’s no way in hell he’d leave Boston for this run of the mill town.”

  “It’s home and my mom pretty much forced me.” I laugh.

  “Sounds just like Rhonda. Tell me, what brings you by?” He goes to the desk and sits down while I take the seat in front of him.

  “Thought I’d stop in and see how things are going. My business manager keeps me up to date on maintenance and things, but that only tells me so much about the fields. Everything good?”

  He nods, opens his mouth and quickly closes it. He leans back in the chair and I fear he’s about to fall over, but somehow manages to stay upright.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Rehab is technically twelve weeks. It’ll depend on how that goes.”

  “Wanna coach a Little League team?”

  I start to laugh and shut my mouth quickly when I realize he isn’t joking. “Oh, um . . . not really. I can’t use my arm yet so I wouldn’t be much use to a team.”

  “I could help.”

  “If you could help, why not just coach?”

  “The bylaws preclude me from doing so. I can help out but can’t helm a team and we are in desperate need of another coach.” Farmer fills me in on a few of the details from around town and I’m surprised to hear that Brett Larsen is limiting the number of kids per team.

  “Hold up,” I say. “You mean to tell me that Brett is running things in town?”

  “It’s like a bad mafia movie. People fear him. He’s pretty much put Nelson’s Hardware out of business. And he’s taken over the Little League. By the time I realized what was happening, things were too far gone. If I remove him, his friends go too, and they make up the league in these parts.”

  “It’s Little League, Dave. Everyone should be able to play.”

  He nods. “Brett only wants the best. Just today, I had a mom in here asking for help because her son wants to play. I mentioned it to Brett, and he told me to mind my own business.”

  In my life, I deal with shady people all the time. Uncouth business dealings, opportunities that aren’t on the up and up, and people trying to take advantage, but never have I come across or been told about someone who’s determined to hurt children. I don’t care who you are, that shit doesn’t fly in my world.

  David and I continue to talk for a bit. He suggests I come back during practice and see how things are going. He assures me that Brett will be none too happy to see me, so to prepare myself.

  Can’t fucking wait.

  Ten

  Bellamy

  There have been many times since my return to Richfield that I’ve second-guessed working for Owen — this adventure I’m currently on being one of them. I love being in real estate. Seeing homes, bringing joy to first time buyers, and marketing a product that you believe in is a rewarding job. I also love walking large pieces of land and taking pictures of the majestic views during the summer, showing interested parties what they’d see if they built their home facing east versus west, and vice versa. What I take issue with is heaving my body through the remaining snow, melting into deep mud bogs, slipping on patches of ice that have not yet thawed from the warmer days in galoshes that barely cover my calves. Thankfully, I had the keen sense of mind to wear pants today and not my normal skirt so at least my legs are covered from the dirt splatter, but I’m totally kicking myself for not buying those incredibly cute and fashionable knee-high boots everyone is wearing right now because I’m certain there’s mud between my toes.

  Yet, here I am, walking the land with clipboard in hand and camera around my neck, following the surveyor as he reads a map from the town clerk’s office while directing his associate as to where to place these tiny little flags that are meant to withstand every weather element possible. To be honest, I’m not sure why I need to be here, but Owen insisted. I think he’s trying to send a message to Larsen, which Brett probably doesn’t give two shits about.

  I decide to walk ahead of the survey crew. I don’t know exactly where I’m going and tell myself I won’t walk too far from them. The last thing I want is to get lost out here. With them not in my line of sight, I take a few photos to use when I list the land and right now, the way the sun rays are bouncing off the few patches of snow, it’s giving me the perfect backdrop.

  “You’re not really dressed for the outdoors.”

  I jump, my heart beating rapidly. I slowly turn toward the voice that came from behind me and find a horse standing at a fence I hadn’t noticed earlier, and because I’m nervous it takes my eyes the longest time to finally look up at the rider. He doesn’t wear the usual cowboy hat that most of the men around here wear when they’re riding, but a baseball cap. His right arm is in a sling and his left hand holds the reins. For some odd reason, I look at the stirrups, expecting to find a pair of worn out sneakers, but instead he’s wearing cowboy boots.

  “You make an odd-looking cowboy.” My hand covers my mouth and my eyes go wide as a result of my verbal vomit.

  “I wasn’t aware cowboys had a look these days.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “That
was incredibly rude of me.”

  “No offense taken.” He slides off his horse and for a man with one arm, makes it look so easy. Even though I grew up in Montana, I never mastered the art of riding. Sure, as a young girl, I wanted to be a barrel racer, bull rider, and saddle bronc rider. In essence, I wanted to be a cowgirl competing in the men’s division, mostly because of cousins. My father, God rest his soul, put his foot down and was adamant that I compete in the female division. The only problem — I couldn’t stay on a horse. If it went fast, I slipped right off. If it bucked, I went ass over tea kettle. One too many bumps and a bruise too many, my parents had enough and put in me ballet. I didn’t fare much better there either.

  This guy, who may or may not be a cowboy, drops the reins and comes toward the fence. He rests his good hand on the thick round post and his foot on the bottom wire, giving me a good look at him. He wears a long-sleeved shirt, but I can tell his arms are muscular, the kind you want wrapped around you when you’re cold, and his eyes are crystal blue, reminding me of the sky on a beautiful summer day. And he looks like he hasn’t shaved for days. The scruff along his jawline and chin is turning into a beard.

  “What are you doing this far from town?” He smiles, but it’s not a full on cheesy one. The corner of his mouth lifts, almost as if he’s going to tell a joke.

  It takes me longer than it should to answer him. Can he tell that I’m checking him out? “It’s not that far.” I turn toward the direction of the town, or at least I think I do, and realize that I’m not sure which direction I am supposed to go. I also strain to hear the men I came here with and can’t. My worse fear is coming true. I’m lost.

  “It’s that way,” he points behind me, laughing.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “It kind of is. What’re you doing around here?”

  “We’re surveying the land. The owners are going to list the property.”

  “Is that so?”

  I nod and the horse neighs. “I think he’s ready to leave.”

  “She,” he says as he rubs her nose. “Are they selling for development?”

  “Not sure, but I can let you know if you’re interested in buying it.” I dig in my pocket for a pen, and hand it to him along with my clipboard. He scribbles quickly and hands it back to me. “Hawk? Is that really your name or are you just busting my chops?”

  He laughs. “Hawk Sinclair. My family owns this side of the fence.” He extends his left hand to shake mine. It’s awkward but pleasant.

  “Bellamy Patrick, local real estate agent and poorly dressed for the outdoors. Wait, Sinclair?”

  “Let me guess, you know my sisters?”

  “Elizabeth, right? I think we went to school together.”

  He nods. “She’s five years older than I am. Our youngest sister is Avery.”

  “That’s right. You, though . . . I don’t recall seeing you around town much.”

  “I live in Boston.” He eyes me oddly.

  “Huh, well that makes sense. Listen, I should get back. I’m supposed to be with the surveyors and . . . oh, there they are.” I wave my arm frantically to get their attention. If Hawk already had to point out where town is, I’d best stay with them so I don’t get lost. “Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Sinclair—”

  “Hawk,” he corrects.

  “Right . . . Hawk.” I can’t help the smile that’s spreading across my face. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’m blushing. “I’ll call you when I know more about the property.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” He tips his hat, which looks funny considering he’s wearing a baseball cap. It still has the same affect, though, and I find myself staring at him longer than I should. The surveyor yells my name, but I’m too busy watching Hawk climb back onto his horse with one hand, once again, making everything look so effortless. He’s watching me too and once again tips his hat before he instructs his horse to trot away. I continue to focus on him, imagining what it would be like to sit in that saddle with him.

  “Ms. Patrick!”

  “Huh, what?” I turn to the left and right, and finally around. “Hi, are you done?”

  “Only with a quarter of the land or so. After further research, this land is at least a hundred acres. We’re going to have to go back and get our ATVs to survey the rest.”

  “Perfect. You won’t need me though, will you?”

  The two men look at each other. One shrugs, while the other says, “No, there’s no need for you to be out here.”

  “Let’s head back to town.”

  The guys head in the direction that we need to go, and while I should follow them, I glance behind me, wondering where this “not really a cowboy” disappeared too, and secretly hoping he’d come back.

  The entire trek back to my car I’m thinking about his sister, Elizabeth. We were acquaintances in high school and hung out with the same crowd, but I rarely see her around town anymore. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I saw her, which is odd. Richfield isn’t big enough to go missing.

  I drive the survey crew back to their office. They tell me they’ll have the flags laid out by tomorrow and that if they need anything, they’ll call. When I get back to the office, I tell Owen that this trip was completely useless and that the land is much bigger than he led me to believe. Except it wasn’t all that useless because I met Hawk Sinclair, who could be a potential buyer.

  “It was for your own good,” he tells me. “Brett Larsen told me he was coming in this morning and I didn’t want you to walk in and see him.”

  “What did he want?” I swear every time I hear this man’s name, my blood boils.

  “To reiterate his stance on your employment.”

  “And what did you tell him?” I’m trying to be strong, but my resolve is wavering. I wish I had recorded our conversation at dinner because it would give me some ammunition to go after him. What he’s doing now is harassing me, not that any of the old boys club in town would believe me.

  Owen clears his throat and I know this is it. He’s going to fire me. “I told Larsen that he needs to mind his own business, that who I employ is none of his concern and that he’s more than welcome to take his real estate business elsewhere. He stormed out of here and I promptly sent an email to my listserv, warning all my colleagues about him.”

  My eyes go wide as he tells me this. “You didn’t.” Even though I know he did because he looks rather proud of himself.

  “I did. Larsen was nothing more than a bully when we were in high school and he still is. People need to put that jackass in his place.”

  “Well, easier said than done, that’s for sure.”

  Owen gives me a reassuring smile. “You work hard, Bellamy. I’d be a fool to let you go.” He returns to his office, which I’m thankful for, because I don’t need him to see the giddiness I feel after his compliment.

  I’m not seated at my desk for more than a few minutes when Karter plops herself down in front of it. “That hurt.”

  “The chairs aren’t that padded. What’s up?”

  “How was your hike?”

  “Stupid, until it wasn’t. Do you know Hawk Sinclair?”

  Her eyebrows shoot up and her mouth drops open. “Hawk Sinclair? Are you seriously asking me this question?”

  “Yeah, why? What am I missing?”

  Karter, being ever so dramatic, fans herself. “Only the hottest guy to ever come out of Richfield.”

  “Yes, I found him very good looking when I met him, but clearly there’s more to this story.”

  She laughs. “Do you ever sit down with Chase and watch baseball?”

  I shake my head. “Honestly, no. I find it boring.”

  “Girl turn on your TV. Well, don’t do it right now because Hawk isn’t playing. From what I heard from Phoebe, who had lunch with his sister, Avery, Hawk is back in town because he had surgery.”

  “Okay . . .” I let the word drag out while I try to comprehend what the heck she’s trying to say to me.

  Karter
rolls her eyes. “Hawk Sinclair is one of the starting pitchers for the Boston Renegades.”

  Still nothing.

  “The Major League baseball club out of Boston! He’s a damn baseball player, Bell! Professional at that!”

  “Oh . . . I have a feeling your last sentence was filled with exclamation points.”

  “It was, only because I couldn’t thump you in the head for being so dense. So, you met Hawk?”

  I tell her about our encounter and how he might be interested in buying the land. She stands up and does some dance when I inform her that I have his number and she insists that I call him — not to talk about the property, but to pretend that I lost something and to hint that I’ll be going back up there. I have no intentions of doing such a thing.

  “He’s single,” she says.

  “How do you know?”

  Karter shows me her phone. “Player profile.”

  “Well, I guess it’s too bad you’re in a committed relationship.” I point out.

  She laughs. “You’re not.”

  Any response I thought about mustering was cut off by the phone ringing. I glare at her, throwing daggers as she walks out of my office. I’m in no position to date or pursue anyone, not with Brett Larsen trying to ruin my life here.

  Eleven

  Hawk

  After a night of tossing and turning, mostly due to the throbbing in my arm, I decided to get up and take my mom’s mare, Cadbury, who was named after the candy because of her rich brown coat, for a ride. It had been quite some time since I found myself on top of a saddle and yet after about twenty minutes, it all came back to me. And so did the muscle strain I knew I’d feel later in the afternoon. Still, being out in the open on a crisp spring morning felt good, but it wasn’t until I came across Bellamy Patrick standing near our property line, that my morning changed. My intent was to ask her if she were lost, but one look at her and the way she was dressed for her nature walk and I knew I had to stay and chat. There was an innocence about her that I found intriguing, and I loved her sense of humor. Someone who can joke with you and at themselves is hard to find these days. Most importantly, she had no idea who I was even after I gave her my name. That rarely happens. Usually once I tell a woman who I am, they turn their flirting up to about a hundred and I hate that.