When He Found Me (Road to Refuge Book 1)

by Victoria Bylin

Daisy gave a rueful chortle. “Right now I just want a drink, but I guess that’s all right.”

  Lyn looped an arm around her waist and hugged her. “Let’s go to the AA meeting.”

  While Lyn locked her office, Daisy dawdled in front of the display of seagull paperweights like the one in her bedroom. She and the plastic birds were trapped, but the real ones lived a day at a time. She’d keep that in mind as she considered what to do about Shane.

  Shane stood at the window of his room at the Crown Drake, his arms crossed over his chest. The rain had stopped hours ago, and the clouds had departed, leaving behind a velvet black sky. Twenty-nine floors below, headlights reflected white on the damp pavement. Across from him, skyscrapers formed a glittering mosaic of silver, black, and white. The stars were pinpricks and pale by comparison.

  He needed to hit the sack, but he couldn’t stop thinking about MJ. They hadn’t exchanged a word since the elevator ride when he suggested dinner together. She had declined with a polite, “No, thank you,” and escaped to her room down the hall.

  Should he call her? Send a text? Knock on her door and . . . what then?

  “Idiot,” he muttered. If he didn’t get his mind off her, he’d bomb tomorrow for sure. She wouldn’t want that for him, and he sure didn’t want it for himself.

  If he held his glove, maybe he could focus. He crossed the room to his equipment bag, opened it, and smacked into a crayon drawing of two stick figures wearing Cougars blue baseball caps. Cody’s printing leaped off the page. Dear Shane, good luck. Your frend, Cody. “Friend” needed an “i,” which made the picture even more endearing.

  If the tryout went as Shane hoped, he’d tape the drawing inside his locker and treasure it every day. But what about MJ? His gaze shot to his phone charging on the nightstand. Pick it up. Say something. Anything. He scrubbed his jaw with his hand, searched for words, but couldn’t come up with a thing.

  Later, he promised himself. After the tryout, he could focus solely on her.

  He reached back in the bag for his glove. Instead of leather, his fingers grazed the edge of an envelope. Lifting it, he saw his name in MJ’s loopy cursive and opened the card. The front showed a cross-eyed cat in a baseball uniform, hanging by its claws from a chin-up bar. Inside was a joke about cats having nine lives, plus a note from MJ:

  Dear Shane,

  I hope you find this before the tryout. Cody and I are your biggest fans—and not just because you play baseball. You’ve been a wonderful friend to both of us.

  Cody’s needs are simple. Pizza. Playing catch. Just hanging out. My life is more complicated. That’s why I asked you for a month before we went on an official date. When we have dinner tonight, I’ll tell you why I needed the extra time. I hope you’ll understand. The situation is painful to me.

  You’re going to do great today! I wish I could be there to cheer for you.

  Hugs, MJ

  If he’d read the card before that moment in the car, he would have been prepared. Instead he had squirmed away from her like a worm. But who could blame him? Warts were disgusting, and hysterectomies were forever.

  He dropped the card in the bag, sat on the fluffy bed, and hung his head. HPV repulsed him, which meant a piece of MJ repulsed him. What did that say about the new and improved Shane Riley—the man who didn’t judge people? Not much. And nothing good.

  Manny’s words echoed in his mind. “Christians get lost and they get found.”

  But Shane didn’t want to be found. He didn’t want to calm down and pray. He was stinking furious at God—mad enough to snatch the TV remote in his throwing hand and hurl it against the wall. It hit hard, broke into pieces, and scattered across the brown carpet. Still furious, he paced back to the window, thumped his palms against the glass, and stared down at the cars crawling in a preset pattern of right turns . . . or wrong ones.

  “Why?” The word scraped at his throat.

  Nothing made sense to him. Nothing. Not the accident, not HPV. If God was listening, Shane wanted answers.

  “Why the accident, the pain, and every stinking minute at the gym?” He spat each word. “You destroyed my career. I can’t find Daisy. She could be an addict, selling her body, even dead!”

  An oath shot off his tongue. He was on a roll and complained about everything, even ending up in Wyoming, the emptiest state in America. Except he’d met MJ in Wyoming—a woman who cheered for him, believed in him, and somehow filled him with hope. She was beautiful inside and out. He’d been blessed—blessed—by a woman who cared about him and a boy who thought he walked on water.

  He didn’t. He knew that now. His breath steadied, and his thoughts raced to the next step. Father, forgive me. I have sinned. And harder still to say, Thy will be done.

  If he spoke those words, his career would be on an altar much like the one where Abraham had offered Isaac. Shane knew the story well. When Abraham departed for the mountain, his beloved son at his side, he told Sarah, “We’ll be back.”

  We. Abraham had trusted God to make it right, but Shane had no such trust.

  “I can’t do it,” he muttered. “I just can’t.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Startled, he crossed the room and opened it. MJ stood there waiflike in jeans and that cute jacket, her expression guarded as she gripped the handle of her suitcase. “I’m leaving. Lyn’s meeting me downstairs.”

  “MJ, I—”

  She shook her head. “Good luck tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “I have to go.” She turned and fled down the hall, her suitcase rolling behind her and reminding him of Daisy leaving the Harpers. He grabbed his card key and followed, barefoot in his lucky sweats and a white T-shirt, but he didn’t feel lucky. He stepped in front of her, blocking her way to the bank of elevators.

  She looked at him with those hollow, empty eyes. “What is it?”

  Kiss her . . . Hold her close. But what then? Until he figured out where he stood, both with God and her condition, he had nothing to offer except a toxic brew of self-pity, anger, and confusion. Disgusted with himself, he stepped out of her way. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “After the tryout.”

  “Yes.”

  She headed down the hall, the suitcase rolling behind her. As he watched her go, he wanted more than anything to love her the way she deserved. But he couldn’t—not when he hated himself and couldn’t find God. Head down, he went to his room and closed the door.

  MJ stepped into the elevator and faced forward. She didn’t expect to see Shane as the doors closed and she didn’t. She saw only herself in the mirrored panel, pale and grim in spite of washing her face twice. She slumped against the back wall, bracing herself as the elevator plummeted to the lobby. Her stomach didn’t keep up, and she thought of the awful flight, the awful drive, and that awful kiss on the cheek.

  The elevator slowed. The doors slid open, and she spotted Lyn. They hugged tight, and in minutes they were in Lyn’s Camry and headed for the Santa Monica Freeway.

  MJ slouched against the seat. “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” She didn’t even want to think about what had happened.

  Tomorrow she’d visit Dr. Hong, get her test results late in the day, and fly home alone using her mother’s credit card. The ticket would be expensive, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was avoiding Shane, that disgusted look in his eyes, and the pain of being oh so gently kicked to the curb.

  Chapter 21

  Equipment bag in hand, Shane strode into the clubhouse at Cougar Stadium. Even empty, the locker room smelled of wood and leather, bleached towels, sweat, and traces of expensive aftershave. He recalled Craig pranking him with shaving cream in his hat and smiled.

  The discipline of being an athlete kept him from thinking too much about MJ, but as he walked to the locker that used to be his, he thought of Cody’s drawing and winced. Blowing out a slow breath, he set his bag down, eyed the practice jersey wait
ing for him, then walked down the hall to Ricky’s office.

  The manager came around the desk and offered his hand. “Good to see you, Shane.”

  “Likewise.”

  Ray Blaine, tall and slightly balding, rose from his seat in front of Ricky, and they moved to a sitting area with comfortable leather chairs. Steve Whittie, the head trainer, joined them.

  Ray got down to business. “We want you back, Shane. But we’re worried about the knee.”

  “I understand.”

  Steve relaxed in the leather seat, his fingers steepled over his chest. “You and I worked for three months, and the knee didn’t regain the stability you need for third base. How is it now?”

  “It’s strong, and I have full range of motion. Though I’ll admit it aches in bad weather.”

  As Shane hoped, the men chuckled at the familiar lament of anyone with an injury. He relaxed, but just a little. At Steve’s request, he described his workout regimen. The trainer told him that if he did well today, he’d be sent to a sports medicine specialist in Century City for motion analysis.

  No surprise there. But at the mention of a specialist, his mind wandered to MJ seeing Dr. Hong.

  The men rose from their seats. Shane went to the locker room, put on the practice uniform, and laced up his cleats. Glove in hand, he jogged to the field where Ray and Ricky waited with Javier Rodriguez, Tom Kenner, and Bart Alberts, members of the coaching staff.

  Ricky indicated home plate. “Let’s see you sprint to first.”

  Shane hustled to the plate. Eyes straight ahead, he ran for his life to first base. The knee felt good—very good. He sprinted to first again, rounded the corner, and headed for second, third, then home. In a gutsy move, he went into a slide. Red dirt flying, he jumped to his feet and turned to Ricky and the coaches, all watching him with raised eyebrows.

  He barely held in a grin. “What next?”

  Ricky tossed him his glove. “Take third.”

  Shane and the coaches assumed their positions. Julio, a retired Hall of Fame pitcher, selected a ball from a bucket on the mound. Shane hunkered into a crouch at third, his eyes on Tom at the plate, as the pitch smacked off the bat. Shane snagged it one-handed and threw with pinpoint accuracy to Bart at first.

  For the next half hour, he dove for grounders and leaped for line drives. He threw bullets to first base as effortlessly as he breathed. Ricky and Ray watched every throw, every step, every bend of the bad knee. Shane didn’t hesitate. Not once. But every time he crouched, his knee hurt a little more.

  Ignore it. Pain is part of the game. But the joint started to wobble. Three plays later, the wobble morphed into a steady shake. If he wasn’t careful, the knee would collapse and he’d fall, possibly injuring the ligaments all over again.

  He signaled Ricky that he needed a break, took off his cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He smelled the red clay and lush grass. He relived the cheering crowds and the satisfaction of a perfect throw. He thought of friends, locker room jokes, and the thrill of a close game. A lump shoved into his throat and refused to budge.

  Ricky’s baritone broke the spell. “You look great, Shane. Let’s see you hit.”

  He jogged to the plate, his knee throbbing. In his mind he heard the announcer call his name. “Number 17 . . . Shaaaaaaane Riiiiiley.” And in his heart, he accepted the bitter truth.

  No way could he play nine full innings.

  This at-bat would be his last.

  Home plate gleamed white against the clay. He imagined the stands filled with cheering fans, picked up his bat, and took some practice cuts. Savoring every detail—the balanced swing, the power in his chest and legs—he walked to the plate, dug in his spikes, and stared hard at Javier on the mound.

  The pitcher met his stare, wound up, and sizzled a fastball right down the middle. Wood smacked cowhide, and the ball flew like a bird, high and out of sight, until it dropped into the centerfield bleachers, counting for nothing but giving Shane the dignity of a noble end. He longed to run the bases but couldn’t. His knee hurt too much.

  Head high, he walked over to Ricky and Ray, giving in to a limp. “Thanks for the chance, but my knee’s shot.”

  Ricky jammed his hands in his back pockets. “Man, I’m sorry. You looked great out there.”

  Ray offered his hand. “You’ve got skills, Shane. I wish it had worked out.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  After a final look around the stadium, he retreated to the locker room, iced his knee, and popped ibuprofen. After a quick shower, he dressed in the khakis and blue oxford shirt he often wore in the classroom. On Monday he’d be Mr. Riley again, a thought that brought more solace than he expected.

  Keys in hand, he climbed into the Challenger, drove to the Crowne Drake, and checked out. He didn’t want to be there without MJ, so he drove toward his Marina del Rey apartment. It was a fitting retreat—the place where he had licked his wounds after the accident. But he didn’t want to go back to that time. He wanted to go forward—needed to go forward—so he drove past the white stucco apartment complex to Venice Beach at the end of Washington Boulevard.

  He paid the attendant to park, found a space that faced the wide expanse of sand, and cut the engine. The ocean rumbled in the distance, wave after wave, echoing the pounding in his chest. What was the point of the past six months—except to break him? It had worked. All that remained was to bury the old Shane once and for all.

  He yanked off his shoes and socks, shoved his wallet and phone in the glove box, then hid the key fob in the wheel well. With the breeze ruffling his hair, he headed for the water, the warm sand sifting between his toes until he reached the water’s edge.

  A wave crested, broke, and raced toward him. Chilly water washed over his ankles, tugging at his khakis and drawing him forward as it receded. The next wave engulfed his knees, reversed itself, and dragged him past any sign of solid ground. Ninety feet away—the distance between third base and home plate—a wave higher than his head gathered momentum. It rose higher, higher still. And the water pulled him closer, closer still.

  Arms raised, he finished the prayer he’d started in the hotel room. “Father God, your will be done.”

  The wave knocked him back and he went under. Water whooshed in his ears, lifted him, and spun him around in slow motion.

  Seven years ago, he’d been dunked in a church baptismal, a hot tub really. The pastor had reminded him to hold his nose, then lowered and raised him in one smooth motion. That day, Shane had come up sputtering and full of joy. Today there were no strong arms to lift him, and he’d forgotten to hold his nose. But he broke the surface exactly as he had in the church baptismal—full of joy.

  Staggering to his feet, he pumped his fists in the air and shouted “Yes!” Laughter bubbled out of him as he sloshed to the shore and kicked through dry sand to the car. In about five minutes, he’d be an itching mess because of the salt. As for the sand, well, it was everywhere.

  He retrieved the key fob, spread a towel from his gym bag over the driver’s seat, and drove to his apartment, mulling the things he wanted to do. First, a hot shower. Second, a text to Manny to thank him for his prayers. And third and most pressing, a face-to-face apology to MJ for failing to love her the way Jesus loved them both.

  After the shower and the text to Manny, he scrolled to MJ’s caller ID, savored the smiling photograph, and prayed she’d forgive him. Ready to grovel, he called her.

  She answered on the second ring, her voice both dull and stern as she said hello.

  He didn’t waste a breath. “I messed up so bad yesterday I can’t believe it. Forgive me. Please.”

  “There’s no need. You were honest. That’s all.” Her voice came out flat and impersonal. “I only took the call to tell you I’m flying home alone.”

  “MJ, no.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “No. It’s not—not for you or for us.” He paced in front of the couch. “I am so sorry for how I reacted in the car. I wa
s an idiot. If I’d thought for two seconds—”

  “Forget it.”

  “I can’t. Where are you?”

  “With Lyn.”

  “Let me pick you up. We’ll have dinner.”

  “No.” Her chilly voice shivered through the phone. “I have things to do. You’re off the hook.”

  No way. If salmon could fight their way upstream, so could he. “I don’t want off the hook. And you promised me one dinner, remember? Please, MJ. I need to talk to you. It’s been a . . . a crazy day.”

  “The tryout—”

  “I bombed. My playing days are over, but that’s not why I have to see you. This is about us—and God.”

  She paused for six beats of his heart. “All right. You can meet Lyn. We’re at the Denny’s on Washington.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Before she could argue, he ended the call and drove to the coffee shop in record time. When he pushed through the glass door, he spotted MJ and a woman he presumed to be Lyn in a booth by the window.

  “Is that him?” Lyn asked.

  MJ glanced over her shoulder just as Shane whipped off his Ray-Bans. They locked eyes, and in a single blink, that soul-stirring kiss in the car pulsed back to life. She wanted to hate him for what had followed but couldn’t. Who wouldn’t be repulsed by an STI? Even MJ was repulsed—and it was her body.

  She moved to Lyn’s side of the booth, being careful to put her purse on the seat where Shane wouldn’t see her phone lying on top. Any minute Dr. Hong would call with the test results—a biopsy and not just a pap because of a suspicious spot. Dr. Hong, aware of MJ’s travel situation, had ordered the results stat from the in-house lab.

  Shane strode past the empty tables to their booth in the back. MJ almost stood and hugged him, but common sense—and self-preservation—prevailed. For Cody’s sake, they needed to remain friends. For hers, they couldn’t be anything more.

  He laid his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look up. The determined glint in his eyes softened into a sheepish twinkle that begged her to smile. “I really am sorry.”