by Luis, Maria
Clarke, cold as stone, raises a single brow as he watches his ex-wife with an inscrutable expression. I want to sling back an arm and knock him out cold. Instead, I shove his shoulder with mine, locker-room style, and head for the parking lot. I don’t say a word.
He wanted a beer? Fine.
But that doesn’t mean we have to do a damn bit of talking—and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I can’t take him behind a bar and bust his face in.
37
Aspen
“I hate him!”
I barely get my front door closed before Topher erupts, throwing his duffel bag on the floor with unleashed anger.
I hate him too. More than you’ll ever know.
I keep the words locked up inside myself, the way I’ve done for years now. I’ve never wanted to be the mother who talks poorly about her ex-husband. No, I want Topher to make his own decisions and come to his own way of thinking, but with Rick cold-shouldering him on the field . . . I feel the embarrassment radiating off my son in waves.
“Baby,” I murmur softly, pointing to the couch, “come sit down. Please.”
Topher’s shoulders hunch forward. “You don’t understand. You don’t get it!”
My heart splinters as I watch him pace the living room like a caged animal. All his life, Topher has been the gentlest soul. He doesn’t yell and he rarely throws tantrums, even when I ground him for pulling stupid stunts, but this . . . this bottled-up rage. This isn’t him.
“I need you to make me understand, Toph.” I sit first, hoping it’ll convince him to follow my lead. I pat the cushion beside me. “Make me see.”
Although he doesn’t sit, he swarms into the living room with his hands clamped behind his dark head, arms bent like chicken wings. Then, on a short, pentup breath, he exhales, “Dad asked me to stay with him.”
My world goes dark.
Just like that, the living room tips sideways and I grip the couch cushion, like it might somehow keep me upright, and I blink back the sudden onslaught of tears. Don’t cry in front of him, girl. Keep yourself together!
Easier said than done.
I know that mothers are separated from their children every day.
I know that—and I know that Rick, deep down, must miss his only son, but I . . . I—
A sob breaks from my soul, and I cover my mouth with my hand to keep it down. Suppress it. Force it so deep within my heart that Topher sees me as only calm and collected, willing to accept whatever decision he’s made.
Please don’t leave me.
I shush the inner begging and raise my gaze to meet my son’s. Swallowing down all my inner flailing, I manage a warbled, “I’m sure he misses you, baby. We both love you so much.”
“He doesn’t.”
“He does.”
Topher tugs at his hair, pulling sharply. And then he explodes, kicking at the coffee table with the sole of his shoe. “Why do you defend him?”
I’m wholly unprepared for the question.
My chin snaps back in shock. “Topher, I’m not defending him.”
Another kick, though this one misses the table’s leg. “You are. You always do! Anytime I ask you about him, you say the same thing. Your dad loves you, baby,” Topher mimics in a high-pitched voice, “he’s just busy.” He laughs, the sound hard and piercing. “Yeah, he’s busy, Mom. He’s busy cheating on you and you—and you just accepted it. For years.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
Tingles come to life in my legs, in my arms. Like a prisoner of my own making, I sit with my tongue tied—because nothing I say will sound good. I either expose Rick for the asshole he is, or I try to salvage any relationship he’ll ever have with his son . . . despite the fact that he doesn’t seem to care.
A virtual Grandfather’s clock pops up in my head, taunting me with its passing hands and ticking time.
I don’t know what to do.
Rubbing my lips together, buying myself time, I squeeze my thighs with my hands. “Topher, it’s not so easy to explain. All you need to know is that I love you and Daddy loves you and—”
“No lying.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if blood stops circulating to my feet, my grip on my knees is so tight.
“You told me,” Topher says, dropping his butt to the coffee table and sitting down right in front of me, “that we have one rule in our home. No lying.”
He has me backed into a corner and he knows it.
Breathing slowly through my nose, I scrub at my tears with the heel of my palm. As much as I want to keep this secret from Topher, I won’t let Rick ruin the relationship I have with my son. Topher is my world, and I . . . God, I would have died so many times over during my marriage if I hadn’t had him to brighten my day. Some people look to God or angels or other all-powerful beings for guidance—all I ever needed was Topher to show me the path to take. Like I told Dominic, my son is my secret weapon. And my secret weapon kept me alive even in the darkest times of my life.
“Your dad . . .” God, I don’t want to say this. My throat feels too tight, my chest even tighter. “I don’t know how many times I filed for divorce, Toph. I could lie and give you an exact number, but the truth is, I lost count.”
He visibly swallows. “Then why would you stay?”
Briefly, I lower my lids.
I’m grateful for moving to London with Topher.
I’m grateful he’s made such great friends.
I’m grateful that he met Dominic, who can show him what it’s like to be a good, honest man with a kind heart.
“Mom?”
I open my eyes and give him the truth: “Because I wouldn’t have had you.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
Flexing my hands, I stare at my unpainted nails and try not to hear his voice: Can’t you fucking dress like a woman for once? It’s like I’m sleeping with a goddamn man.
Rick enjoyed chasing a legend in the making.
He also found pervasive pleasure in destroying everything that made me special.
“Bud, sometimes . . .” I struggle for words, wishing they would come on demand. As one might expect, they don’t, and I’m left to fumble my way through the murky darkness. “Sometimes when people have a lot of money, they do things that are wrong.” Crap. That’s not right. Cursing under my breath, I try again. “What I’m trying to say is, Daddy is worth a lot, Toph. A lot. Enough that he made it so I could leave, but if I did, he kept full custody of you. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t do that, baby. I couldn’t leave you behind.”
It’s why I started coaching. Because I needed my own money—I had no college degree at that point; I had no life skills aside from football. I begged Rick to let me work, faking a need to be out of the house and doing something on my own.
I always suspected he knew how desperate I was to succeed, all so I could pay for a high-class lawyer and leave him. High-class because with Rick’s seven-figure paycheck, I didn’t stand a chance against him with anything less. He called judges friends, lawyers his best buddies, people across the country his close confidantes.
And he made the matter of Topher’s custody the one thing that would keep me locked to his side for years. He didn’t want me, but he didn’t want anyone else to have me either.
A bird whose feathers were clipped prematurely, then shoved into a gilded cage with no hope for escape.
I haven’t breathed—really breathed—in fifteen years, not since I returned to London.
Blue eyes, the same shade as my own, well up with tears. “So you stayed with him because of me?”
“Yes.”
I would have stayed longer, too, but Topher’s shock at finding two women in Rick’s bed a year ago proved to be the one thing that unlocked the keys to my prison. No judge could rule that Rick was fit to parent a child when he was rarely home, couldn’t even remember his son’s phone number, and brought home strange women every night.
Reaching out, my hands find Topher’s. “I would do anything
for you. Anything, Topher. Do you hear me?”
His fingers interlace with mine, holding tight. “I don’t want to go back to Pittsburgh, Mom. I want to stay here, with you and Coach DaSilva and Aunt Willow and my friends. Dad told me before we moved that you would end up sending . . . sending me back.” His nose twitches, like he’s trying to hold back the tears. “Please don’t.”
Rick said that, did he?
Temper spiking, I drop to my knees and hug Topher around the waist. “Never. You’re never going back unless you want to.”
38
Dominic
The Golden Fleece has taken the Put A Ring On It fantasy league to new levels.
The minute I walk into the pub, I spot my face in a blown-up, cardboard cutout along the far side of the wall, near the jukebox. Beside fake me is a matching cutout of Nick Stamos and the other eight contestants who have yet to be sent home by Savannah Rose.
“Like it?” Shawn asks, a damp rag slung over one shoulder as he wipes down a glass with a dry towel. “A gift from an anonymous donor.”
I let out a low whistle. “Fancy gift.”
“That’s what I said when Fed-Ex dropped it off on Monday.” The bartender eyes me, slicking up, raking down. “I can’t imagine who the hell would spend money on something so absolutely ridiculous.”
“You post them on the Golden Fleece’s social media accounts yet?” I ask, all smooth obliviousness.
“Of course we did. What, do you think I’m not willing to make some extra cash by bringing all of Mount Desert into this fantasy league? We’re tripling our usual Wednesday revenue.”
I grip his shoulder, offering him a sly grin. “Then my work here is done.”
“I knew it was you!”
I mime zipping my mouth shut. “Anonymous donor who loves fantasy-league sports.” Tapping my head, I point at Shawn. “You hear me?”
The elderly bartender salutes me. “I hear you. And while no one is around, let me just say thank you.”
Grimacing, I grunt, “You might want to hold off on the grateful schtick.”
“You’re not so bad, once you get under all that black—Jesus Christ, what the hell is Rick Clarke doing here?”
Like the devil himself has been summoned, Clarke appears beside me. “He’s meeting me.”
Shawn shoots me a look that could stop a man in his tracks.
Lucky for him, this isn’t a social call.
I’m gonna let Clarke have his beer and then I’m gonna send him packing so fast he won’t even know what hit him. No one fucks with Levi or Topher, especially not him.
“Two beers,” I tell Shawn. “We won’t be long.”
“You don’t even know why I asked you to meet me,” Clarke interjects, trailing behind when I head for the closest booth. I let Levi’s ex take the seat that leaves his back open to the door.
Sitting diagonally, so my legs can extend out to the left of the table, I drape my arms over the back of the booth. “We’re not here for socializing,” I growl, my voice resolutely hard. “I said pretty much all I have to say to you in an email that’s probably rotting away in your inbox.”
“Ah, the email.” Clarke undoes the top two buttons of his suit jacket. “It’s funny, of course.”
Knowing I’m being baited into conversation, I bite out, “What’s funny?”
“That email.” Shaking his head, the older man strips off his jacket and lays it across the table. “Did you know that Levi read it? Her response to your . . . crassness was illuminating.”
My molars might disintegrate to dust, I’m grinding them so bad. “Illuminating.”
“Yes, illuminating.” Clarke leans back, issuing a no-named thank you when Shawn drops off our beers. “She said you were bullish.”
Ignoring the condensation on the glass, I bring the Bud Light up to my mouth. “An improvement over what she called me when we first met in person . . . right here in this bar.”
A tick pulses to life in his jaw.
Bingo.
When he first rolled up on the field, I didn’t want to believe it, but it’s all too clear that Rick Clarke is here for one reason only: to keep me away from his ex-wife. I’m not entirely sure how he knows about us, though I have to assume that someone showed him the articles from Celebrity Tea Presents, particularly the one where they called her Aspen Clarke and claimed she’s still married to the asshole sitting across from me.
From between gritted teeth, Clarke edges out, “And what, exactly, did she call you?”
I smile at him, all wide and toothy—because I know it’ll piss him off. “An asshole.”
His dark eyes, so unlike Topher’s, widen marginally. “And that doesn’t anger you?”
I like to think of it as our own special blend of foreplay.
Since there’s no chance in hell I’m ever gonna admit that to her ex-husband, I merely shrug my shoulders and opt for another sip of beer. I dangle the bottle loosely from my index finger and thumb. “Why fight it when it’s true—you feel me? Now”—I point the base of the bottle toward him—“what the hell are you really doing here in London, Clarke? And don’t give me that bullshit about wanting to see your son. I saw how you reacted to Topher out there, and you should be feeling lucky as fuck right now that I’m not looking to sit behind bars again anytime soon.”
The I’ve-been-locked-up card is not one I pull often.
But it has its time and place, and this is one of them. At six-foot-six, I could do major damage to Clarke without breaking a sweat.
He knows it.
I know it.
He clears his throat awkwardly.
I sit my ass back in the booth, beer bottle in my hand, and don’t say a word.
Sometimes, silence is the best intimidation tactic.
I learned that in juvie too.
Clarke clasps his Bud Light between his hands. “I’d like to offer you a job.”
A job. That’s . . . unexpected. And incredibly unwanted.
When I lift my brows, encouraging him to move on or get out, his fingers reflexively squeeze the bottle’s glass neck. “As a recruiter for the Steelers. Clearly, you have a passion for coaching.” He glances around at the pub, taking in the sparse décor and the candles seated at every table. “But staying here in Maine is a waste of your talents.”
I make a dramatic show of sitting up straighter. “You really think so?”
“Do I?” Clarke echoes, a hint of emotion finally coating his tone. “You’ve won two Super Bowl rings. You’re the Heisman trophy winner from college. The MVP winner from half of your seasons, at least, while you played for the Bucs. Do I think so?”
Once upon a time, someone listing off my accolades would have inspired a sense of excitement and fulfillment within me. After all, when you have no sense of self-worth, it always feels real nice to be the recipient of good, old-fashioned praise.
Eighteen-year-old me would have been a puddle of goo right now.
Thirty-five-year-old me only takes another sip of my beer, purposely dragging out my response to make the man sweat. “I’m not looking to play matchmaker.”
Clarke sits forward in the booth. “I’m not saying anything about matchmaking with the players, DaSilva. I’m talking about you leaving this Podunk, small-ass town and doing something with your life.”
I like this Podunk, small-ass town.
And crazy as it may seem, I feel like working with the Wildcats blends all of my interests. Football, working with kids and making a difference in their lives, Levi.
“Coordinator, then.” Some of the lackluster enthusiasm in Clarke’s face dilutes. That tick in his jaw comes roaring back, and this time his nostrils flare too. “All right, special teams. How does that sound? I can’t promise you a top coaching position, but something smaller to start out? That I can do easily.”
I put my beer down. Plant my hands flat on the table and jut my chin forward. “Cut the goddamn bullshit, Clarke. You’re not offering this job out of the goodness of your heart.
So why don’t you tell me the real reason you came all the way to this small-ass, Podunk town?”
I’m no idiot. I know why he’s here, but I want to hear him say it.
I want him to show, once again, that he’s a controlling bastard who thinks he can play God with a snap of his fingers and a promise to give a man what he thinks we all want. I didn’t want his offer of pussy and money and fame seven years ago, and I certainly don’t want anything he’s offering now.
Dark eyes level on my face, unwavering. “Levi—”
“Is not yours.”
With the front door to the Golden Fleece propped open and all the blinds drawn back, there’s no hiding the rage that twists Clarke’s features. “I don’t know what you think is going to transpire between you and Levi, but I can promise this: you’ll get sick of her soon enough.” His knuckles whiten around the bottle’s glass neck. “The woman you see now? That is my doing. Her long blond hair? Me. She looked like a dyke when I met her. Her big tits and the meat on her bones? Me. Fucking her for the first five years of our marriage was like screwing a man.” His mouth twists angrily. “Anytime she stepped out of line, I put her in her place. So, when you’re fucking her and thinking she’s the woman of your dreams, just remember I had her first. Everything you like about her, I created. I took her out of this goddamn town and made her who she is. I did that.”
Put her in her place.
The last time I punched someone, the producers on Put A Ring On It asked me to get physical with another one of the contestants. The altercation was mapped out in advance. Me defending my so-called honor against a sniveling prick out of Kansas. I refused. The investment broker didn’t. When you see a fist swinging in your direction, though, it’s only human nature to strike back. And, I did—hard—with one upper right hook to the chin.
Down he blows.
Staring at Rick Clarke now, my knuckles are already tingling with the want for retribution. But this isn’t a bare knuckle fight on low-grade reality TV. It’s real life. And until this moment, I never realized the scope of misery that Levi suffered being married to this jackass.
