Unforgettable: A Small Town Second Chance Sports Romance

by Melanie Harlow

  After ending the call with Chloe, I reached out to my mom and asked about bringing Tyler to Sunday dinner.

  “Of course, darling,” she said brightly. “Your friends are always welcome here.”

  I took a deep breath. “Mom, I need to ask you something. Did you ever tell Dad about the baby and adoption?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “I did. I’m sorry if I betrayed your confidence, but I didn’t feel it was something I should keep from him. Plus, I was struggling too—it’s not easy to see your child in pain, and I knew how hard that was for you to go through. Also . . . it was our grandchild. I had to mourn a little bit.”

  I swallowed hard. “I understand.”

  “If it makes you feel better, he was very understanding. He wanted to respect your privacy, so he never mentioned it, but he knew, and he was so proud of you.”

  My throat tightened, and I had to take another deep breath before speaking. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Would it be okay to tell him you’re aware that he knows now?”

  “Sure,” I said, feeling oddly good that the air would be cleared once and for all. “I recently told Meg, Chloe, and Frannie as well.”

  “Did you?” She sounded surprised.

  “Yes. My therapist encouraged me to be more open about it, starting with people I trust. And there’s no one I trust more than family.”

  “That’s wonderful, darling,” she said warmly. “I’m so happy to hear it.”

  I thought about telling her I’d written a letter to the adoptive mom, but decided against it. One thing at a time. I could wait until I heard back—if I heard back—to share that news.

  “I better go, Mom. I have to get to work, and I’m running a little late.”

  “Okay, darling. I’m glad you called.”

  We hung up and I glanced around for my bag.

  That’s when I looked over at the table, where I’d tossed the stack of mail.

  Gooseflesh blanketed my arms, and a strange shiver moved up my spine. Slowly, I walked over to the table and picked up the letter on top. It was addressed to me in black cursive lettering. I picked it up, knowing what it was before I even checked the return address.

  My legs trembled, and I sat down. Holding my breath, I slipped my finger beneath the seal and tore open the envelope. With shaking fingers, I pulled out the letter.

  A photograph dropped onto the table, and I gasped. There he was—in a baseball uniform. With Tyler’s signature grin plus my dimples. Tyler’s dark eyes and the Sawyer family ears sticking out from under his cap. He was tall and lanky, like Tyler at that age, and his hands looked almost too big for his body. Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face, but I was smiling too.

  Reluctantly I tore my eyes off the picture and unfolded the letter.

  Dear April,

  Thank you so much for reaching out. I have thought of you often over the years, and I’m glad to hear you are doing well. Chip would very much like to meet you.

  At this, I put a hand over my stomach and allowed myself a couple sobs of relief. Of joy. Of anticipation.

  I want to apologize for the delay in getting back to you—we moved to Michigan last year, so your letter did not reach me right away. But in fact, we live quite close to each other, as you will see from the return address.

  I quickly checked it and discovered—my jaw dropping—that not only had the family moved from Ohio to Michigan, but they’d moved to within fifteen miles of me. My head began to spin . . . had I seen my son already and not even known it?

  It has been a difficult couple of years for us, as we lost my husband Chuck last year very suddenly to a heart attack. We moved here to be closer to my mother. The loss of Chuck has been very tough on all of us, but particularly on Chip, who was very close to his father and feels a lot of responsibility to be the man in the house now that his dad is gone (we adopted a baby girl several years after adopting Chip).

  We have always been open with Chip and Cecily about the fact that they were adopted, and in fact, Cecily (who is twelve) enjoys a nice relationship with her birth mom—much like an aunt or older cousin. While Chip has never asked many questions about his birth parents (boys are less inquisitive than girls, I suppose), he seemed intrigued when I mentioned that I’d heard from you. Upon learning you’d like to meet him, he thought about it for a minute and asked me how I felt about it. That is the kind of person Chip is—considerate and sensitive to other people’s feelings. When I told him the decision was his, he said he’d like to meet you. In the wake of his loss, I think he is searching for additional family ties, and I truly believe it will be good for him.

  His schedule is fairly busy these days with school and baseball—he is an honor student and a very talented pitcher with scholarship offers from multiple schools—but perhaps you’d like to come to our house sometime?

  My email address and cell phone number are at the bottom of this letter. Please feel free to use it and we can set up a meeting. In addition, if you’d like to see him play, he is a starting pitcher for the varsity team at Central High School.

  We look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  Robin Carswell

  I could hardly breathe—I was bursting with something like pride, which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? I hadn’t raised him. But he was handsome! And smart! And talented! And considerate of other people’s feelings! It seemed like he’d gotten all the best things about Tyler and me, and had been raised exactly right. A rush of gratitude for Robin and her husband flooded me, as well as sympathy for the loss of Chuck.

  God, what a morning this had been—my emotions were all over the place. And I was totally going to be late for work if I didn’t get out of here. I’d have to repair my ruined eye makeup in the car. I stuck the letter in my bag, grabbed my keys and phone, and hurried out the door.

  I was halfway to work when it hit me.

  Chip was a starting pitcher for Central High School, where Tyler had been coaching the team all week long.

  Which meant he’d already met his son.

  Twenty

  Tyler

  After dropping April off, I decided to head downtown. There were several real estate offices along Main Street with listings in their front windows, and I figured I could check them out without having to go in and talk to anyone. If I saw something I was really interested in, I’d take a picture of it and make a phone call.

  But I wasn’t standing there for sixty seconds before someone poked his head out. “Tyler Shaw, right?”

  Fucking great. “Yeah.”

  The guy held out his hand. He looked kind of familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He wore a suit, an excited grin, and a lot of cologne. “Bob Dennis. Huge fan.”

  Reluctantly I took the guy’s hand. “Hey.”

  “Come on in.”

  I glanced up the street toward where I’d parked, tempted to make a run for it, but decided to go in. If April were here, she’d want me to. And maybe this weekend, if she had time, we could check out a few places together.

  Bob led the way to his desk, which was right near the front of the room. He gestured toward the chairs across from it before taking his seat. “So what can I do for you? You thinking of buying a place around here? I saw the news this morning.”

  I’d just sat down, but I stood right back up again. “Sorry. I changed my mind.”

  “No, wait!” he said, also rising to his feet. “I’ve got some great listings. You like privacy, right? I have one that’s perfect. Right on the water, boat dock, deck with jacuzzi, gourmet kitchen, master suite. Everything top-notch.”

  Slowly, I sank into the chair again. “I’m listening.”

  But instead of telling me more about the house, he went in the other direction. “Tyler fucking Shaw. I can’t believe it. You probably get asked this a lot, but what the hell happened? I was in that documentary they made about you, did you see me? I was the guy in the barber shop. The one that said the thing about the tight underw
ear.” He laughed as if he’d made a great joke. “People loved that line. I hear it all the time.”

  That’s why he looked familiar.

  I stood up again, put both hands on his desk, and leaned forward. “Yeah, well I didn’t.”

  He looked slightly alarmed. “Hey, take it easy. I was just making a joke.”

  I cracked my knuckles. “That was my fucking career you were joking about, asshole.”

  The room, which had been humming with quiet conversation, quieted. Heads turned in my direction.

  Bob held up his palms. “Look, I’m sorry. It seemed funny at the time.”

  “I’m sure it did.” And then, because I knew someone probably already had a phone camera aimed at me, I resisted the urge to knock over the chair I’d been sitting in before storming out of the office.

  Back in my car, I made the mistake of checking my text messages. I had one from Sadie that said, Have you seen this? WTF is wrong with people? She included a link to the Bethany Bloomstar story, which I clicked on, because I was already having a shitty day.

  I watched the entire thing, growing more furious every minute. How dare these assholes take video of April and me! How dare they drag her family’s name and business into this! How dare they suggest I’d flown off the handle because of an autograph request rather than a rude invasion of privacy! I was plenty familiar with the way gossip “journalism” worked, so it shouldn’t have surprised me, but somehow it did.

  And the last thing April needed was someone prying into her personal life—or her past.

  It was all my fault.

  Spewing curses, I drove back to the hotel, figuring I’d just go up to my room and hole up before the game and cool my temper. But there was a fucking photographer waiting for me in the lobby, and as soon as I started for the elevators, he was following me, snapping away. Every instinct in my body was to take the guy’s camera and smash it on the marble floor, but I managed to hold back, and lucky for him the elevator doors opened quickly. When he attempted to follow me and one other female guest in, I shoved him back. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

  The doors closed, and I turned to the woman, who had a hand over her chest and a terrified look on her face. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  She didn’t say anything, but she got out on the first floor she could.

  Back in my room, I fell forward onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow. Since I’d hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, the sheets hadn’t been changed and the pillowcase smelled faintly of April’s perfume. I breathed it in and tried to relax. My body grew heavy. My head grew foggy.

  The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back watching television. The remote was in my hand, so it had to have been me who’d turned it on, but I had no memory of it. Even stranger, I was watching that damn documentary, but instead of the usual talking heads, it was April and her sisters discussing me. At least, I assumed they were her sisters. They all looked almost exactly like her and every single one of them had her red hair, even Frannie—whose hair, I knew, was not that color at all.

  But I recognized the names that flashed on the screen as they spoke.

  SYLVIA: He was never good enough for her. Not then, and especially not now.

  MEG: I mean, even if she forgave him for abandoning her when she was pregnant with his child, I can’t.

  CHLOE: I can’t get over the way he fooled everyone into believing he was something he isn’t. You just can’t trust a guy like that.

  FRANNIE: I really thought he would change, you know? I thought he really cared about her.

  SYLVIA: A guy like that only cares about himself. He’d make a terrible husband and father.

  MEG: Oh, totally. I can’t even believe they’re letting him coach those kids. Especially now that we know about his secret dark side.

  CHLOE: Which doesn’t surprise me at all.

  FRANNIE: I’m so sad for April. I wish he’d never come back.

  Then my own sister Sadie appeared, but even she had April’s red hair. And she was wearing my Central High School jersey.

  SADIE: Growing up, I thought the sun rose and set on Tyler. He was my hero. Now I don’t know who he is.

  I woke up with a sudden jerk of my head, soaked in sweat. When I looked around, I discovered I was still lying exactly as I had been when I’d flopped onto the bed—on my stomach, face down, arms and legs splayed like a starfish. The room was light, but the television was off.

  It was just a dream, I realized, rolling onto my back and throwing an arm over my forehead. Jesus. I needed to get a grip. What the hell was wrong with me today?

  I lay there for a few more minutes, then decided I needed food. I picked up the phone and ordered room service, and while I waited for it, I scrolled through some real estate listings on my phone.

  But I wasn’t in the right mood, so I ended up tossing my phone aside and watching a stupid car chase movie. Might have been a mistake because I felt even more amped up and pissed off than I did before I watched it. I did manage to take another nap—dream-free this time—before I had to go over to the field, but even that didn’t take the edge off.

  I just couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter what I did, I couldn’t win.

  Speaking of not winning, the game that afternoon did not go well.

  Chip’s motion was off, and no matter what I said, he couldn’t seem to get his stride length right. We took him out of the game, and I knew exactly how he felt when he sank onto the bench, head down.

  We sent in a relief pitcher—Brock—but he didn’t fare any better. The other team was playing a great offensive game, and it didn’t help that Brock’s dad was screaming at the umpire through the fence the entire time, arguing with the calls. Finally, I went over to him and tapped his shoulder.

  He turned to me and puffed out his chest. Admittedly, I did the same.

  Mine was bigger.

  “You need to stop,” I said.

  “I need to stop what, you fucking has-been?” he asked, jerking his chin at me.

  I shrugged, feeling my temper spark but trying hard not to let it catch fire. “Stop being an asshole, and go sit down.”

  He stuck a meaty finger in my face. “Who are you calling an asshole?”

  “You. You’re making the entire team look bad, and you’re not doing your son any favors. The ump is less likely to give us the close calls if he’s pissed off.”

  “What the fuck do you know about it? I don’t even get why you’re here—you suck, Shaw! You couldn’t throw a strike if you tried!”

  People were watching, I reminded myself. Players were watching. Kids were watching. “Look, let’s not argue here. This isn’t about me, or even about you.”

  “The hell it isn’t. You’re telling me I can’t support my son. And I’m telling you to go to hell.”

  My hands curled into fists, and at that point I realized I had to remove myself from the situation or it was going to get ugly. So instead of smashing the guy’s jaw like I wanted to, I turned around and went back to the dugout.

  His voice followed me. “That’s right, get the hell out of here, you head case. You don’t know shit.”

  Seething, I stood with my arms crossed over my chest. Virgil, who was also in the dugout, shuffled over to me. “Brush it off. There will always be overbearing parents.”

  “That guy is more than overbearing,” I snapped.

  Virgil shrugged. “Part of the game. Let it go.”

  But I couldn’t. The team lost, the players were dejected, and Chip seemed especially down. He came over to me after the game, cap pulled low. “Sorry, Coach. I couldn’t get it right.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll work on it. Rest that arm.”

  He nodded and walked off toward the locker room with a couple buddies. I rubbed my face, feeling exhausted and good-for-nothing and craving a drink. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I texted Mack, who’d given me his number and said to reach out if I ever wanted to grab a beer.

 
Me: Hey. You busy? Could use that beer.

  Mack: Sounds good. Give me a minute to check with F.

  I was starting my car when he texted back.

  Mack: I’m good for a beer. Jolly Pumpkin has great brew.

  Me: Sounds good. I’ll meet you there.

  I walked into the bar with my head low and took a seat way down at the end of the bar, hoping no one would recognize me. I’d just ordered a beer when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey.” Mack slid onto the stool next to me.

  “Hey.”

  “Were you at the game? How was it?”

  I shook my head. “Rough.”

  “What happened?”

  I gave Mack a rundown of the game over a couple beers apiece. Since I was hungry, I ordered a burger and fries, and Mack ordered two pizzas, which he said he needed to bring home for Friday night movie night. The order was complicated, since in a house with four females, nobody ever wanted the same thing on their pizza.

  “And I’m sorry I don’t have more time,” he said. “I wish I did. I could sit here and talk baseball all night.”

  “No big deal. You should go home to your family.” I tipped up my glass.

  Mack rubbed his jaw. “This might not be my place to ask, but is everything okay?”

  I shrugged. “I had an off day. Nothing seemed to go right.”

  He nodded. “I saw the news story. Fuckers.”

  I signaled the bartender for another beer. “Yeah, well. I’m used to it. But I don’t like that April’s name was dragged into it. I don’t want them going after her because of me.”

  “I get it.” He paused. “Frannie said you might be moving back here for good? Taking a permanent coaching position?”

  I looked at him. “News travels fast.”

  He shrugged. “I think Chloe might have told her. But the Sawyer sisters have some kind of psychic network, I swear to God. They know everything about each other within minutes. So it’s true?”

  The bartender brought my beer, and I took a sip. “I was thinking about it. But today was the kind of day that just makes me want to go back to my cabin in the mountains and say to hell with it. People don’t want to give anybody room to make mistakes. They just want perfection.”