Rachel fills Conner in on the updates from the doctor. Essentially, she’s a medical miracle. Luckily, she didn’t suffer a stroke from the blockage. In the grand scheme of things, it was fairly small. Though it didn’t feel fortunate at the time, the fact that the blockage was pressing up against a nerve and causing severe migraines was something that ultimately saved her life. Watching the two of them talk with one another, well, I’d call it heartwarming, but my heart needed a hell of a lot more than warming. It needed a heat wave and that’s exactly what it got when Conner made me a part of his life.
“I’ll let you two have some time together,” I announce, excusing myself from the room. Conner moves to protest as Rachel winks at me without him seeing it.
“You don’t have to leave,” he insists, standing from the chair. I push him back down, rubbing his shoulder as I do.
“I have some things I need to take care of. Besides, I need to get everything in order for the game tonight.” It’s the last game of the season, and the order for the trophies I plan to give to the boys, whether they win or lose, came in the other day and I haven’t had a chance to pick it up.
“Shit, I forgot all about it.” Conner rakes a hand through his hair, clearly torn between staying with Rachel and going to the game.
“It’s fine,” I try to calm him down. “The boys will understand. I’ll be sure to explain it to them.”
Rachel grabs his hand and her eyes crinkle with warmth as she looks at him. “Go, Con,” she assures him. “I’ll be more than okay here. As long as you promise to break me out as soon as you can,” she adds with a playful smile and wink.
“You sure?”
“Yes, now stop.” She shoots him a pointed look and the conversation is closed.
Since Conner rode his motorcycle here, we make plans to meet at the field before the game. He walks me to the door, hiding us behind the privacy curtain.
“I’ll see you later, then.” He laces our hands together, nodding at one of Rachel’s nurses passing in the hallway.
“Warm-ups start at five fifteen.” With a quick kiss and a warm look, I leave him to spend the afternoon with Rachel.
“Let’s go, Tigers!” A mass of hands fly into the air before the boys sprint out to the field, careful not to step on the freshly drawn base lines—some superstitions transcend all ages.
The early evening sky, set ablaze in hot oranges and bright yellows by the low-lying sun, is the perfect backdrop for a championship little league game. “Kieran is on fire tonight,” Conner marks yet another K in the book for his tenth strikeout of the night. After the bottom of the eighth inning, the other team leads in a close game of 2–1.
Before they take the field to start the final inning, I call the boys in for a final pep-talk. They all huddle around Conner and me. “You guys have played an awesome game. No matter what happens out there, you will always be winners to us.”
Brett rolls his eyes, and puts his hands in the middle of the circle. “You tell us that all the time, Coach. But we’re here to actually win!” His voice grows louder, spurring on cheers from his teammates. “Let’s do this! Gooooo Tigers!” he calls out and they fling their arms in the air.
The top of the ninth is a nail-biter to say the least. With one out and two men on base, one on first and one on third, the other team has the opportunity to blow the game wide open right now. “Let’s go, Kieran. You can do this,” I cheer, looking him right in the eyes, hoping to instill as much confidence in him as possible.
He nods and stands calmly on the mound, reading the signs from the catcher. He winds up and delivers a slider that the batter lifts easily into right field. The third base coach immediately calls the runner on third back to the bag, waiting to tag up and run home.
Out in right field, Frankie, a scrawny, unsure boy, who barely says more than two words on a good day, turns his body and with clean and utterly perfect skills, he plucks the ball out of the sky and launches it to home plate in one smooth, skillful motion.
Every single eye at the game tracks the ball as it races to beat the base runner. The umpire throws his arm over his shoulder. With a loud yell, he screams, “You’re out!” and the team jumps up and down in their positions, cheering and clapping, forgetting that they still need to earn two runs to win the game.
Frankie jogs in from right field, seemingly unaware of the fact that his double play singlehandedly just saved the game. His teammates swarm him, nearly raising him in the air as they charge the dugout.
After a round of jubilant high-fives, a serious air sets in. Conner talks to them this time, beating me to the punch. “That was amazing, Frankie!” He fist-bumps him and a glimmer of a smile graces Frankie’s usually sad face. “Okay, boys,” he coaches, “you can do this. Just keep your eye on the ball and swing at your pitch. Don’t let him pull you out of your zone.” The love of which I thought I couldn’t speak earlier, consumes me in that moment. Even though right now isn’t the time to declare it, I can’t deny it.
The loud crack of the bat and the sight of a ball flying through the infield break my daze. With a man on first and Brett up to bat, the pressure mounts. Brett is by far the best hitter we have. He’s also Conner’s favorite—they’ve developed a special bond over the few practices Conner has been with the team.
In the blink of an eye, the count is already stacked against Brett. Wasting two perfect swings on two less-than-perfect pitches puts him in the hole. Conner calls “time-out” and Brett jogs over to him by the sideline. They exchange a few hushed words that I can’t hear—ones that I let stay between the two of them.
The pitcher winds up and, for the first time in Brett’s at-bat, he throws a perfect pitch, right down the center of the plate. Brett’s massive swing has one intention: to sail the ball out of the park.
On a rainbow of an arc, Brett lifts the ball into centerfield, where it’s given a good chase by a lightning fast twelve year old. He races into the fence, crashing into it with the side of his body as his arm reaches up and stretches over it. The ball gazes the leather fingertips of the centerfielder’s mitt and then drops to the ground.
The crowd erupts into a loud frenzy of cheers. All the workers and younger boys from the home jump up and down in the bleachers, which threaten to break under their celebration. His thirteen teammates rush the field, huddling around the plate as the first base runner crosses home plate, tying the game. As Brett proudly trots down the third base line, the boys start chanting his name, forcing a look of unparalleled pride to bloom on Brett’s face. He stomps on the rubber base, winning the game and the championship for his team.
When Brett manages to break free from the pack of his teammate’s celebration, he sprints right into Conner’s open arms. “Fantastic! I’m so proud of you!” Conner hugs him tightly before lifting Brett up onto his shoulders.
With the only family they’ve ever known huddled around them, I give the boys their trophies. Stunned by their prize, they each accept their trophy, simply awed at their name engraved on the brass plate. “Thanks, Coach. These are awesome.”
After the game, and a round of celebratory ice cream cones from the truck parked next to the field, the boys take a final victory lap around the field, singing “We Are the Champions” as they touch each base a final time.
Despite the season being over, I promise the boys that I’ll have at least one practice a week over the summer. When they ask if we’ll coach them again next year, Conner speaks before I do. “You’re stuck with us!” They boys hoot and holler at his declaration as they file onto the bus.
After the bus pulls away, Conner and I walk over to my car. His bike is parked right next to me. “That was really fun,” Conner’s voice is scratchy and sore from all the screaming.
“They really like having you around,” I say as he swings a leg over the bike. So fucking sexy.
“What’s not to like?” he jokes as he grabs his helmet from the back. “Meet you at my place?” he asks after leaning in for a quick kiss.
“Be t
here in ten,” I kiss him back. As I watch him pull away, a ball of nervousness knots in my stomach thinking about what I have waiting for him when we get there.
Chapter Twenty Five
June 17, 2015
The warm summer sun heats my back on the ride home. Knowing that Dylan will be there waiting for me warms my heart. The conversation I had with Rachel earlier this afternoon plays through my head along with the sounds of my bike thrumming through the street.
“Yes, I am,” she declared, adding a huff and puff for extra emphasis.
“Rach,” I stood from my chair in frustration, “what if–”
She cut me off, throwing her hand up in the air. “What? What if I get hurt again? What if Caleb comes back?” Sarcasm hung heavily on each word. “Conner,” her tone softened, calling me back to my seat at her side. “This,” she pointed to her head, “was a freak thing. The doctors are giving me a great prognosis and I’ve already scheduled more appointments for follow ups and second opinions than I thought I would have in my entire life,” she rambled, exhausted by her new reality.
“What about Caleb?” My teeth clenched in anger just thinking about what he did to her, what he did to me.
“What about him, Con? He hasn’t found us yet, and honestly, I don’t think he’s looking for us.” She pulled my hand into hers. “I need to be able to live my life and you need to be able to live yours.”
“It’s worked so far.” I tried but failed to get her to see my point.
She shook her head, laughing at my simple response. “But it can’t work forever. I need to move out, get my own place, and stand on my own two feet.” Her eyes begged me to understand, pleaded with me to agree. It was pointless to argue. She was right and she knew it.
“You have Dylan now, anyway,” she added, with a touch of hopefulness in her tone, as if she were simply dangling that statement out there to see if I’d bite.
Hook, line, and sinker, I took the bait. Nodding and smiling, I said, “You’re right.”
“I’m right that I should move out or that you love Dylan?” She arched an eyebrow and shot me a look.
I looked at my watch. “I gotta go. The game is going to start soon.” My attempt at deflection was only met with another pointed stare. Arms crossed in silence, she wasn’t going to let me leave without answering her.
“Yes,” I said. She waved her hands, signaling me to carry on and say what she already knew. “To both.” I smiled and waved goodbye, feeling lighter for having admitted my feelings to someone.
She said goodbye, a cat-who-ate-the-canary look plastered to her face. “Have fun.” Her singsong voice bounced off my back and I got the distinct feeling that Rachel knew exactly what she was doing through that entire conversation.
All feelings of happiness vanish as I round the corner to my block and my complex comes into view. Dylan’s car is already parked out front, in what’s become his usual spot. He’s already out of the car and up on the front steps, where he’s locked in an obvious argument with the one person I’d really hoped to never see again.
Austin.
My jaw almost cracks under the pressure of clenching it so tightly. I’m surprised I’m able to park my bike and kill the engine without crashing. With frayed nerves and a white-knuckle grip on my helmet, I charge up the flight of fifteen stairs and step in between the two men.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Facing Austin, I feel Dylan’s pained stare on my back.
“Who the hell is he?” Austin points around me, the word “he” sounding like a curse spit from his mouth.
Dylan steps to my side, anger visible on him like a neon sign. “Who the hell are you?” Each word is carefully calculated, laced with venom.
“Doesn’t matter to you,” Austin dismisses Dylan, talking to him as if he’s an insect who needs to be stepped on. “I’m here to see Conner.” Austin reaches his hand out to me and I smack it to the side.
“Well, then I guess I’ll just leave you two alone,” Dylan moves to leave, but I pull him back.
“Stay,” lacing our fingers together, I keep him at my side. “Dylan, this is my ex. I have no fucking clue why he’s here. The last time I saw him at the opening for the gym, I told him I was done with him and that he needed to leave my life for good.”
Austin’s face morphs into one of disappointment and irritation. Dylan notices it and shoots me a confused look. “He’s pissed,” I explain, “because he’s a manipulative liar.”
What was irritation erupts into rage. His face turns bright red and Austin opens his mouth to defend himself. I stop him before he can even get a word out. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
Turing to Dylan, I tell him of mine and Austin’s sordid past, of how Austin wanted nothing to do with me after I was injured and my career was over.
“Why are you telling me all of this now?” Some of the fury in Dylan’s face eases; his tone softens.
“It hadn’t come up yet, but that doesn’t mean I was hiding it from you.” I grab his other hand, bringing both of his into mine. “I spit it all out right now to call bullshit on whatever lie he had planned.”
“Actually, I heard about your sister.” Austin’s voice is still laced with vehemence. “And I came here as soon as I could to check up on you.”
“I told you last month, I am done with you.” With harsh bluntness, I punctuate each word. I release Dylan’s hands and step into Austin’s space.
“But . . .” he opens his mouth, as if I haven’t heard enough.
Stepping infinitely closer, a sneer pulls at my lips. I all but growl at him to scare him away. Standing his ground, Austin steps closer rather than backing away. “What if I’m not done with you?” he yells in my face, shoving me backward.
My footing slips and the railing behind me gives way under my weight. There’s nothing to stop me from falling the fifteen feet to the ground.
“Shit!” Dylan curses, racing to my side. “Stay the fuck away from us.” He holds out a hand, keeping Austin back. I watch Dylan race down the stairs with more speed than is necessary. It wasn’t that big of a fall, so there’s really no reason for him to overreact.
“Are you okay?” His hands roam over my chest, up my arms, inspecting me for an injury. “Call an ambulance,” he yells at Austin who looks genuinely scared and not at all proud of what he’s done.
“I don’t need an ambulance. I’m fine, really.” Even though it was a decent fall, I try to avoid a big scene.
“No, you need help.” Dylan shoots down my attempt to dismiss his concerns.
As I try to move, the pain in my ankle is sharp and nearly unbearable. I try to sit up, slide back against the base of the stairs, but it’s difficult with only one foot. “My ankle. It’s broken.” I push back, the concrete sidewalk biting into my hands.
He helps me up. Sitting next to me, he gently combs his fingers through my hair. “Your head. Did you hit it? Are you okay?” Concerned words fly out of Dylan’s mouth and suddenly I realize why he’s gotten himself so worked up.
My head injury from when I was attacked. One more concussion and I could do permanent damage.
“It hurts, but I think I’m fine.” Dylan’s eyes dart over the rest of my body. When he seems satisfied that my ankle is my only serious injury, he pulls my hand into his.
Austin cautiously walks over to us. “They’re on their way.” He slides his phone in his pocket. “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.” He squats in front of us, his fingers locked together in a tight grip.
His voice sounds honest and resigned. “Do you want me to call the police?” Dylan asks from my side, tipping his head at Austin.
The look Austin gives me isn’t one of shock, but one of understanding. He knows he’s wrong, but it’s not worth it. Pressing charges will only keep him in my life longer than he needs to be. “No,” I answer Dylan before directing my attention and my words back to Austin. “Just leave me alone. Leave us alone.”
The sirens of the approaching a
mbulance slice through the conversation. “Just go,” I say one last time to Austin.
He nods resolutely, and turns his back on us, hopefully for the last time.
“I really don’t need an ambulance. I’m fine.” Dylan stands next to me, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah,” he pulls a face at me, “then stand on your own,” he jokes and relief washes over me. Knowing about Dylan’s trust issues, his inability to allow anyone in his life, made Austin’s reappearance so much more threatening than a simple misunderstanding.
Holding up my hands in mock-surrender, I say, “You win.” The EMTs come over to us, surprised that it’s just a broken ankle and not something more serious. Dylan explains to them my history of head injuries, demanding they make sure I’m okay.
The female EMT scans my eyes, asks me how many fingers she’s holding up and declares, “Pending further testing, it looks like you should be just fine. Mild concussion at worst.”
They load me onto the gurney and pain radiates up my leg like an electric shock. “You can ride with us, if you’d like,” she tells Dylan and he falls in line as they load me into the back of the ambulance. On the way there, Dylan calls Reid to make arrangements for him to bring us Dylan’s car.
A few hours later, I’m all set in a cast and pair of crutches, hobbling out of the hospital. Dylan takes me back to his place, under strict instruction to wake me up every few hours to make sure the mild concussion the doctor confirmed doesn’t get any worse.
Whatever energy I had left is quickly spent on getting situated in Dylan’s bed. “Sponge bath?” he jokes as he stands next to me.
“Maybe tomorrow, wiseass.”
Careful not to cause too much pain, he slides a pillow under my leg and gets me my meds and a glass of water. “These are just Advil. The doctor said you can’t have the strong stuff until tomorrow.”
Exhaustion takes over, and despite my best efforts to fight it, sleep wins.
“Hey.” A gentle shake at my side rouses me from sleep. Dylan is resting on one elbow, his face tired and worn out.
The Love Series Complete Box Set Page 137
