Fire Heart (Broken Bottle Series Book 2)

by Taeuffer, Pamela

  "I agree." His hand flexed. "He thinks the same about you, by the way."

  Really?

  "I have a gift for analyzing people and I do it quickly. It's how I've gotten the edge in business. You are an intelligent and dynamic force who's waiting to light a brilliant fire in my opinion. In fact, I'm sure you'll give me a run for my money someday."

  "I hope I'll find a firm that will appreciate my marketing ideas." My voice trembled. "You seem . . . I don't mean to be condescending when I say this, but you appear to be very young. If you are, it gives me hope that with hard work I can move up quickly."

  “Thank you." With an open hand, he gestured to one of two black leather chairs in front of his desk. I sat down. Rather than sit behind his desk he took the chair next to me. He was relaxed and his body language conveyed power, all the while seeming very comfortable in his own skin. He even swiveled in his seat a bit while talking with me.

  "Moving up quickly is very possible if you're willing to give it your all. Stanford should help you get a leg up. I've been told how hard you've worked to gain admission there. You came up with a plan that had never been done in professional baseball?"

  "Yes."

  "I’m sure that meant long months of preparation. You’ve given up more than one weekend to achieve your goals. Get used to that. Success means sacrifice. How much is up to you, of course.”

  "I have no problem with hard work. It's what I live for, actually."

  "Good . . . very good. Now then, what questions can I answer?"

  "I understand City Architecture has an internship program, which is offered to students of SF State once every four years. My sister is studying architecture and she's going to try for it."

  As he explained the details about the internship, he confirmed what Mr. Woodson had revealed to me an hour earlier.

  “Have any of the students submitted their project yet?” I had to ask. “Jenise Young, maybe? Have you seen her presentation?”

  “We won’t look at any of their plans until early next year. If even one of the students submit the kind of work deserving of the award it will be given at the graduation ceremony.”

  “May I ask what you look for in a project?”

  “The depth of the research, the feasibility of it and the way it fits in the current culture of society to name a few. Changing regulations are some of the biggest challenges that make the project so difficult.”

  “Can you explain, please?” I pulled out my journal. "Do you mind if I take notes?"

  “Be my guest." He laughed and shook his head.

  "I'm sorry. Did I offend you?" I closed my journal; suddenly afraid I'd done something wrong.

  "No. I should have known Ryan would fall for someone like you. He always did like a challenge and you are definitely that. Please. Open your notebook. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

  "Thank you." I reopened my journal. "Caden?"

  I've had enough of this flirtation.

  "Nicky?"

  "I admit I'm naive, but I'm not stupid."

  His head jerked back.

  "Meaning?"

  "I will challenge you in a few years." My eyes narrowed as I focused on him. "And it won't be because of Ryan. I'll do it all on my own. Can we continue now?"

  "Please." His smile had changed from sensual and playful to one of all business.

  "You were explaining how you look for a project that fits into a changing society."

  "Yes. Right." He looked out the window and then turned to me. It was as if I'd unnerved him. I hoped that was true and he wouldn't try to intimate women like he had with me in the future. "Regulations and events change. They're fluid, beyond the student's control. For example, zoning changes, natural disasters, possible permit issues, and current political opinion . . . all of them could change just as the student finishes two years of work. Suddenly, the project is obsolete. Even in an award year, few are given because of the complexities involved."

  "That's tough criteria."

  "You’re studying business?”

  "Entertainment Marketing."

  "A woman who's ahead of her time," he announced.

  "You know what entertainment marketing is?" I asked, surprised. "You're the first!"

  "I practice it!" He stood and walked to his desk, lifted a framed certificate and handed it to me. "We hired Lance to help in the cafeteria. When employees started complaining about a boring selection, I circulated a memo for ideas. He emailed me a plan to personally cater our staff and executive meetings as well as a healthy alternative for the cafeteria. I took him up on it. Now I'm a partner in his restaurant. Crouton. On Church Street. Ever been?"

  He's smart. And also conceited. But he's smart nonetheless. I know I could learn from him if I could stand to be near him.

  "No, but I'll check it out. That's exactly the kind of pay-it- forward entrepreneurial thinking I'm going to study." I shared my ideas and when I was done, he offered a few of his own. Our meeting lasted more than an hour.

  "I'd love to continue talking with you. You're fascinating. Unfortunately I have a meeting to get to." He handed me his business card. "Call me when you graduate . . . if you dare."

  "Thank you. And I will dare." I lifted my chin in defiance and shook his hand.

  "Oh, and tell Ryan yes."

  "Yes?"

  "He'll understand." He took my hand and kissed it. "Charmed."

  Although I'd never admit it to anyone, I left his office a little weak in the knees.

  A passion started to burn in me for my sister and her career. I wanted her to have a great future.

  I’d also come to a new understanding about Ryan’s passions—his drive to succeed was strong. His empathy and love for people, seemed on a deeper level than anyone I'd ever met.

  From his contacts, I saw how he was building layers of protection. Through his networking and volunteering, he was setting up a second career in case his baseball life was cut short.

  Suddenly, it struck me how vulnerable he felt.

  Suddenly I understood how vulnerable I was.

  Suddenly I understood he was afraid his career wouldn’t last.

  Suddenly I understood he was afraid he’d slip away without being significant in a life he so desperately wanted to make meaningful.

  Perhaps, just like his father, he was tortured because of a fear that the memory of his contribution would fade and only his mother or family would remember him.

  I wondered, how deep, hot, and furious, the desire burned inside Ryan Tilton for a unique and different life. Was losing his father the root of his fear, leaving him with the feeling that with one misstep, one injury, or one bad decision, anything, everything, could be over?

  Chapter 5

  Walter Dixon

  Walter Dixon was last appointment of the day. He was Stanford's athletic director and the manager of the men’s baseball team. I knew he could be a very important man for Jerry’s career.

  On the way to his office, I watched and admired the students buzzing around me. With their book bags in tow, they ran, walked and socialized in every direction. I desperately wanted to be there and now regretted my decision to go to junior college for my general education classes.

  Why didn’t I ask for what I wanted and take the opportunity my parents had initially offered before my father’s job was in danger?

  Because you took the passive route once again, Nicky. Stop being the peacemaker. It's time to take care of your own needs.

  Even after all the upheaval at home, I never thought that my professional life—a life I'd planned so methodically—could be altered in such a significant way. I had been hopeful that through my own hard work, my future was a given.

  I should have known better.

  As I got closer to the football and track fields, there were more males than females. I began getting the looks and comments that came being in "jock country," I thought about Ryan and Jerry and their raging testosterone.

  What am I doing? A relationship
with an athlete? There's no way I want to battle other women for my boyfriend, wondering if another woman had caught his eye. I've got to squash my feelings before this goes any further.

  After I was admitted through a large and glamorous checkpoint displaying Stanford's many trophies and awards for athletics, I was directed to Mr. Dixon's office.

  There were no thick glass doors guarded by hired personnel, nor a receptionist appointed to him. The intimate waiting area was small, with a few chairs and a sofa, a worn brown rug and a few old pictures of former college stars hanging on the wall.

  When Walter Dixon finally walked in, he looked haggard. It was obvious he was preoccupied.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook my hand. “There was a problem with one of our athletes. She takes precedence, of course. Come on in.”

  You’re the head of the athletics department—the man who manages men’s baseball—and you spent time with a female athlete? I like you already.

  I watched as he quickly straightened the reception area. He was a tall man with a good physique and somewhere in his early to middle forties, I guessed. His rusty hair was beginning to bald and the fine wrinkles of life had settled around his eyes. A goatee adorned his chin. He wore gray sweats and a Stanford T-shirt.

  “No apology needed, Mr. Dixon. I appreciate your time on such short notice. In fact, if this isn't the best time for you I'm happy to reschedule our meeting.”

  “First off, call me Walter.” He unlocked the door to his office. It was much larger than his modest reception room. The deep red carpet accommodated a heavy looking, dark wooden desk, rows of bookcases and a dozen wooden file cabinets. The walls were peppered with photos and plaques, and trophies were lined side by side on a massive oak cadenza.

  One of the photos seemed to hang purposefully in the center of the wall. It was a young baseball team and he was standing on the left of them, obviously their coach. Inscribed were the words: Burberry High School, North East Champions. The year and the name of the players were listed. Ryan was one of the boys.

  "Second, I promised Ryan I would talk with you today and I'll never hear the end of it if I don't," he chuckled. "Do you find him relentless?"

  "Oh yes," I laughed along with him.

  "Please have a seat and fire away with your questions. I was warned once you begin I should prepare to keep up."

  “Thank you, Walter. Yeah, I um . . . I get nervous, so just put your hand up and I'll stop if I run on too long." I felt my face flush. Ryan had prepared the man I was meeting to be ready in case I took off on a rant. I pulled out my journal and turned to the page I'd marked. I cleared my throat. "May I ask how you know Ryan Tilton and how he might have influence over your program?”

  “Well, that’s right to the point. I like that!” He offered me a contagious smile. "Before we go much further, you should know Ryan encouraged me to be completely honest in our discussion today. I’ll answer all of your questions except any privacy issues regarding Mr. Stowe, who I understand is the primary concern here. Jerry hasn’t given me permission to reveal any details about his scholarship, but I assume you probably know them; Ryan says you and Jerry have been friends a long time.”

  “We grew up together."

  “I’m surprised—actually beyond surprised—that Ryan gave me the freedom to speak with you so openly. He's very private, which tells me he cares about you a great deal."

  “I care about him, too." I looked up, noticing a cobweb in the corner of the room. A daddy longlegs walked delicately on the spun thread. "The more I find out about him, the more certain I am that he’s different from everyone else I know."

  “You’re right about that.” By the thoughtful look on his face, it was obvious they had shared something priceless.

  "So about Jerry . . . why would Ryan have any say so for his position on Stanford's baseball team?"

  "Let me throw a question back to you. Can you imagine how much a recommendation from a professional baseball player means for Mr. Stowe's future with Stanford? With Ryan’s input, your friend might have a spot on the varsity team. For an incoming freshman, that's highly unusual. Professional scouts would notice.”

  “But Jerry’s doing really well on his own. Did you know he has a chance for a golden glove and the batting title in his summer league?" Just then the full impact of what Walter said hit me. "Wait—so Ryan already recommended him?”

  “Yes, but only that we take a closer look, not a full endorsement.” He gathered several phone messages together and put them aside. "And yes, we're keeping an eye on Mr. Stowe. I'm aware of his summer baseball league and his entrance to City College in the fall."

  “What’s the difference in a look and a full endorsement?”

  He explained all the advantages Jerry would have with Ryan's input and after exhausting the topic, switched directions. "I’d like to tell you a little bit about my relationship with Ryan. Do you have time?”

  “Take all the time you need." I closed my journal. "I’m the one intruding on you.”

  “Do you know about Ryan's father?"

  "Yes." I flattened my hands on my thighs.

  "He died a few months before I started coaching at the high school. Ryan sat out the first season I was there. Poor kid was in such turmoil. He didn't know it, but I was watching him. I was analyzing him in ways that were more than only for playing baseball. I wanted him on the team, but he was a dark, brooding boy. He'd lost his direction, challenged authority . . . he rebelled against everyone in his path."

  "You sound like a shrink," I teased. Immediately I was afraid I sounded flippant. "I'm sorry. No disrespect intended."

  Shut up with your sarcasm, Nick.

  “Minored in psychology," he laughed. "Well, I watched Ryan for a few months before I approached him." He ran one hand through his hair and then shook his head. "He was really something."

  "I can see that," I smiled. "As cool as he seems to be, he's got a little devil in him."

  "Thank God, right? We should all have a little of that."

  What a mentor for Ryan you must have been.

  "Losing a parent during his adolescence was devastating." Walter folded his hands on his desk. "Did you know that Ryan never said goodbye to his father?”

  “Oh God.” I lowered my head. I could hardly stand to keep listening. My stomach turned over at the thought of the hole that might still be inside of him.

  “When his dad was deployed to the Middle East—the fourth time in only six years—instead of a hug goodbye, Ryan yelled profanities at him and then rode away on his bike until his father's screams faded. He never turned back. When he came home that night? His dad had already left. I'm afraid the last sounds of his father's voice remain as fresh now as at fourteen.” He looked out his window. “You remember being fourteen?”

  “Everything is traumatic,” I added. "Let alone losing a parent."

  “And we’re immortal,” he went on. “We just know we are at the center of the universe. The thing was, Ryan didn’t have the time to mature like most of us before the lesson came down that the world didn't revolve around him."

  A knock on the door interrupted us.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Dixon." A young man in sweats and a Stanford Track Team sweatshirt stood at the door.

  "Do you mind? I'll only be a minute," Walter said.

  "Take your time." I walked into the waiting room. Absentmindedly, I leafed through a magazine. Oh crap, that's right! I still have to pick up the stuff from Ryan's place to take to Yountville tomorrow. Another short night . . . I'm so tired.

  "Anytime Owen." Walter and the young man stepped out of the office shaking hands twenty minutes later. "Nicky? You ready?"

  "Thanks," the young man winked. "Going here in the fall?"

  "Spring."

  "Owen Posley." He shook my hand. "See you in six months I hope. What's your major?"

  "Business marketing."

  "Cool. Maybe I'll see you in a class." He reached for the door, which let him into the main hal
lway. "Economics major. Look me up, will you? What a lovely spring it will be, don't you think?"

  "Turn off the charm, Owen," Walter kidded.

  "I look forward to it," I laughed.

  We sat down once again, ready to continue our discussion.

  "Are all the students that polite?" I teased.

  "When they see a pretty girl? Most definitely. Where were we?" He opened a container of hard candies. "Care for one?"

  "Sure." I reached for one that looked like butterscotch. "You were telling me how the death of Ryan's father made him rebellious."

  "Right. I knew the first thing I needed to do was to gain his trust, but ultimately, he had to love and trust himself. It took me a full year to get that boy to trust me.”

  That’s easier said than done. I still can’t trust anyone.

  “I hoped I could turn him around before he self-destructed. He burned as if an evil fire roared inside of him.” Walter looked at his desk as if those times were still fresh.

  “I understand trauma.” I reached for his hand. “I’ve lived with it all my life.” The look in his eyes made me feel as if I’d known him longer than only a few minutes.

  “I do love that boy.” He wiped his eyes and then stopped to use a tissue. “I visited his home, talked with his mother, and invited him to the high school field. I made sure we were alone so he wasn't distracted. You know how boys try to be tough for other boys and at the same time show off for girls. We're all weak for girls at that age, Ms. Young."

  “Just call me Nicky. Girls are just as weak for boys.” I'm weak for one right now!

  “True," he smiled. "Thankfully, I had the privilege of witnessing a young man who had raw, natural talent. When his smile broke through, I knew I couldn’t let him down.”

  Walter loves Ryan!

  "Judging by that plaque on the wall, I'd say you see him as your friend and star pupil." I nodded to the picture of the high school team he'd coached and proudly displayed.

  “The courage it took for him to reach out . . ." He fiddled with his pen. "So many young people close up and let their youth die in anger. Too late they realize the opportunity for something special has already passed by them. I knew I wanted to—no, correct that—I needed to help. I wrestle with pushing him too hard."