[York Bombers 01.0] Playing the Game

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "But—"

  "No buts. You know better." She stepped back, her hands braced on slim hips, and stared at him. Almost like she wasn't sure what to do with him, wasn't sure how he had suddenly ended up sitting at the kitchen table.

  The same table where he had spent so many nights while he was growing up. Eating dinner. Doing homework. Playing games. Like any normal happy family. Only they hadn't been his family, not really. Not by blood.

  She finally sighed, a drawn-out sound full of weariness. "You stay here and I'll see if Courtney wants to see you. And don't you dare move from this chair. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes ma'am."

  "Hm." She looked like she wanted to say something else but she didn't, just turned and left, leaving him there, alone with nothing but memories—and regrets.

  He propped his elbows on the scarred wooden surface and dropped his head into his hands. His fingers dug into his scalp, squeezing, trying to keep the memories at bay.

  Too many memories. Christ, he'd spent more time here than he had at his own place growing up. He'd found a home here, warm and welcoming, full of laughter and happiness. So different from the cold and empty house where he lived, his father hardly ever home, his mother gone, her whereabouts unknown.

  Voices drifted down the stairs, the words garbled but the tone unmistakable. Anger, surprise. He heard one word, clear and determined.

  No.

  That had been Courtney's voice, thick with emotion but not lacking in strength. His gut twisted and lurched again. Would she see him? And if she did, would she tell him the truth? Not the truth he had fooled himself into believing all those years ago—he wanted the real truth.

  Another thought assailed him, nearly doubling him over. He wasn't sure why he hadn't considered it before. Maybe because he hadn't been thinking clearly—he still wasn't, not really. Maybe because his mind was still trying to deny what his heart knew—what his heart had always known, if he'd only listened.

  His father had said she'd had the baby. But had she kept it—or given it up for adoption? He would have heard if she'd kept it…wouldn't he? Would she have said something the other day? Wouldn't her mother have said something?

  No. Why would they, after everything had happened? Why would they think it was any of his business?

  Christ. Was the baby upstairs now? No, not a baby. Not anymore.

  A chill settled over him. His hands began shaking, then his whole body. Small tremors at first, there and gone, replaced by an uncontrollable shivering. It was like he'd been dipped in water then forced onto the ice in nothing but a pair of skates. He couldn't get warm, couldn't stop shaking, couldn't get his mind to focus on any one thing.

  No, that wasn't entirely true. Images he didn't want to acknowledge flashed through his mind with the intensity of a strobe light. Harsh. Bright. Painful. He closed his eyes, trying to shut everything out, and only succeeded in making the images clearer.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs behind him and rang in his head, an auditory backdrop to the flashing images. Harland stood, the chair scraping across aged linoleum. The room around him spun and he leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table so he wouldn't fall. He pulled icy air into his lungs, held it until he was certain he wouldn't fall over.

  Then he turned around, slowly, afraid of what he'd see.

  Afraid of what he wouldn't see.

  Courtney moved from the stairs, her own steps slow and measured. Her normally healthy complexion was pale, her face drawn, her lips pressed tightly together. Brown eyes, several shades darker than his own, fixed on his. The fear and anxiety he felt were reflected in those eyes and he looked away, afraid of what else he might see.

  Then his gaze landed on the child in her arms. A boy, not quite three years old. The child wrapped his small arms around his mother's neck then turned his head—and Harland realized he was looking into a mirror, seeing himself at that age.

  His legs buckled, finally giving out. He reached for the table, the chair—anything. But his hands were numb, his vision swimming. And then he was on his knees, doubled over in pain, his lungs fighting for air as his mind fought to accept what his heart already knew.

  What his heart had known as soon as his father had told him. No, before that, even. What his heart had known all those years ago, what he had blocked out and refused to believe.

  He was a father.

  Chapter Six

  Courtney didn't move except to tighten her arms around Noah. All she could do was watch as Harland dropped to his knees, as he wrapped his arms around his waist and gulped for air.

  Part of her wanted to be immune to his distress. To turn her back on him and walk away and pretend she felt nothing. But another part of her—a very small piece of her—wanted to rush forward and take him in her arms. To rock him and tell him everything would be alright, much like she still rocked Noah at times.

  She cursed herself for her weakness and refused to move. Tell him everything would be alright? Why? Why would she even consider doing that? Nothing was alright and hadn't been for several years. Nothing would ever be the same again, ever. So why should she comfort him after everything that had happened? After everything he had done?

  She heard a gasp behind her, sensed her mother coming to a stop on the bottom step.

  "Harland!" Her mother's voice was laced with concern and surprise as she moved past Courtney.

  "Mom, don't." There must have been something in Courtney's voice, some sense of the emotions warring inside her, because her mother actually listened to her. A small victory, when she knew how much she still cared for Harland.

  The victory was short-lived. Her mother gave her a pointed look then moved forward. She reached Harland, bent down and placed a slender arm around his shoulders. Courtney couldn't hear what she was saying, not when the words were quietly spoken in Harland's ear.

  Noah stiffened in her arms then started to push against her, his legs kicking. He made a small grunt, the noise nothing more than a breathless wheeze as his hand made a single sign.

  Down.

  "Noah, no." Courtney shook her head but he continued kicking, his back arching. What in the world? She finally gave up and bent over, lowering him to his feet. He pushed away and hurried toward his grandmother.

  No, not toward his grandmother. Toward Harland.

  Courtney made a small cry of dismay but that only succeeded in capturing Harland's attention. He sat back on his heels, his eyes wide with shock as Noah came to a sudden stop in front of him.

  Courtney stepped forward, ready to grab her son and whisk him away to safety. Her mother waved her off with a stern look and a shake of her head. Courtney fisted her hands, wishing she had never listened to her mother. If it had been up to her, she'd still be upstairs with Noah, locked safely in her room until Harland left.

  But her mother had been so adamant, so unwavering, that Courtney had no choice but to give in.

  He deserves to know.

  Did he? After everything he had said, everything he had accused her of? And what would he do with that knowledge? That's what worried Courtney the most. Not just worried: that's what terrified her.

  She watched, unable to move, unable to breathe. Noah took another hesitant step toward Harland then stopped, his head tilting to the side as he studied the man in front of him. Not for the first time, Courtney wished he wasn't quite such a curious child.

  Harland's stunned gaze moved from Noah to her. "He's mine."

  He made the two words a statement but she didn't miss the question underneath. Courtney crossed her arms in front of her, her fingers biting into the flesh of her arms, and said nothing. Harland watched her for a long minute then slowly nodded. Had he answered his own question? Or was the nod for another reason, one she didn't understand?

  He looked back at Noah, already dismissing her. Then he shifted so he was sitting cross-legged on the floor. A hesitant smile played at the corners of his lips. "Hey there, Little Man. How are you?"

  Was that re
ally Harland's voice? Soft, gentle. Hesitant. It was like a different man was speaking, one she didn't know. Except that wasn't true. She'd heard him talk like that before, when things had been different. When life had been different.

  So much time had passed and so many different things had happened that she had forgotten that side of him. And she didn't want to remember.

  "What's your name?" Harland's voice again, still soft and hesitant. Noah placed his hand against Harland's mouth then turned back to look at her, curiosity clear in the honey-brown eyes that were so much like his father's.

  Courtney moved closer and had to restrain herself from scooping Noah into her arms. "His name is Noah. Noah Robert."

  Harland glanced up at her then looked away, his gaze softening. "Hi Noah Robert Day. I'm—"

  "It's Williams. Noah Robert Williams. Not Day."

  Anger flashed in Harland's eyes, followed by what she thought might be sorrow. No, she must be reading into things. Why would he feel sorrow after being so adamant that the child she carried wasn't his? She expected him to say something, to argue with her or make some biting comment that would leave her reeling. Instead he looked away and ran the tip of his finger along Noah's nose.

  "Hi Noah. I'm Harland. Can you say Harland?"

  Noah looked at her once more, curiosity now mingled with delight. She made several slow signs for Noah, watched as he struggled to mimic them. Harland's eyes narrowed at the exchange, the silent question clear in his gaze.

  Courtney took a deep breath and moved even closer, finally giving into the urge to pull her son into her arms. She dropped a kiss on the top of his head. The baby-fine hair was smooth against her lips, fresh and clean from his recent bath. She kissed him again then shifted so his weight was resting on her hip. She focused her steady gaze on Harland when she spoke.

  "Noah is deaf, Harland. He can't hear."

  So many different emotions flashed through his eyes: anger, bewilderment, shock. Pity. Pain. And yes, blame. At her? Himself? She didn't know, couldn't tell because all the emotions disappeared in one slow blink. If Courtney hadn't been looking—hadn't specifically been watching him just so she could see any reaction—it would be hard to say she had seen any emotions at all. But she had been watching, just for that reason. Because she knew how easy it was for Harland to hide what he was feeling. That, at least, hadn't changed.

  It never mattered how well he'd hid them, though. She'd still been able to read his emotions, all those years ago. He could hide what he felt from everyone else but not from her. Never from her. Could she still do it? Still sense—still feel—what was underneath that aloof surface?

  She was afraid to try, afraid to look too closely. Afraid of the answer.

  "Okay young man. Bed time." Her mother's voice pulled her back to the present. She started, surprised to realize she had been standing there, her gaze locked on Harland.

  Noah made a soft wheezing sound then pressed a sloppy kiss against her cheek. Courtney smiled as he practically jumped from her arms into his grandmother's then bounced up and down with silent glee. He finally settled in her arms then looked back at Harland and waved.

  And then they were alone.

  Silence settled over them, tense and still. Courtney's arms felt empty, awkward, and she wasn't sure what to do with them. She didn't know what to say, or if she should even move. Run upstairs and hide? That's what she wanted to do. But she couldn't, not with Harland still sitting on the floor a few feet away.

  He finally moved, standing with a muffled grunt. She almost teased him about getting old, like she used to do when they were younger, then savagely bit the words back. Those days were gone, long dead and buried.

  He watched her for a long minute then reached for one of the chairs. "Sit. We need to talk."

  "I don't think—"

  "We need to talk." There was no mistaking the command in his voice. Courtney hesitated. She didn't want to talk to him. Not now, not ever. Hadn't they said everything they had to say that night over three years ago?

  There was no mistaking the silent demand in his expression, though. And looking at him, she realized this wasn't the same boy—man—she had known a lifetime ago. He was bigger, broader through the chest and shoulders. His hair was just a little darker than she remembered. And longer than he used to wear it, especially in the front where it fell over his broad forehead. His face was leaner, more sculpted, carrying a scar or two that hadn't been there before. Even his hands and wrists were larger, the muscles more defined than she remembered. From playing hockey, of course.

  She hadn't wanted to but she'd kept up with his career once he moved to the pros. Not fanatically, not seeking out and hanging on every game or every single piece of gossip about him. But she had followed enough to watch his play grow and mature—and to watch it implode for no apparent reason.

  The man standing in front of her, watching her with such a direct and commanding gaze, wasn't the smiling yet serious boy she had fallen in love with. He was someone completely different. Harder, more remote. A total stranger.

  She needed to remember that, even as she finally gave in and took the chair he held out for her. Was it her imagination, or did some of the tension seem to leave him? He had probably expected a fight. As much as she would have loved to give him one, it wasn't in her best interest. No, the sooner they talked, the sooner he would leave.

  And the sooner he'd be gone from her life once more.

  "Noah is my son." The words were brisk, forceful, with no hint of question in them. Courtney folded her arms in front of her and stared at him.

  "Is he?"

  "You know he is."

  "Not according to you, I don't. I seem to recall you being pretty adamant that he wasn't yours when I told you I was pregnant." By some miracle, the words had come out clear and strong, with no hint of the emotions that were battering her inside. She dug her fingers deeper into the flesh of her arms, needing to hide their shaking from Harland's careful gaze.

  Maybe she wasn't as successful at hiding the emotion as she thought because sorrow and regret flashed in Harland's eyes. He didn't blink them away or try to hide them when he spoke.

  "I was wrong. I—" He took a deep breath and looked away. "I should have never said what I did."

  "But you did."

  The words hung between them, heavy and final. Did he really expect her to pretend his accusations hadn't mattered? That it was in the past, forgotten and forgiven? Maybe there were other people out there who could forgive and forget, who could move on and pretend the bad things never happened. Bigger people, forgiving people.

  She wasn't one of them.

  "I—" His gaze slid to hers, moved away once more. "He's my son. I want to be part of his life."

  Fear swept through her, cold and paralyzing. But she couldn't—wouldn't—let him see it. She swallowed, focused on keeping her voice steady. "You should have thought about that three years ago."

  "You can't keep me out of his life, Courtney. I'm his father. I have a right to be part of his life."

  "You were never in his life. Ever. You weren't there when he was born. You didn't sit up nights with him when he was sick, when he wouldn't eat or drink or sleep. You weren't here when he got his first tooth or took his first step." Her voice shook with anger and she leaned forward, no longer worried about hiding her emotions.

  "You weren't there when the doctors told me he would never hear. You didn't—don't—struggle with learning how to teach him how to communicate. You aren't here, dealing with his appointments and lessons and everything else that goes on. So don't you dare tell me you have a right to be in his life. Not after everything you said and did. You haven't earned that right. You don't have that right and you never will!"

  "Bullshit!" Harland slammed his hand against the table, both the sound and his outburst making her jump. "I have every right. I'm his father!"

  "Not according to his birth certificate, you're not."

  "What?" Harland sat back as if she had sla
pped him. The color drained from his face and his voice shook when he spoke. "Who's listed as his father?"

  Courtney wanted to lie, to toss out some random name just to hurt him. To make him feel just a small fraction of the pain she had felt. But she couldn't. She sat back in the chair, suddenly drained, and focused her gaze on the surface of the table. "His father is listed as 'unknown'."

  Harland's hand flattened against the table, his fingers bending as the tips dug into the hard surface. She heard him exhale, saw his hand finally, slowly, relax. And she saw the way his fingers trembled before he moved his hand away, out of her line of sight.

  "You hate me so much that you would do that?"

  It hadn't been her choice: it had been the state of Pennsylvania's since she was an unmarried woman and there was no Acknowledgement of Paternity. But she wasn't going to tell him that. Better to let him think she hated him that much, if only to keep him out of their lives, like he had been. Better for him, better for her. Better for Noah.

  "Courtney." Just her name, harsh and raw. She shook her head, refusing to look at him, and heard the ragged exhalation of a deep breath. "Courtney. He's my son. I want to be part of his life."

  And oh God, she couldn't do this anymore. Not with Harland sitting so close, not with the myriad of emotions coming off him in waves and assaulting her. It was too much, brought back too many memories, awakened too many dreams.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle and shook her head again. "You need to leave, Harland."

  "Courtney, I—"

  "Please. I can't…I can't do this. Not now. Please."

  Maybe it was the way her voice broke. Or maybe they still had enough of a connection that he could sense her own tumultuous emotions, the same way she could sense his. She didn't know what the reasons were and she didn't care. It didn't matter what the reasons were because Harland slowly pushed away from the table and stepped around her.

  Her body tensed, her shoulders drawing tight around her ears when he stopped behind her. Gently, the touch sensed more than felt, he pressed a featherlight kiss against the top of her head. She gasped, the air sticking in her throat and nearly choking her, but he didn't say anything. Less than a minute later, she heard the sound of the door closing behind him as he left.