Hometown Girl

by Margaret Watson

  “Seems to me you kicked two punts and tried a field goal. Did I miss something?”

  “No, I’m the one who missed,” he burst out. “I missed the field goal and only got a few yards on the punts. The team needs a better kicker than me.”

  “You’re the best kicker we have, Nick. Do you really want to quit and let the team down?”

  “They’ll be better off without me,” he muttered.

  Tucker leaned farther back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. “Is this a private pity party or can anyone join?”

  Nick shot him a startled glance. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for the team.”

  “Then you’ll come to practice on Monday and work on your kicks,” Tucker said. He beckoned to Nick. “Sit down, Kendall.”

  When Nick was sitting rigid in a chair, Tucker said, “Yeah, you missed your field goal. You didn’t get as much distance on your punts as you wanted. But you tried, Kendall.” He tilted his head, watched Nick for a moment. “No one wanted to be our kicker until you joined the team, Nick. Want to know why?”

  He waited until Nick nodded. “Because it’s a job with a lot of responsibility. When you’re kicking the ball, everyone is watching you. If you screw up, everyone knows it.” He leaned forward. “Not everyone can handle that kind of pressure, Kendall. I think you can.”

  The flash of pleasure in Nick’s eyes was blinding, but quickly hidden. “All right,” he said, rubbing at a grass stain on his pants. “I’ll stay.” He looked up at Tucker. “I’ll see you on Monday, I guess.”

  “Damn straight you will.” Tucker stood up. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We spend enough time in this locker room during the week.”

  He clapped Nick on the back and the boy staggered. Upset that he’d forgotten about Nick’s weak leg, he started to apologize, but Nick turned and gave him a brilliant smile. “Okay, Coach.”

  Somehow, he’d managed to say and do just the right thing. His earlier frustration and disappointment at their loss drained completely away. As he grabbed his briefcase and flicked out the lights in the now-empty locker room, Tucker realized that the boys weren’t the only ones who’d learn something this year.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “WHAT COLOR DO YOU LIKE, Nick?” Claire asked the next morning as they stood in the paint aisle of the Home Helper store. She held three paint strips, trying to decide how they’d look in the living room of the house.

  “I don’t care,” he said impatiently. He glanced at the paint chips and stabbed a finger at one. “That one.”

  “I can tell you gave that a lot of thought,” she said with a wry smile.

  “I said I’d help you paint,” Nick retorted, hiking up his baggy pants. “I didn’t say anything about picking out a stupid color.”

  Two weeks ago, Nick’s answer would have had her bristling. She must be mellowing, because now she just laughed. “Spoken like a true male,” she said. “I think we’ll try this one.” She tapped her fingernail against a creamy light yellow. “If we don’t like it on the walls, we can try something else.”

  “Whatever,” Nick said, pointing to a complicated collection of tubes. “Are we going to get one of these?”

  “A power paint roller?” She read the box and rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so.” She had a mental picture of her and Nick struggling with the device, unable to control it as paint sprayed in every direction. “I think we’ll stick to the old-fashioned way.”

  “Good idea,” a voice said behind her. “The old-fashioned way usually works for me.”

  She spun around to see Tucker standing behind her. He wore ragged shorts and a paint-spattered T-shirt that hugged his upper body. She dragged her gaze away from the impressive muscles in his chest and shoulders.

  “Hi,” she said, rattled. “You’re up bright and early.” She shuddered inside at her inane words.

  Tucker didn’t seem to notice. “I told you I was a morning person,” he said in his sexy drawl. “Looks like you two are getting ready to do some serious work.”

  “Hi, Coach Hall.” Nick turned away from his contemplation of the paint sprayer. He hunched his shoulders self-consciously. “We’re going to paint the living room this weekend.”

  “Yeah? I was planning on some painting, too,” he said, giving Nick a “males stuck in the same boat” look.

  Nick straightened, and Claire watched as his chest seemed to swell. “I was trying to tell her that we need one of these things.” He gestured to the power painter, clearly hoping to get another male on his side.

  “Nah,” Tucker said. “You don’t want one of those things. Takes all the fun out of painting.”

  “But it looks so cool,” Nick protested.

  “Looks can be deceiving, kid.” He held Claire’s gaze for a beat too long, then leaned against the shelves as if he had all day and glanced into their cart. His lips twitched. When he looked up at her, his eyes were laughing. “How much painting have you done, city girl?”

  “Not very much,” she admitted. “But Nick and I should be able to figure it out. How complicated can it be?”

  Tucker pushed away from the shelves. “Painting is a tricky business. It would take days to cover all the subtleties,” he assured her, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll allow you to take advantage of my vast experience and give you a hand.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said firmly, although her stomach jumped when she pictured him holding her hand, guiding a brush down the wall. “We’re perfectly capable of doing it ourselves. Right, Nick?”

  Nick’s face fell, but he shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Besides, you must have work to do this weekend,” she added quickly. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Believe me, my painting can wait. The entertainment value alone will be worth it.” He grinned as he plucked two brushes out of her cart. “What were you going to use these for?” he asked.

  “To paint, of course.” She scowled. “What else would we use them for?”

  “I wondered, seeing as how they’re for staining wood siding.”

  “What? Let me see.”

  She snatched them out of his hand and read the fine print. Sure enough, it said their ideal use was on rough wood siding.

  “So we made a mistake.” She tossed them back in the bin where she’d found them. “We’ll find the right ones.”

  “Claire,” he said, grabbing her hand when she reached for a different one. “You don’t use brushes to paint a wall. You use rollers.”

  She tried to tug her hand from his grasp. His fingers tightened around hers for a moment, then he smoothed his thumb over her palm and let go.

  She shoved her suddenly far-too-sensitive hand into her pocket and shrugged “Fine. We’ll use rollers.”

  He glanced over at Nick and shot him a conspiratorial grin. “I’ll bet she doesn’t even know what a roller is. What do you think, Kendall?”

  Nick looked uneasily from her to Tucker. She could read his thoughts too easily. Were the adults making fun of him?

  “Nick knows what we need,” she said, her voice firm. She grabbed her nephew’s arm and pulled him toward what she assumed were rollers. “Thanks, though,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  Tucker followed them down the aisle. “What are we going to do with her, Kendall?” he asked. He was standing too close to her. “Doesn’t she know these projects are best left to the men to handle?”

  Nick shot Tucker a startled look, then stood taller and started to grin before he caught himself. “Uh, yeah. Right.”

  A lump lodged in Claire’s throat when she saw the happiness on Nick’s face, making it impossible to speak. That was the only reason she didn’t cut Tucker down to size for that macho, sexist remark. Her gaze went from Tucker to Nick, who’d moved away from her and casually aligned himself next to Tucker.

  She turned to look at a nearby shelf so he wouldn’t notice her eyes reddening. “All right, macho men. What do we need?”

  They spent th
e next half hour loading up the shopping cart with rollers, pans, dropcloths, several small brushes and the paint. Tucker consulted Nick before choosing each item, and by the time they wheeled the cart out of the store, Nick’s face was as bright as the sun.

  “Let’s put this stuff in my truck,” Tucker said, glancing at her sleek luxury sedan. “That city car would keel over in a faint if you asked it to do real work.”

  She eyed his pickup truck with a sniff. “And that truck of yours is too big and too loud.”

  Nick grinned. “I think Coach’s truck is awesome.”

  “That’s right, Kendall. Manly men drive pickups.” Tucker clapped him on the back, making Nick stagger. His grin grew even wider.

  “Why don’t you manly men load this stuff into the manly truck so we can get to work,” Claire said, her heart swelling as she watched Nick. How could she not be touched by Tucker’s care with her nephew?

  “Is she always this much of a slave driver?” Tucker asked Nick. Her nephew shrugged, then shot her a careful glance, as if to make sure she wasn’t angry.

  “Go put the cart away, Kendall,” Tucker said, latching the gate of the truck.

  As soon as Nick was out of earshot, he turned to her. “Just give me the word if you want me to get lost,” he said softly. “The other day you said you wanted to bond with Nick over paint chips. If I’m in the way, tell me.”

  “Nick would be devastated if I told you to get lost, and you know it,” she said, her voice dry. “You’re going to have to wiggle out of this one yourself.”

  “Who said I wanted to wiggle out of it?”

  “Come on, Tucker. You don’t want to spend the day painting our house.”

  “It’s true I can think of better ways of spending a Saturday,” he said, his eyes gleaming with sudden heat. “But if you’re determined to paint, I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  One side of his mouth curled into a grin. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re the suspicious type?”

  “Thank you. I worked very hard to develop my suspicious nature. And you still haven’t told me why you want to help us paint.”

  He shrugged. “It seems like the thing to do,” he said, his grin widening. “If nothing else, I’m sure it will be good for some laughs.”

  She looked over at her nephew, whose eyes sparkled as he walked toward them. “Thank you,” she said, surrendering. “Nick will love that.”

  “What about Nick’s aunt?”

  “I’ll be grateful for the help.”

  He watched her for a moment, then nodded. “Good. I’ll follow you back to your house.”

  “All right,” she said, wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

  NICK WAS STARVING to death.

  His hand cramped and his neck sore, he set the roller back into the pan. “Are we done here?” he asked hopefully.

  “Looks like it,” his aunt said. She slowly turned, looking at the freshly painted living room walls. “What a difference. What do you think, Nick?”

  She looked as if she really cared what he thought, he realized with a jolt of surprise. “I like it, I guess.”

  She smiled. “Me, too.”

  “My mom was going to paint the house,” he said, feeling like a traitor for enjoying painting with his aunt and Coach. “We talked about it a lot. But she was distracted by all the sh—stuff going on at work.”

  “Janice would have done a great job fixing up the house,” his aunt said quietly. “She just didn’t get a chance.”

  The tenderness in her eyes made him squirm. “So, like, can we eat now?” he said, trying to sound bored.

  “Not so fast, buddy,” Coach Hall said. “We’re not finished until everything’s cleaned up,” he said.

  “Aw, man, I’m starving,” Nick answered without thinking. Then he shot a worried look over at Coach Hall. He didn’t want his coach to think he was whining.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry, too,” Coach said. “But we have to get this paint cleaned up before it hardens.”

  “Right.” Nick grabbed the paint tray and the rollers and headed toward the laundry room.

  “You did a good job, Kendall,” Coach said as they stood side by side at the laundry tub, rinsing out the paint rollers. “You learn real fast.”

  “It wasn’t so hard,” Nick said nonchalantly. He glanced over at Coach, watching the way he rubbed the paint out of the roller, then did the same with his roller. “Thanks for helping us.”

  “You’re welcome.” Coach pressed the water out of his roller, set it on the counter and picked up another. “You’ve got a load of responsibility here, Kendall. Your aunt is going to need a lot of help with this place.”

  “No one asked her to fix it up,” he said, sudden emptiness making him feel hollow. He’d be alone after his aunt left. Trying to ignore the panic that clutched at his gut, he rapped the roller against the side of the sink the way Coach had. “She’s not staying, so what does it matter?”

  “Whether she stays or goes doesn’t matter. The house still needs a lot of work,” Coach said.

  “Why does she bother? She doesn’t care what happens to it,” he said, anger and sadness warring inside him.

  “She worked on the painting pretty hard today for someone who doesn’t care about this house.” Coach looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe you need to give your aunt a chance.”

  “It won’t matter,” he muttered. “She’s just going to leave anyway.”

  “You really think she’d leave you behind?” Coach asked.

  “Why wouldn’t she? She doesn’t want a kid hanging around.” Nick clenched his jaws together to prevent his mouth from trembling.

  “She didn’t have to come here at all,” Coach said.

  “The police made her come,” he mumbled.

  “I don’t think anyone makes your aunt do anything.”

  When Nick glanced over at him, Coach had a funny smile on his face.

  Was Coach making fun of him? “It’s not your business, anyway,” he sneered. He sneaked a look at Coach out of the corner of his eye. If he said something like that at practice, he’d be running laps for sure.

  But instead of yelling at him, Coach shrugged. “You’re right. It’s between you and your aunt. It’s your choice, Kendall. You can act like a kid, or you can act like a man. Take your pick.”

  Coach squeezed the water from the second roller and set it on the counter beside the first. “How about we order pizza?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever.” He watched Coach to see if he was making fun of him again, but Coach was drying his hands. Then he clapped Nick on the back.

  “Let’s go, Kendall. We’ll let your aunt finish cleaning up while we go pick up the pizza.”

  “Are we taking your truck?” Nick asked, forgetting his sulk in the excitement of riding in the awesome pickup.

  Coach snorted. “You think I’m going to drive that sissy car of your aunt’s?”

  “Cool!” he said happily.

  Forty-five minutes later, they all sat in the kitchen, eating pizza. Nick glanced at Coach again, still awe-struck that Coach was hanging out with him, acting like it was no big deal to be there. Nick shoved another piece of pizza into his mouth as he watched the coach. Acting like he wanted to be there.

  The phone rang and his aunt picked it up. She said hello, then glanced over at him. “It’s for you.”

  He grabbed the phone. “Hey, Nick, this is Booger,” the voice said. “You want to hang out tonight? I just got a new game for my PlayStation. Tony and Jeff are coming over, too.”

  His hand tightened around the phone. “Sure. Hold on a minute.”

  He looked up at his aunt. “Some guys from the team are hanging out tonight. Can I go over to Booger’s house?”

  “Are his parents going to be there?” his aunt asked.

  He scowled. Booger was going to think he was a baby if he asked that. But his aunt just waited, so finally he looked awa
y.

  “Are your parents going to be there?” he muttered.

  “Yeah, they’ll be here.” Booger didn’t act like it was a weird question and Nick relaxed a little.

  “Yeah,” he told his aunt.

  “Then yes, you can go,” his aunt said to him.

  “Yeah, I can go,” he told Booger.

  “See ya,” Booger said as he hung up the phone.

  His aunt cleared her throat. “Will you need a ride?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Booger lives a couple of blocks away.” He jumped up from the table and turned to go, remembering at the last minute to pick up his plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Is it okay if I go now?”

  “Write down his phone number. And be home by eleven o’clock,” his aunt said.

  He scribbled the information on a piece of paper, then headed for the back door. “So long,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Be careful walking over to his house,” his aunt said as the door banged closed behind him.

  Man, she sounded like she was his mother, Nick thought as he headed down the sidewalk.

  The thought brought a funny lump to his throat. Aunt Claire wasn’t his mother, and she never would be. He didn’t need her or anyone else.

  But as he turned the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder and looked at the house, warm light shining from the windows. It was familiar and reassuring. It was his house. And his aunt would be waiting there for him when he got home.

  He supposed that wasn’t the end of the world.

  TUCKER TILTED BACK in his chair and watched Claire jump up from the table. She grabbed their plates and stuck them into the dishwasher, the silverware rattling against each other, the china clinking together. An objective observer might think the cool Ms. Kendall was nervous.

  God, he hoped she was nervous. Because his nerves were killing him.

  “Let me give you a hand,” he said, standing up.

  “Thanks, but there’s nothing to do.” She didn’t look at him as she wiped the table. “I’ll just wrap the leftovers and we’re done.” She flashed a smile in his direction.