by Sierra Hill
Game Changer
Change of Hearts #1
Sierra Hill
Ten28 Publishing
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Courting Love Available Now
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Sierra Hill
Copyright © 2019 Sierra Hill
Published by Ten28 Publishing
Cover Design: Q Designs
Photo: Lindee Robinson Photography
Models: Chad and Andrew
Editing: Two Naughty Book Babes Editing
Proofreading: Virginia Carey
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
To empowered and independent women everywhere who change the world and make it a better place to be.
The empowered woman is powerful beyond measure and beautiful beyond description.
Steve Maraboli
1
Garrett
Your son has suffered major head trauma.
He may never be able to walk or talk again.
Those words said to me a little over two years ago from the Head of Pediatric Brain Trauma at University Hospital, are on a continual loop in my head this morning, as they are most mornings during our breakfast ritual.
Even after all this time, after all the specialists we’ve consulted, and the knowledge that it may never change for my boy, it fills me with rage and despair. The unfairness of it all is a kick in the nuts every time I think about the fact that he’ll likely suffer from both physical and cognitive issues his whole life and may not grow out of them.
I stare across the table at Caleb, my nearly five-year-old son, who is having his morning meltdown over his cereal. Hands flailing in bunched up fists. Food flying, getting caught in his hair and across his cheeks and forehead. Loud screams from the top of his lungs, over what? Because he doesn’t want the Cheerios this morning.
My eyes close and I take a gulp of my coffee, now cool from being neglected as I did a hundred other things this morning trying to get us ready for the day.
Why did this have to happen to us? Why can’t he be a normal kid?
The minute the thought pops into my head, I curse myself and clench my teeth in fury at myself for thinking that way. Screwing my eyes shut tight, I try to scrub the thoughts from my head and focus on the positive. Focus on the things that are in my control.
Even on the worst days, I know I brought this on myself. It’s my fault it happened.
Caleb, his reddened cherub cheeks, are streaked with big crocodile tears that have been streaming down his face until about two seconds ago, and I immediately feel guilty. I love my son. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. But sometimes the people we love most cause us the biggest heartaches.
Caleb pushes the bowl of uneatened cereal away from him, threatening to topple it over off the table. “Na-na-na-na-naaaaaa.”
I sigh and count to five.
It’s what I have to do every meal that I’m home, as we struggle through the same routine. The only things Caleb will eat without a hissy fit are chicken nuggets, apple slices with the skins off and string cheese. And most of the time, I give in just to avoid this exact same standoff scenario that’s happening right now.
“Caleb, we’ve talked about this. You have to eat what I give you so you can get the nutrients your body and brain need to help you grow big and strong.”
His big blue eyes, fringed with the dark, long lashes he got from his mother, widen as he points his knuckled-fist hand toward me. “Ooooh?”
The word is uttered slowly, slurred and muddled, but I know he means me. I know he wants nothing more than to be big and strong like his dad. It makes my heart melt and turns my two-hundred-fifteen, six-foot-three frame into mush. And like every father, I want that, too.
“That’s right. If you don’t eat your food, you won’t develop the muscle strength you need to play ball someday.”
The words practically choke me as they leave my mouth, the lie so big it barely escapes my throat over my tongue and passed my lips.
I give him an easy smile, even though inside nothing about this is easy, and push his cereal bowl closer to him, picking out one of the berries I’d topped it with. He opens his mouth for the game we play, and I shoot it in his mouth with an exclamation.
“He shoots, he scores!” We both raise our arms in celebration, as he chomps on his raspberry with a wide grin.
“Okay, now you finish up while daddy gets ready. Remember, eat it all. You need it to grow big and strong.” I emphasize this with a flex of my arm and bicep, which he does in return.
It’s a lie. One that I tell him over-and-over again, day-in and day-out.
Because no matter how you slice it, the likelihood that my son will even ever be able to walk, let alone run, dribble a ball, or play any sport without assistance, is a pipedream. Sure, the doctors say there are chances this can happen, but every case is unique, every child is different.
Sucking in a deep breath, I exhale long and hard, letting go of the stress that’s been simmering inside me since the moment I woke up this morning. Changes are coming, and with a kid like Caleb, who thrives on routine, this is going to be a difficult summer ahead of us.
My previous nanny, Delinda, retired after thirty-five years of teaching and caring for special needs kids. And because I’m a single, working dad, I need a replacement, at least for the summer, so I can coach the summer basketball camp I’m lined up to train.
The tension headache brewing at the base of my neck snaps and crackles, as I mentally steel myself to get through everything on my To Do list today. The first thing on the list is the interview with a potential summer nanny for Caleb. Brooklyn Hayes is a referral from one of my former college players, Lance Britton, who is also helping me coach the camp this summer. He highly recommended her, and her resume speaks for itself.
On paper, her credentials look stellar.
But as any parent with a special needs child knows, this job is dema
nding. It requires patience, strength, mental and physical, and a load of energy. I won’t allow just anyone to take care of my son.
There are days when even I don’t feel capable of being his father and wonder how the hell I’ve even come this far or how I even got here.
It’s as far from my former NBA status as I can get.
And sometimes, in my weak moments when I just can’t seem to catch a break, I wish for those days again. When I was living in the limelight and at the height of my pro-ball fame.
Back in time when I didn’t have these responsibilities that aged me to the point of exhaustion.
It might make me a shitty father to think that way.
But then again, it’s not far from the colossal dick I was back then.
Back when life was only centered on me. And I hurt all the ones around me.
2
Brooklyn
It’s not often I’m rattled or nervous.
But right now, my palms sweat, and I’ll admit, I’m pretty damn nervous.
I usually exude confidence in everything I do. Even as a child, I thought I was capable of doing everything myself. If I had to guess, I’d say at least half my grade school teachers indicated that “Brooklyn can be strong-willed and bossy toward adults and other students.”
I guess that’s bound to happen when you’re raised in an environment that pushes the Lean In mentality. Where women should never kowtow to male leadership or gender stereotypes. My mother, a successful psychologist, and a feminist to the core taught me to believe that I could do or become whatever I wanted in life.
Girl Power!
But that doesn’t diminish my nerves as I stand outside the front doorway of Coach Garrett Parker’s Scottsdale home.
Coach Parker is the Associate Head Coach to the ASU men’s basketball team. The single father of Caleb. And, my potential new boss.
Breathing deeply, I do a quick assessment of my appearance, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in my casual, yet, comfortable interview attire. First impressions can make or break you, I’ve been told, and you should always dress to impress. Although, I can guarantee you that this job doesn’t hinge on what I’m wearing.
What matters is how well I’ll mesh with Coach Parker and his son, Caleb, and whether I can establish an immediate rapport with them.
If Coach even bothered to look through my credentials and resume, he’ll probably surmise that I may be a bit over-qualified for the job. As a newly minted graduate of ASU, I now have my degree in Early Childhood Development and am enrolled in the graduate program to become a child psychologist. I’m not sure yet if I’ll choose a clinical setting or something more hands on, but this summer job will be a great springboard to narrowing down my interests.
I’ve never met Coach before and don’t know him, only what my friend Lance has mentioned. He’s the one who introduced me to Coach via email a week ago and mentioned Coach’s need for the summer nanny. Coach’s emails weren’t discourteous as we exchanged emails about the job, but he certainly didn’t go out of his way to project any warmth or enthusiasm. He was blunt, to the point and didn’t veer from the topic of his son.
Which is fine with me. I don’t need to be friends with my employer. I just need a job.
Yet, it did pique my curiosity about Coach Parker’s personality and what he would be like in person when I met him. I’d heard the rumors around campus about him, portraying my potential employer as an ego-driven, callously harsh, hard shell-to-crack, who is fiercely protective of his son and his personal life.
With all the negative shade thrown out about Coach Parker, you can see why I’m a little nervous as I stand outside his front door, hand poised at the ready to knock, trying to draw upon some of my reserved self-assuredness.
“It’s now or never,” I say out loud to myself, running my tongue over my front teeth.
My hand closes into a fist as my knuckles make contact with the door just as I hear a very loud crash from inside, followed by a piercing cry of a little boy.
My instincts kick in, and I double-rap on the door before testing the doorknob to find it unlocked. Opening it just a crack, I shout out, “Hello? Is everything okay in here?”
I wait at the threshold for a few moments, not hearing a response, only the continued cries of a sad kid, and then the soothing hushes from a deep, vibrato voice.
A voice that somehow reaches into my chest and splits it wide open.
“It’s okay, buddy. Stop your crying, now. Let’s get you cleaned up before Brooklyn gets here.”
I pause in my tracks as I’ve by now taken a few steps in the entryway and turn to look into the kitchen. The first thing my gaze narrows in on is a very tall, fit man who has whipped off his T-shirt over his head and uses it to wipe away the mess the boy has made from the table in front of him.
Holy guacamole. I’m not normally at a loss for words, but it’s as if my voice box is being strangled by a boa constrictor which is squeezing out every single drop of air from my lungs.
Coach’s back is to me, so I have the pleasure of seeing every rippling muscle in his back flex and bow, as he single-handedly picks up his son from the booster chair in one arm and uses the other to efficiently clean up the mess. With his shirt.
And then my eyes lock on the sweetest, widest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They stare back at me in confusion at first and then turn to startled fear.
“Aaaaaaaa,” he wails, tears still streaming down his face and his arm flailing around like a windmill.
Realizing I’m scaring the shit out of him, I clear my throat, searching for my voice at the same time as I place a gentle smile on my face and give him a wave by wiggling my fingers.
“Um, hi, Coach Parker?”
Coach whips around, sending milk droplets and cereal O’s scattering every which direction as he lets loose the T-shirt, grunting out a curse.
“Shit.”
The expression on his face is not dissimilar to his son’s, a little bit of surprise and confusion. But his transforms into something close to irritated alarm in a matter of seconds.
“How’d you get in?”
I’m taken back by the gruff accusatory tone and bite back my own immediate defensive response.
Glancing over my shoulder, I hook my thumb at the door behind me. “Sorry. It was unlocked and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Trying to be helpful, I bend down on one knee to pick up the discarded shirt. As I push back to my feet to stand, my gaze can’t help but track the length of his body, all six-foot and more of him. The man is tall – obviously, given his former NBA career – but he’s in better shape than David Beckham was in his glory days.
I’ve been around athletes my entire life. As a soccer player in high school and college, I dated a few football players and soccer players in my time, all who had pretty great physiques, and some very tiny brains. But that does not mean I’m immune to the mountainous man view of the incredibly fit body in front of me.
Garrett stands at least six-four, a smattering of light brown hair between his pecs, and a treasure trail of the same color and density leading into the waistband of his track pants, and abs that cry out to be touched and traced.
My fingers twitch from wanting a touch, but instead, I hold out my proffered hand to him, the other still gripping the damp T-shirt.
Garrett eyeballs me like I’m a criminal that just broke into his house.
“Huh, I thought I locked that back up and had the security alarm on.” He shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Sorry, it’s been a tough morning.”
I hold my hands up. “No, my bad. I’m so sorry to have just barged in like that, but I heard all the commotion and did try calling out first. Anyway, hi. I’m Brooklyn Hayes. Nice to meet you, Coach.”
Coach Parker shifts the boy in his arm, who squirms and mumbles gibberish, taking my hand in his warm, albeit a little damp, firm grip. The spark that exists between us shocks me so soundly that I’m rendered speechle
ss for a second.
Retracting my hand, I shift on my heels and step back in hopes of regaining my balance that seemed to disappear from that simple touch. Realizing I still have his shirt in my grip, I hold it back out to him to take.
“Thanks,” he says, adjusting his stance and slinging the shirt over a chair back. “Nice to meet you, too. Thanks for coming over this morning on such short notice. I’m Garrett and this is Caleb, my son. Why don’t we go sit down so I can put Caleb down and I can grab a new shirt?”
I follow him into the adjoining room and am not disappointed with the view. There’s a tattoo on his left shoulder, inked black and lined with perfect symmetry in the design. A Celtic symbol of some sort. I may also check out his ass as he leans over to place Caleb on the floor near the couch.
He suddenly turns back at me, as if where I’ve been staring has burned through his skin, and he catches me staring like I’m window shopping for Easter candy.
“Caleb, I’ll be right back. This is Brooklyn and she’s going to talk to us this morning. Why don’t you show her some of your toys?”
Caleb blinks at me, gives me a shy smile and then buries his head into his dad’s chest, hanging on to him for dear life. I feel the rumble of Coach Parker’s laughter in my toes. It’s a deep, warmth that moves between us like the current from the Southern California Pacific Ocean.
