False Start

by Barbara Valentin

  As she headed north along the lakefront, a cramp started developing on her right side, just under her rib cage, and she heard Nick's voice—his low, encouraging, kind voice in her head.

  "You'll be fine. Just breathe through it. Don't focus on it."

  A gust of wind, smelling of seaweed and fish, stung her eyes. She slowed to a jog.

  "On your left," a deep, husky voice announced from behind her.

  A quick jolt of panic shot through her, and she veered out of the way. As she chugged along, a diverse, tattooed, and somewhat menacing crowd of men started passing by. They moved in a synchronized rhythm like a well-practiced military unit, minus the uniforms. Feeling more than a little intimidated, she slowed to a shuffle.

  Must get mace.

  Just as the last man blew past, he turned and glanced back at her. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. His short blond hair and sweet face belied his otherwise intimidating presence.

  "Hey. You're that Plate Spinner, right?"

  Huh?

  She nodded.

  "I thought so." He slowed to her pace and said, "You look just like your picture. It's Mattie, right?" he asked as he jogged alongside her.

  Again, she nodded, astounded that her readership now included young adult men. "You read my column?"

  "Oh, yeah. And Nick's always talking about you."

  "Nick?" Her heart raced. "Nick who?"

  The young man shook his head. "Not sure what his last name is. We just call him Nick. Or Mr. D. Or Coach."

  A smile crept over her mouth.

  "Hey guys. It's Mattie the Plate Spinner."

  A couple of them turned and waved.

  "I can't wait to tell him we ran into you."

  "How do you know him?" she panted.

  Waving his hand toward the guys running ahead of him, he replied, "He started this group. We're all from the shelter on Fullerton Parkway. Nick volunteers there. A lot. "

  Mattie thought for a moment. "Do me a favor, huh?"

  "Sure."

  "Tell him Mathilde Jean can't find her kick."

  The young man frowned and repeated, "Mathilde Jean can't find her kick. Got it."

  Not sure he'd follow through, she looked at him and said, "Promise? It's important."

  Smiling, he replied, "I promise." After a few more strides, he added, "Hey, maybe we'll see you at the marathon. I'm John, by the way." He held out his hand to her.

  "Nice to meet you," she huffed as she shook it.

  "Well, I'd better go. I'm gonna lose my team. Catch you later."

  She watched as he caught up to his group and waved. "Catch you later."

  Certain that John would make good on his promise to deliver her message, Mattie was filled with anticipation. She happily busied herself with helping Nancy sort through the avalanche of recipes that had been pouring in since she had announced the first official "Team Plate Spinner Carb-Loading Recipe Contest." While her numbers had initially dipped at her outing at the half-marathon in July, the bulk of her readers, it seemed, were card-carrying members of Lester's church of second chances.

  The top three winners of the contest would have their pictures and recipes printed in the Gazette's food section the week before the marathon. The first place winner, however, would also get to have dinner with Mattie at Salvatore's, the exclusive Italian bistro in the city's River North district, the Friday night before the Sunday marathon.

  Banking on John delivering her message to Nick, she checked her phone frequently for messages and missed calls as she sifted through every pasta-based dish imaginable.

  When her stomach growled, she asked Nancy, "How do you stay so thin? Just reading this is making me hungry."

  "You sure you don't want to be a judge? Looks like it's going to be a close competition."

  "I can't. It has to be impartial. However, when you're looking for judges for the Christmas cookie contest, you know where to find me," she said with a wink.

  By the end of the day, Mattie's cell phone hadn't received a single call or text, and her anticipation fizzled into disappointment.

  After work, she left her cool, air-conditioned building behind and stepped into unseasonably balmy air. When she finally made it to her apartment, she was sticky and tired. Her arms full of groceries, she balanced one bag on her knees while she fished in her purse for her keys.

  Despite the sauna-like conditions outside, her living room felt tolerable. She had learned soon after she moved in that keeping her shades closed from June to October kept her place from baking.

  Eager to take a nice long cool shower, she set the bags and her phone on her kitchen counter and started down the short hall to her bedroom.

  If it weren't for the snoring, she would've missed the man sleeping on her living room couch altogether.

  Her heart leapt to her throat. She stood frozen, debating which to grab first—her baseball bat or her phone, each in an opposite direction. Gripped with fear, she couldn't quite wrap her head around the fact that the intruder crashed on her couch posed no imminent threat.

  After taking a few deep breaths, it occurred to her that the guy might have been out partying into the wee morning hours before mistakenly breaking into her unit while she was at work. She tiptoed over to the couch to get a better look.

  Whoever it was had his back to her. Peeking over his shoulder, she saw that his head was partially buried in one of her favorite throw pillows that would now have to be either dry cleaned or disposed of. But she could still make out his profile.

  Oh. My. God.

  She hadn't laid eyes on him in three years. Still, his hair seemed wilder and more untamed since she had last seen him, and he looked to be sporting a full beard.

  Icy cold fingers of panic locked themselves around her neck.

  The man rolled over.

  Oh God. Oh God.

  Her mind raced. The trap had actually worked. Working in concert with Lester and Detective Rohmer of the F.B.I., Mattie had agreed to act as bait. Through some clandestine network that she didn't really want to know about, they put the word out that she had recently come into a large sum of money.

  Per the detective's instructions, if Eddie did show up, the first thing she was supposed to do was to call him and then act natural until he showed up with reinforcements. That was well over a month ago. When he didn't reply, she figured Eddie had somehow been tipped off to their ulterior motives. She had nearly forgotten all about it.

  Now, she just had to make sure she didn't end up getting caught in her own trap. With no time to lose, she dialed Detective Rohmer's number and set her phone on the kitchen counter next to her still-bagged groceries.

  Just as she was about to dash down the hall and grab her Louisville Slugger from under her bed, the man on the couch called out to her.

  "Hey, gorgeous."

  Her heart pounding, Mattie turned and faced him, making sure she spoke loud enough to be heard on the other end of the line, but not so loud as to raise his suspicions. "Eddie DeRosa. I can't believe my eyes."

  It wasn't hard for her to sound genuinely happy to see him. He had greeted her like that so many times before, pretending she was a sight for sore eyes when all he really wanted was a free meal, someone to do his homework while he went out on a date, or somewhere to hide when he was in trouble.

  Old habits die hard.

  He sat up. The megawatt smile he shot at her fell more than a few amps short, and its affect was far less dazzling than it used to be.

  "God, you're a sight for sore eyes."

  Bingo.

  "It's so good to see you," he blathered. "I've missed you more than you can imagine."

  If he had shown up a year earlier, this would've been, hands down, the best day of her life. As it was, all she wanted to do was flatten his head with her cast-iron skillet.

  "Uh, how did you get into my apartment?" she asked as if she was just realizing the enormity of his infraction.

  He dug into his pocket and held up a key.r />
  She had completely forgotten that she had given it to him. Maybe because he had never used it.

  Remembering the detective's instructions, she forced herself to calm down and do whatever she could to stall him. "Oh, right," she chuckled. "My bad. So, how've you been?"

  He ran his hands across his face, took a deep breath, and smiled. "I've been better."

  Wanting to stay close to the phone, she asked, "Can I get you anything?" She opened her fridge. "Water? Or, um, well, I really don't have anything besides that."

  "How 'bout you come over here?" Eddie patted the couch cushion next to him.

  Mattie looked at the spot and folded her arms. She had no intention of getting anywhere near him if she could help it.

  "How about something to eat? You must be hungry."

  He stood up.

  Maybe it was because her apartment was so small, but he seemed taller than she remembered. And, given his homeless-guy-wearing-Armani look, he was seriously creeping her out.

  "Yeah, I wouldn't blame you for being upset," he said. "I hope you can forgive me."

  Mattie lifted her chin and did her best to sound perky. "It's been three years, Eddie. Water under the bridge."

  Her eyes darted to her phone. She was beginning to wonder if she hit the Talk button. As he edged toward her, she struggled to remember what had attracted her to him in the first place.

  "So, what are you doing back in Chicago? Miss the deep dish?"

  Eddie looked around her unit. She noticed his gaze hone in on her phone. "I'm meeting up with some old business partners and need a place to stay. You were always after me to spend the night." He held out his hands in front of him and said, "Here's your chance."

  Scum. Bag.

  She didn't even try to hide the grimace she felt spreading across her face.

  In a pathetic attempt to sound coy, he added, "And I'm a little strapped for cash."

  She backed up against her kitchen counter.

  "You're welcome to stay her for a couple of days, but I'm still paying off the wedding, Eddie. I don't have any money."

  Desperate to get her baseball bat, she forced a laugh and said, "I'll go get some sheets."

  When she reached over to grab her phone, he caught her arm and pulled her against him.

  Putting a hand on either side of her head, he worked his fingers into her hair and breathed, "That's a lie. I happen to know you came into some cash recently. Your Aunt Vivienne, right? I could never stand that old bag. Who knew she was loaded?"

  His eyes bore into her as he shoved her back against the counter. He lowered his hands, running them down the length of her neck. "You look so different. Let's say we go into the bedroom and get reacquainted. It's been so long."

  Feeling his hot breath on her skin, she shut her eyes. How long had she yearned for this kind of contact with Eddie? How long had she fantasized about him wanting her as much as she wanted him? Now that he was here, all she could think about was Nick.

  "Not yet," she urged. "You just got here."

  Ignoring her plea, he groped her breasts.

  As Mattie tried pushing his hands away, she heard the faint swoosh of the side entrance door opening.

  So did Eddie. He froze and asked, "What was that?"

  Taking advantage of the distraction, she pushed him off her. He staggered back and leered like a horny frat boy at his first kegger party.

  "What's the matter? You don't like my new look?"

  Sneering, she replied, "I didn't know snakes could grow beards."

  At that, he lunged for her. Lifting her up on her kitchen counter, he started kissing her neck while reaching under her dress.

  She tried fending him off with her right hand while she stretched her left hand behind her, grabbing at anything she could use to inflict pain.

  Just as he released her to undo his own pants, her fingertips found the perfect deterrent—her two-carat, pear-shaped wedding ring, lying forgotten between her rarely-used toaster and coffee pot.

  Slipping it on her finger behind her back, she gave him another hard shove.

  Guess all those pushups paid off.

  Before he realized what was happening, she slid off of the counter and said, "This is for what you did to me," and kneed him as hard as she could in the groin.

  Contorted in pain, he started to crumple in slow motion. When his face was in striking range, she said, "And this is for what you did to Nick."

  She cocked her left arm back and slammed her fist against his jaw with everything she had in her.

  Eddie toppled back, tripped over her armchair, and landed on her living room carpet.

  Better not bleed on it, was her last thought before she felt herself sink to the floor, trembling, and cradling her left hand.

  Two police officers had burst through the door, guns drawn, just as she knocked out her former fiancé. Detective Rohmer followed. After checking to see that Eddie was no longer a threat, he knelt before Mattie.

  Grabbing a sweater she had draped over the back of her kitchen chair, he wrapped it around her shoulders. "That took a lot of guts, young lady. You OK? Let's take a look at that hand."

  When Eddie let out a pathetic moan, Mattie heard the detective call over his shoulder, "Cuff him. And get an ambulance over here."

  * * *

  By late September, the faces of the residents in Chicago's Wrigleyville neighborhood were already bearing the all-too-familiar "maybe next year" wistfulness of seasons past.

  Sitting at a sports bar near Clark and Addison, Nick's friend and former classmate Scott Murphy hypothesized, "Rooting for the underdog, it's who we are. It's what we do."

  He held up his bottle. "To the underdogs."

  "Underdogs." Nick held up his beer and clinked it against Scott's, his mind elsewhere.

  He had paid a visit to the shelter earlier in the day. After accepting Scott's invitation to watch the last Cubs game of the season with him that night, he ran into John, the captain of the shelter's running team.

  "Hey, Nick, you'll never guess who I saw today."

  "Gimme a hint."

  John thought for a minute. "Pretty."

  Nick shook his head. "I'm drawin' a blank."

  "Uh, runner?"

  Narrowing his eyes, Nick repeated, "Runner. A pretty runner. Male or female?"

  John made a face.

  "Sorry. I'm just messin' with ya. Give me another hint."

  Thinking for a minute, John pointed at him and said, "OK, I got it. And if you can't guess after I give you this one, I won't bother telling you what she told me to tell you."

  This peaked Nick's interest. Fighting back the urge to grab John by his shirt and shake it out of him, he instead took a deep breath and said, "Gimme the hint."

  "Writer."

  "Mattie Ross?"

  "Bingo, man."

  "Where'd you see her?"

  "Running on the lakefront. This morning. With the guys. I think we scared her."

  In his don't-make-me-hurt you voice, Nick asked, "Why? What did you do?"

  "Nothing. It's just, there were a lot of us and just one of her."

  Nick had shadowed her most mornings, but not that one.

  "What's the message?"

  "It was weird. Didn't make any sense."

  "Tell me."

  "Mathilde Jean can't find her kick."

  His heart twisted into a knot when he heard it. She needed him, but as her coach or something more?

  Hours later, he was still contemplating how to respond to her when Scott nudged him.

  "Hey, look. You're on the news."

  Nick looked at the flat screen TV over the bar and saw a picture of Eddie in a business suit, then a video clip of him being led away in handcuffs in front of a two-story house tucked next to a gray stone apartment building.

  "Jesus," he muttered. "Hey, can you turn that up?" he asked the bartender.

  "…most wanted list captured tonight at this near north side residence by none other than Mattie Ross, a
member of our very own Griffin Media team. Miss Ross, taken to an area hospital where she is being treated for non-life threatening injuries she suffered in the attack, was unavailable for comment."

  "Holy shit," Scott exclaimed.

  Nick would've heard him, too, if he weren't already storming out the door.

  It had been many months since he got a good look at Mattie's driver's license, but her address was still burned into his brain.

  2535 N. Bailey Court, Apt. 2

  By the time he arrived, just one squad car remained, and two officers stood next to it, talking. When one of the officers spotted Nick approaching, he immediately reached for his gun.

  "Easy. I'm not who you think. I'm his brother. I can prove it."

  When he reached for his wallet, the officer barked, "Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

  His partner approached Nick and started to frisk him.

  With both hands in the air, Nick said, "Check my license. Back pocket. Right side."

  After checking his credentials, the first cop to pull a gun on him said, "You're a dead ringer, man."

  "Not exactly," Nick replied. "I got this." He pointed proudly to the scar Mattie had given him.

  The cop shook his head. "That's not gonna work for you anymore, pal. After tonight, your brother's gonna have the same thing."

  Nick shoved his wallet back into his pocket. "Is Mattie all right? Can you tell me where I can find her?"

  The second officer responded. "Sorry, we can't give out that information."

  Nick looked away for a moment. "Listen, he didn't? Did he—? Was she?"

  He couldn't bring himself to articulate his greatest fear.

  The officer shook his head. "No worries, man. We got there just in time."

  "Oh, thank God." Nick ran both hands through his hair.

  "She should be fine once they get the cast on."

  "Cast?"

  "Yeah. She broke three fingers on her left hand when she slugged him. I saw it happen. Knocked him out cold."

  Both officers frowned as Nick let out a laugh.

  That's my girl.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Life itself is the proper binge."

  – Julia Child