I hear the shower in the back turn off, and I smile, knowing that if it weren’t for the pain in my body, I'd be back there with Whitney if only to look at her. Still, the idea of her luscious body under the warm spray of my shower sends a little twitch down below, and I find the energy to at least push myself up to a sitting position on the couch. "That may be, but do you know what having a big head means?"
“It means you need a bigger helmet?"
I can't help it. Her innocence makes me smile. The point of view when you are five. "Not quite. No, having a big head means when you start thinking you’re more awesome than you really are. You start to forget there are always things you can do better.”
"What's—" Laurie starts, but before she can finish her next question— she seems to have a million of them every time we're together, and I find that I'm more patient with them than I thought I'd be—there's a knock at the door, and she pops to her feet, already running to the door. "I got it!"
I get up while Laurie opens the door, stopping halfway up when I hear Laurie's voice. "Wood residence, can I—"
"So you're the little parasite," a slurry, drunken voice says, and suddenly, Laurie is running back to me, her eyes wide with fright, and she leaps into my arms, yelling in fear. In the back of the house, I hear Whitney drop her comb and her bare feet running on the carpet, emerging from the back still only half-dressed, stopping when my father staggers his way down the hall. "Hey, sugar tits."
"What—who?"
I cross the living room, putting myself between Dad and Whitney, and hand Laurie to her. "Go to the bedroom and call the cops. It's my father.”
I'm surprisingly calm saying this, and Whitney nods, her eyes full of concern and fright, but holding our daughter, she finds the courage and strength to retreat at least semi-calmly while Laurie cries on her shoulder. I turn around, not saying anything until the door closes. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I came for some more help," Dad slurs, and at this distance, I can smell it. He reeks, and his clothes are filthy, encrusted with what looks like puke and maybe some blood. "For my medicine."
"You need to get the hell out of here before the cops show up,” I say, trying to maintain my calm. "Get out, and don't you ever come back.”
"This is my fucking house, and you are my fucking son, you worthless piece of shit!" Dad yells, trying to bully me. Maybe it worked when I was in high school, but this is now, and I have a woman and a daughter whom I have to protect. "You bring them in, give them the good life because she gives you some anchor baby, and leave me in the cold? Fuck you, you worthless piece of shit!” Now that he’s back drunk again, he’s back to his favorite line—you worthless piece of shit.
"Randall. Leave. Now," I say again, my voice going hard. "You and me? We're done. You may have contributed some DNA and a last name to me, but you aren't my father. You never have been. I should have known better. Now get out."
Dad swings drunkenly, and I catch his arm, twisting it behind him in a little self-defense move I remember from a freshman PE class I took at Clement, and grab him by the scruff of the neck and the wrist. Lifting him up to his tiptoes, I escort him to the door, which is still standing open. Reaching the front lawn, I literally throw him out of the house, where he lands in a heap on the lawn.
"For eighteen years, you made me feel like I wasn't worthy of love or affection. You made me feel like shit!" I yell, and I notice on the periphery of my vision that the neighbors have come out again, and behind me, I can feel Whitney standing in the doorway, Laurie still holding onto her mother's leg. "You beat me—you nearly killed me! And now you come trying to mooch off me again, scaring my daughter and the woman I love? Get lost!”
The cops pull up while he’s still holding his arm and sobbing on the lawn, drunkenly screaming curses at me and claiming that I'd crippled him. Maybe he does have a broken wrist or a dislocated shoulder. I don't know, nor do I care. It’s with a certain sense of ironic satisfaction that I see that the cop who gets out is George Walters, and he already has his handcuffs ready. "We got a call of a disturbance, Troy. What's going on?"
"He frightened my daughter and verbally assaulted Whitney before taking a swing at me. I threw this piece of . . . this person out of my house," I say, correcting myself. "This time, I'm pressing charges."
George nods and rolls Dad over, ignoring his cries of protest as he hooks him up and yanks him to his feet, hauling him over to his cruiser before pushing him into the back. George closes the door, then comes back over. “It's not that I don't believe you, but if Randy claims otherwise, I'm going to have to arrest you too. This is technically a domestic violence case."
"No, George," Whitney speaks up, and I turn my head to see Whitney holding up her phone. "I got the swing and part of it on video."
George nods, and Whitney pops out a data card that she passes over. "The selfie generation sometimes has benefits," George says with a smile. "All right then. Troy, I would like you to come down to the station still, to make a statement. Miss Nelson, you don't have to, but you can if you want.”
"What I'd like most is to calm my daughter down," Whitney says, stroking Laurie's hair. She’s stopped crying, and when I kneel, she lets go of her mother's leg to come to me, and I hold her tightly, tenderly kissing her forehead.
"Shh, it's okay, Laurie. I'll always protect you."
"That man scared me." Laurie is looking at me, her blue eyes so large and still shimmering in tears. "I thought he'd hurt me or hurt you."
"Never again," I promise her, kissing her again. "Besides, if all of the Bolts can't hurt me, what chance does one old man like that have against me?"
Laurie smiles at my little joke and hugs me again, and I hold her close, closing my eyes to let myself just feel her close and safe. When she lets go, I get to my feet and pull Whitney in for a hug. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Whitney says, kissing my cheek. "But I think I'll take Laurie back to Mom's place. You've got a statement to make, and I have work this afternoon."
I nod and stroke my hand through her beautiful auburn hair. "Okay. I need to call the Hawks too—team policy. Maybe afterward, we can have dinner as a family?"
"I'd like that. Give me a call later.”
"I will. I love you."
"I love you too."
It didn't take as long as I thought it would to wrap things up at the station. Being a celebrity, apparently, I was interviewed by the Chief of Police, who showed me the video after I gave my verbal statement, and one of the other cops was quickly transcribing it for us. "So why didn't you just kick his ass?"
"Come on, Chief, I'm a professional athlete. If I threw a punch at him, I'd be here for possibly killing him. Second, the League frowns on players getting into fights, regardless of whether we're provoked. And most important, my daughter and Whitney were in the house. I’ll be a better father than Randall was to me."
The Chief nods and reaches over, switching off the tape. "Okay. Well, hang out here for a moment while Bert finishes up the transcribed statement. I've already had the Hawks contact me—I'll give them a call back and tell them that you're totally blameless for this. You were at home, and we've got you on video trying to de-escalate, and you acted with more restraint than I think I would have."
"Oh, I'll still need to talk with Coach tomorrow, but thanks. It'll smooth things over a lot."
I sign the transcribed statement and leave the station, which is co-located with City Hall. Silver Lake Falls is still one of those towns that is small enough that such things are common. I'm surprised when I see Coach Jackson standing outside, apparently waiting for me when I walk out. "Don't you have practice this afternoon, Coach?"
"I can get back for that," he replies, his hands in his pockets. He's dressed as a history teacher right now, and I can't help but smile at the little stain of yellow chalk dust on his sleeve. Coach is one of the only teachers who still has a real chalkboard in his room and still likes to use it. "I've got Mrs. Gibbs covering my last peri
od class. They've just got a video today anyway."
"Thanks for coming down then," I say, and the two of us start to walk through the park that is located next to the City Hall complex, the grass and old oak trees providing a peaceful respite from the stress of the morning. "How'd you find out?"
"I'm technically your agent, remember?" Coach says with a chuckle. "I'm in third period with a bunch of freshmen who I'm trying to explain the real reasons Columbus takes off to the west instead of going around Africa like everyone else does back in 1492, and my phone rings. My wife knows that I don't take personal calls at work, so it has to be an emergency, and next thing I know, I'm talking to the General Manager of the Hawks, who tells me that you're here, Randy's been arrested, and could I please stop by the station to find out what's going on. What else could I do?"
"Finish out freshman World History?" I reply, and Coach laughs. "I know you pretty well by now."
"Okay, I did do that once. But here I am."
"Again, thanks," I say. We sit down on a bench, and I take a deep breath. "Not the start I wanted."
"To the day or to the season?" Coach asks, and I laugh softly. "I know you, Troy. The kid I had on the Foxes, he'd have been over the moon about his stats. The man you are, you'd rather have the team be 2-0 instead of 0-2."
"Some of that, but mostly with Dad," I say, leaning forward and putting my elbows on my knees. "I was scared, Coach. He frightened Laurie, he's an arm's length from Whitney, who's mostly naked coming from the shower, and all I had was me, and to be honest, I feel like shit today."
"You did the right thing. Your daughter is safe, Whitney is safe, and you acted like a man."
"Thanks to you," I whisper, turning my head to look at him. "You know that?"
"I'm just a history teacher who happens to like coaching football on the side," he says, but I can tell he's moved. He nods, and we sit quietly, watching the birds flitter overhead. When we talk again, his voice is raspy, and he talks about the things he feels safest with. "So . . . you think you're going to do well against the Dons?"
"We have to," I reply with a smile. "They're in our division, and if we go 0-3 and 0-2 in divisional play, life is going to get very ugly on the team for a while."
Chapter 23
Whitney
"This is so cool!"
"Dani, come on. We're supposed to be acting debonair and slightly bored, like we've been in luxury boxes before," I admonish her, still unable to keep from smiling. Laurie is sitting with her nose nearly pressed against the glass, her brand-new Troy Wood jersey nearly swallowing her body, since she insisted on getting one. "Remember?"
"You can act all aloof. You have a future of doing this as often as you want," Dani replies with a chuckle. "I'm just going to sit back and enjoy this. Seriously, Troy can do this for every home game?"
"Just twice a year up here," a voice from the side says, and a man in his mid-forties wearing a Hawks polo and slacks comes over, offering his hand. "Every player has the right to four tickets per home game, but the box seats are only used twice a year. The rest of the games have to be in the regular seats in the lower level. Hi, I'm Timothy Hauser, assistant General Manager of the team. You must be Whitney Nelson?"
"I am," I say, shaking his hand. "This is my close friend, Dani Barkovich, and that is—"
"Your daughter, Laurie," Hauser says with a smile. "Trust me, everyone on the team has heard about this little girl. Except for game prep, you two are about all that Troy talks about since the season started. And if I can say, your daughter is even cuter than he let on. Dani Barkovich . . . you're the friend of Troy's who just got married, right?"
Dani nods, smiling. "You have a good memory, Mr. Hauser."
"Not really. I'm just the guy who approved Troy's initial request for time off to attend the wedding," Hauser says. "Enjoy the game. We'll try and keep the commentary family friendly, but you know how football people get."
"Don't worry, Mr. Hauser. It's probably me who should be apologizing," I reply with a laugh. "Laurie's picked up some language when the two of us lived in Europe, and her main source of American culture and language was Netflix that, well, I'm still sometimes having problems getting her to stop."
"You lived in Europe? How entrancing," Hauser says. "Does she speak any foreign languages?"
"We both speak Italian," I say with a touch of pride. "If I need to, I'll just tell her to start yelling in Italian. She's able to curse like a sailor in Italian, but at least you won't understand it."
Hauser laughs and shakes his head. "No, actually, I should be asking your daughter for help. My daughter is in junior high school and hates foreign language. Getting tutored by a kindergartener might give her the kick in the pants she needs to actually study. Enjoy the game."
The food is a lot different than I expected, and a lot higher quality than the typical stadium fare that we ate last time, and Laurie's eyes get big when I set the meatball sandwich in front of her. "Really?"
"Really, sweetheart. So what's our time looking like?"
"Five minutes to kickoff. Daddy's already gone back inside. This is even better than last time, Mama!"
Dani and I take seats in the cushioned chairs that make up the seating area of the box, and Dani leans over. "Kinda like a good movie theater seat. Would you mind if I taught Laurie some of our old cheers?"
"Only if you promise not to be a drill sergeant like you used to be," I tease back, and Dani slaps my leg in mock outrage.
"Is that the thanks I get for getting you to try out and meeting the love of your life? Being called a drill sergeant? I’m no mere drill sergeant, Sis. I’m a domina!"
I laugh and take Dani's hand. "What you and Pete do is none of my business."
The game starts, and we cheer as the defense takes the field. I notice that Troy runs out this time with the starting players, and there's a small cheer as his presence is noticed. Watching him line up, I realize that this is only the second game where I've been able to really watch him play. In high school, I was busy half the time with cheers, and watching on television, the cameraman normally focuses on the offense and the ball in particular. In the pre-season game, I got to watch some, but with the higher vantage, it feels amazing.
"Go, Daddy! Kick their ass!"
"Laurie."
"Sorry, Mama. Get them, Daddy!"
In the first quarter, Troy's play is as dominant as ever as he quickly picks up another sack and tips away a pass. The quarter ends still scoreless, but I'm on the edge of my seat as the game pauses for a TV break during the changeover between the first and second quarter.
Dani turns to me and gives me a high five. "He's having a great game!"
"Too bad it's going to be his last," someone says behind us, and I turn around to see a black woman sitting behind us, giving us a commiserating but perhaps still sad smile. "Didn't you know?"
"Know what?" I ask, confused. "And you are?"
"Kim Winslow. I'm married to number 67, Gerald Winslow," she says, offering her hand. "Sorry, I guess you and Troy are still new together. We didn't have a chance to meet at the team social during training camp. The wire's been full of the news."
"What news?" I ask. "Why is it Troy's last game?"
"The Hawks are trading him to Jacksonville," Kim says. "They're sending Troy and their first and third round draft picks in next year's draft for the 'Cats' starting right tackle, and two of their backup wide receivers and some other picks."
The news hits me like a punch in the gut, and I stare at Kim blankly. "They can do that?"
"Trade deadline is November third. Actually, in some ways, it's not that bad a trade. My best girlfriend's man plays for the 'Cats, and they're in a rebuilding mode this year. They've got the offense, but they need a defense. So they need a young stud to build it around. Your man just got tabbed for the job. Best of all, he's not going to miss any playing time. The 'Cats got a bye next week so he'll have a week and a half to learn their schemes. When Gerald got traded here from New York, he
had to miss a game in order to learn his blocking assignments. That hurt him come contract negotiations."
"How . . . how many teams has he been on?" I ask, stunned.
"Gerald's been playing six years now. There was that camp spot with the Fire where he barely had a chance to get his feet wet before they sent him to Miami. Five teams. I think he's finally settled in here, though. He might be able to stay another two or three years before he retires. But with the salary cap, you never know."
Six years, five cities? What sort of life is that for my daughter? I turn back and blankly watch a few minutes of the game but can't focus. "Dani, can you watch Laurie for a minute? I need to get some answers."
Dani, who's been giving me concerned looks, pats my knee and nods. "Don't stress, Whitney. I can see you stressing already, the little gears are turning and the smoke is starting to creep out. Don't stress. Think."
I nod and get up, looking for Timothy Hauser. I find him in his seat, watching the game and laughing along with some other people. "Mr. Hauser?"
"Oh, Miss Nelson! Enjoying the game?" Hauser asks, taking a sip from a beer in his hand. "The team's really fighting hard today."
"Yes . . . and I bet next game's going to be even better with your new right tackle and wideout," I reply, cutting off conversation with the group. One of the other people, a man in his fifties, it looked like, who had a sort of smarmy, lawyer-like look to him, turned around and considered me levelly. I returned his gaze, not backing down. I'd been through too much in the past two months to worry about some suit. "Who are you?"
"Larry Kardarelli, General Manager," he says. "I suppose you're asking about the reports of Troy being traded?"
"Are they true?"
Kardarelli nods and gets up. "The official report hits the networks right after the game. Officially, it doesn't happen until midnight, so that Troy can finish the game for us."
Tempted: A Bad Boy Next Door Romance Page 50
