Tacker

by Sawyer Bennett

  Tacker’s head tips back as he laughs. “I’d probably advise you not to drink it then.”

  “I hate to be wasteful, but I think you’re right,” I say, putting the pint glass filled with the amber-orange liquid on the table and pushing it aside. I reach into my purse, nab my wallet, and pull out a ten-dollar bill, which I attempt to hand to Tacker.

  “What’s that for?” he asks, brows furrowed.

  “For the beer you just bought and I’m not going to drink,” I say. When we ordered the first round, despite Tacker sticking to water, he’d started a tab and told the waitress to put my drinks on it. I tried to argue with him about it, but he politely told me to zip it.

  “Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?” he asks. His tone is stern, but I can see amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I mean… perhaps this is some type of therapy whereby you put me in a stressful situation, to see how I handle it?”

  For a moment, I think he’s serious and that hits close to home to think I’d do that. But then his mouth splits into a wide smile, and he shakes his head. “I’m just teasing you, Nora. You and I both know you’re not on counselor duty with me when we’re out like this, right?”

  “Out like this?” I can’t help but ask.

  “As friends,” he replies easily.

  Yes, of course… friends. Just as I thought and had hoped for really.

  But I try to ignore that little voice in my head that wonders what it would be like to have more with him. I mean, I can’t. It’s not possible. There’s too much to risk and lose on my part.

  But I can’t help the attraction I have to this man. And it’s not just physical, although that part certainly doesn’t hurt. But the physical is such a small part.

  The true connection comes from our similar experiences, because when we engage in our counseling sessions, he and I are both giving and taking of each other. Sharing intimate details of grief and pain that are our own little secrets.

  It’s made me feel close to him in a way I don’t bond with my other clients. Not a bad thing for my other clients, because I give them good attention, advice, and emotional support. I do my job beyond well.

  But with Tacker, it’s just different, and while we’ve engaged in sharing conversations unlike what I do with my other patients, there’s also something else that’s not identifiable to me.

  Which is what makes hanging out with Tacker very risky and quite scary. I like him a little too much, definitely in ways that exceed the boundaries of our professional relationship.

  “Those look like some heavy thoughts,” Tacker observes, then tacks on a grin. “In fact, I can’t even count how many times you’ve said those same words to me. Looks like I’m the counselor now.”

  I give a hard shake of my head in denial because there’s no way I’m ever sharing those inner musings with Tacker. “Nope. No heavy thoughts. Having a great time.”

  Just then, something bumps Tacker from behind, causing him to knock into me. Not hard, but enough that his full body makes contact with mine, his hands coming to my shoulders to steady me.

  He whips his head around to glare over his shoulder with an irritated growl. It lands on a few of the rookies who are getting a bit loud and rowdy.

  “Sorry, Tacker,” one says solicitously, his face awash with fear.

  “No worries,” he mutters before turning back to me. “Fucking kids.”

  “That’s impressive,” I drawl, giving a slow hand clap as I grin. “Few weeks ago, I do believe you would have punched him.”

  “Few weeks ago, I would have thrown him over the railing and hoped that concrete saguaro didn’t break his fall,” he says blandly, and that makes me laugh so hard I double over.

  “I’d hold up my beer to tap against yours in a ‘cheers’ type of moment, but I don’t want to get drunk and you can’t drink, so… high-five,” I say, holding my hand up with the palm outward.

  His hand comes out and slaps against mine, then curls around my fingers for a soft squeeze. “We should dance.”

  I blink, sure I misunderstood him. “Dance?”

  “Yeah… dance,” he repeats. “I’ve fucking evolved.”

  Tacker Hall just asked me to dance. A man who, up until a few weeks ago, was a taciturn asshole hell-bent on closing himself off from the world. The same man who had been so mired in grief he hadn’t known how to smile anymore.

  A man who had given up on life for all intents and purposes.

  “Do you know how to dance?” I ask dumbly.

  Tacker cocks an eyebrow, tightening his hold on my hand and jerking me into him. My hand goes to his shoulder, his other to my waist. “I lived in Dallas for six years. I think I know how to pull off a basic two-step.”

  “Well,” I say with challenge and yeah… I admit, a little flirtation. “Let’s see what you got, cowboy.”

  My head spins as he whirls me around once, then leads me into a two-step. He moves backward, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure he doesn’t stumble over another dancer who isn’t moving fast enough around the second-floor area. There are several others doing a two-step around the perimeter. For a moment, I have to count in my head so I don’t stumble.

  One. One-two.

  One. One-two.

  But Tacker is actually an excellent dancer. Without me even needing to ask, I’m going to guess it was something he and MJ did routinely. The mere fact he can get enjoyment from it with someone other than his fiancée is remarkable.

  And he is enjoying it.

  He stares down at me, an easy smile on his face. “I’m glad you came out with us tonight.”

  “Me too,” I say with no hesitation. “It’s nice to make friends.”

  Tacker’s eyebrows draw inward. “You say that like a woman who has no friends.”

  “Oh, I have friends,” I assure him. “Ones I haven’t talked to in weeks or seen in months. Most are now married with kids. I work such long hours that I never get out to see them anymore. Having your own business is no joke.”

  “I can imagine,” he murmurs. “But you do have a new crew of friends now, and I know a lot were really charmed by the ranch. Consider us all your ‘new crew’.”

  “I’m a lucky girl,” I murmur, then gasp as Tacker manages to execute a flawless one-hundred-eighty-degree spin that puts me moving backward now. Just a few steps, though, then he’s spinning me once more to our original positions.

  “You’re really good,” I say with a laugh. “If hockey doesn’t pan out, maybe you could rent yourself out at nursing homes and give little old ladies a spin around the dance floor.”

  “Smartass,” he replies affectionately, and we continue to dance. Sometimes, his teammates make catcalls at us, all liberally taking the opportunity to tease the man who was such a recluse.

  He ignores them all.

  It’s a moment we share that’s sweet and fun and lighthearted. Until he says something that makes it not so.

  “MJ didn’t want to have kids,” he says out of the blue, causing me to stumble over his foot.

  Tacker’s strong arms right me, and we fall back into our gait. I study him a moment, take in his expression. It’s not sad or angry. His tone is even and matter of fact. It’s a statement he would make in counseling, yet the mere fact he’s brought it up while we’re dancing in a public place makes it hard to pinpoint exactly what he might be feeling right now.

  Regardless, it’s something on his mind, perhaps because I had just mentioned my own friends having kids. I don’t know if he wants me to be a counselor or friend, but regardless, I give him my undivided attention.

  “Was there a particular reason why?” I ask, trying to push him along what is a sensitive topic.

  Tacker shrugs, his gaze going over my shoulder a moment before coming back to me. “Said she wasn’t the motherly type, was scared of childbirth, wanted to concentrate on her career, didn’t want to interfere with her time with me. Take your pick.”

  “Many women choose not to be mothers,�
�� I say.

  “I know,” he replies softly. “No judgment against her. But it was a bone of contention with me.”

  “You two fought about it?”

  He shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. Just two polar opposite ideas of what our long-term relationship would entail. I just figured one day she’d change her mind, and I decided to be patient about it.”

  “That can be a huge divide to overcome, especially if it’s something you really wanted and she had never gotten there,” I point out.

  “Guess it’s moot now, right?” he says glibly.

  My voice is gentle and soft, so I step in just a little closer so he can hear me. “It is moot now. So why did you bring it up, Tacker?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, instead spinning me around once again. When I’m righted, he says, “I’ve been thinking about things lately… about life without MJ and what that means going forward. And something that has been on my mind is if I were to… have a relationship again… children would be back on the table.”

  “I see,” I murmur.

  “Is that wrong?” he asks. “Because I’ve been struggling hard not to let guilt weigh me down.”

  “It’s not wrong,” I assure him. “You have your whole life ahead of you, and you should lead it without using your past relationship as a measuring stick.”

  To my surprise, Tacker pulls me in extremely close to the point our torsos are almost touching. Since the two-step is a gait of mutual reliance and we have to be in sync, our legs touch as we move along. He’s steady and surprisingly graceful, and I just let myself be carried away by him.

  We make the circle around the perimeter two more times, just silently dancing oh so close together.

  When the music dies, Tacker brings me to a gentle stop. We’re in a crowd of people, and the moment has ended.

  Mutually, we both start to pull away from each other, but it’s done in such an incredibly slow manner that there’s no denying we’re both silently saying we don’t want to let the other go.

  This is just so wrong on my part.

  Like that day we hugged in my kitchen on my birthday, my cheek scrapes against his, then our faces are close as our eyes connect.

  “It would be so easy to kiss you right now,” he murmurs, and my head absolutely spins with not only the possibility, but also the terrible implications regarding my duty as his counselor.

  “But we can’t,” he says, continuing to draw away until there’s a safe distance between us. He looks at me without apology. “It would be wrong.”

  “So wrong,” I agree with utter disappointment in my voice.

  He hears it. It makes him smile thinly, and disappointment is visible in his expression.

  “You about ready to head home?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, not wanting to leave him at all.

  But I have to.

  CHAPTER 20

  Tacker

  I’ve found that by wearing a bandana around my face, that horseshit doesn’t smell as bad. Or rather, it doesn’t permeate my nose as well.

  I’m on the last stall in the gray barn, and I’m proud of myself. When I’d shown up at Shërim Ranch a few hours ago, Nora was in a counseling session in her office. She didn’t know I was coming because I’m not on her schedule, but I wasn’t overly bothered she wasn’t readily available. I’d come to do some volunteer work, deciding to spend some of my free time helping out around the ranch. Besides, I’ve started to really like Raul, and I don’t want to see him drop dead from overexertion.

  At least that’s the excuse I’ve given myself for coming, so I never admit I really came to see Nora.

  Even if it’s just a glimpse or a friendly wave of my hand.

  I’m proud of the work I’ve done this morning because when I’d found Raul upon my arrival, he’d put me straight to work having to deal with the horses. While he gladly gave up shoveling shit duty in the stalls to me, he’d informed me that I’d have to lead each horse out on my own because “I don’t have time to be babysitting you, gringo.”

  I’d snorted and laughed until I realized he wasn’t joking, then I’d reconsidered wanting to help out. Raul advised me that I’d have to lead the horse out of the stall in order to get in to clean it.

  That meant I’d have to actually get near the horse. Touch it. Command it.

  Not something I was really comfortable with.

  I can’t explain my irrational unease around horses. I’d only been on the one with MJ when we were vacationing. Riding them on the beach seemed romantic to her, but my beast of an animal was huge and skittish around the waves coming in, constantly sidestepping and refusing to obey me. There was nothing fucking romantic about the experience at all.

  But Raul showed me what to do. He calmly talked me through how to attach the lead to the halter, then guide the horse out of the stall. There were hooks on the wall with short leads to attach the horse along with a small hanging trough with hay they could munch on while I worked.

  I noticed how he murmured Spanish words to the first horse he demonstrated on. The words were irrelevant, but his tone wasn’t. He was communicating to the animal, letting the horse know he cared for it and respected it. The horse followed his every command, and it gave me a little bit of confidence.

  I’d managed to handle all five stalls on the one side, easily transferring each horse back and forth. By the time I got to the last one, I was thinking that perhaps I could be friends with these beasts.

  “Good work, mijo,” Raul says from behind me.

  After I finish sprinkling the last bit of fresh hay, I dust my hands off on the back of my jeans. I don’t even spare Raul a glance as I move out of the stall and over to the horse genially waiting for me to be done with his home.

  Murmuring soft words under my breath, I run my hand along the brown fur on his back as I approach. Unclipping his rope from the hook, I lead the horse back into the stall, even guiding him around in a three-quarter circle so his head is facing the door. I do this mostly because I don’t want to be near his back end as I’m leaving, but when my eyes catch Raul as I ease out, his are filled with what I might even call a bit of pride.

  “Getting over your fear,” he says with an appreciative nod.

  While I hate to admit I’m afraid of anything, I have to accept his words as true. I was scared of the damn things, but I am getting more used to them.

  Glancing down at my watch, I say, “I’ve got a few more hours before I have to get back. What else you got for me to do?”

  We’ve actually got the day off today. Our next game is at home and not for two more days. So Coach told us to take a day of rest. He’d probably freak out if he knew I was here doing manual labor on a ranch with a freshly healed fractured wrist. The cast actually comes off tomorrow, and I can’t fucking wait.

  But I do have dinner plans with Aaron tonight. Nothing fancy but a good opportunity to continue reconnecting with my best friend. I feel like I have amends that still need to be made for pushing him away after the crash.

  “I’ve got nothing but beer to offer you,” Raul says with a smile.

  “Gonna have to pass on that,” I say a chuckle. He knows I can’t drink. “But I wouldn’t say no to a bottle of water.”

  Raul shuffles down the center aisle of the barn, and I follow. There’s a small room at the end. Inside it is a small desk, mini fridge, and two chairs. A window unit air conditioner chugs away, cooling the interior.

  “Welcome to my office,” Raul says with a dramatic wave.

  I step in and glance around. There’s nothing on the desk. No computer, no papers… nothing. “What do you need an office for?”

  Raul shrugs. “No clue. Nora outfitted the desk and fridge for me. Tried to buy me a computer, but I hate the damn things and threatened to quit if she did. So I basically just come in here to cool off and enjoy a beer once in a blue moon when it gets too hot.”

  “That’s legit,” I reply, making myself at home and walking over to the fr
idge. It’s stocked with beer, water, Swedish fish, and a lonely-looking apple. I nab a beer and water, closing the door with a bump of my leg.

  Raul lowers himself into one of the chairs with a slight wince, and I wonder what part of him is hurting. I imagine at his age, while working on a ranch and doing physical labor, probably more than one part of his body is aching.

  “You played really well last night,” Raul says, accepting the beer I hand to him before I sink into the other chair. “Even with that damn thing on your wrist.”

  “Can’t wait to get it off.” I open the water bottle, then take a long pull.

  “You looked light on your feet. Confident, too.”

  A smile plays at my mouth. “I feel about a million pounds lighter these days. Guess that translates out on the ice, too.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he replies, holding his beer up in a silent toast.

  There’s something comforting about sitting in this old barn office with the air conditioner rattling. Raul sips at beer, watching me with wizened eyes. I don’t feel like I have to have my guard up with him, and I wonder why that is. I know part of it is because I’ve worked hard to lower my walls, but there’s more to it.

  “It’s all because of Nora,” I say, wondering why I’m in such a sharing mood.

  Raul nods, a fond expression on his face. “That girl is special. Knew it the moment I gave her her first riding lesson.”

  “How old was she?” I ask.

  “About twelve as I remember,” he replies gruffly. “Helen brought her out, explained a little bit about her background to me. Nora spoke English because the European countries all teach it, but because she’d grown up in such a rural area, she hadn’t had a lot of practice with it. The communication was a little hard at first. You could see she’d experienced something horrible because she had that shy, wounded look about her. But you could also see that, deep in her eyes, there was determination.”