by Jackson Kane
Aaron definitely had obsessive compulsive disorder. He compulsively had to fix things. I could see how Garrett thought this man was a control freak. Since day one, Aaron made it perfectly clear that there was only one way to do things: his way.
“Did he like this town?” Aaron made a flippant circle with his hand. It was easy to see that he had no attachment to Caldwell Hope whatsoever.
“I guess,” I said, pulling my bag closer to me. Hopefully he'd take the hint that I wanted to leave, but I doubted it. Or rather, I doubted he cared what I wanted.
“You two were busy. You went to that coffee shop, the amusement park, the King residence too, if I'm not mistaken. Then there was the ski resort.” Aaron listed the places that Garrett and I went to. “I read about that one in the paper. So exciting!”
We weren't secretive about our meetings, but hearing him rattle them off so easily made my skin crawl. I shuddered to think of him actually spying on me.
“That's one way to describe it,” I said, warily taking a few steps away from him.
Aaron wasn't a big man. I wasn't afraid that he'd over power me, or rape me or anything like that, but he completely creeped me out. With his pudgy cheeks, bushy unkempt eyebrows and angular nose, he reminded me of a small cruel bear.
By now we'd completely shifted places. He was behind my desk, where I normally was, and I was on the other side where people who visited me usually sat down. He swept a hand across the wood finish of my desk, then sat down in my chair with a grunt.
“When you were in that ski lodge all alone with him...” Finally he looked up at me and asked plainly, “…did you let him fuck you?”
My eyes narrowed. My pursed lips and knuckles went white from angry tension. The presumption infuriated me, but mostly I just felt sick. I forced back tears. I'd never let a man like this see me cry. I couldn't stop a renewed wave of nausea from rolling up my stomach and into my throat.
I burst from my office and stormed off down the hall. Victoria called out after me to see if I was all right. I couldn't speak. I had to ignore her. I didn't like the idea of leaving her alone with Aaron, but what could I do?
I couldn't even take care of myself.
The bathrooms were too far. The side effect of a series of layoffs was that there were plenty of empty offices. I thrust open the door to one then threw up into the wastebasket. I knew someone was bound to hear me, which was embarrassing enough, but at least I got the door closed in time.
I hated Garrett for what he'd done, but that couldn't dull the pain of missing him so much it hurt.
Where are you, Garrett?
Slumped down on my knees, broken, scared and in pain, I finally broke down in tears.
Twenty-Two
Garrett
“What the fuck is this?” I stepped out of the limo and walked toward the Caldwell Hope stadium, except it wasn’t called that any more. I was so surprised by what I saw that the limo had barely stopped when I got out of it. I nearly dropped the bouquet of white lilacs I'd brought for Judy.
Whoever the new investor was, he worked fast.
A lot of work had been done to it in the weeks I’d been gone. Like most stadiums, this was all massive sweeping glass curves and jutting angles. The surrounding grounds were packed to the gills with the infrastructure for restaurants, shops, a theater, and live bands to play. All of which was built with advertising space in mind.
Building an attraction hub that could be used, even while there weren’t any games being played, was smart. I didn’t have an issue with any of that. It was the other thing that chilled me even more than the cutting winter wind.
Reaper Stadium. The massive letters hung ominously above the gigantic Jumbo Tron screen. Below the letters was a pair of crossed scythes identical to the ones I had tattooed down my forearms.
Then things got even weirder.
It was the middle of the day, and work crews were crawling all over the place. I made my way down where the ticket checkers and security would be, then under the footbridge that connected the stands. I entered the stadium like every football fan would when it was complete.
Both sides of the main path were lined with ten-foot-tall standing Plexiglas-encased photographs of me.
They were stills of the great plays I made throughout the years. The first two were of me at a university in New Zealand catching the ball, back when I was tight end, before becoming a running back. The next two were of me in Minnesota, running the ball into the end zone. And so on they went. It was a highlight series of my entire career, up until my last game.
Was this some kind of sick joke?
They understood that I’d turned Paul’s offer down, right? Was I in the Twilight Zone?
“Excuse me, sir.” A construction foreman jogged up to me. “This is an active work zone; you can’t be here right now.”
“I’m just headed to the offices to meet someone,” I replied absently, still gaping at the images of me that were plastered everywhere. This whole place had my name and face all over it.
It was like a shrine to my honor.
When you played football, the contract you signed included likeness rights, so they could sell jerseys with your name on them and make video games with you in them. I’d have to ask my lawyers how legal this was.
This… was crazy.
“Oh shit!” the foreman said, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you. I'm a huge fan, man. Do you mind if I get a selfie with you? No one told me the owner was coming by today!”
Before I could answer, he already had his phone out and was taking a picture. I posed as patiently as I could, then made my way toward one of the staircases that would bring me to all the vending areas on the second level.
He thought I owned the place.
What kind of narcissist would build a monument to their own vanity like this? The whole thing made me furious.
The office entrances were under construction so I had to walk around the outer ring, past future restaurants and beer and merchandise vendors. The winter breeze mercilessly whipped through the long wide curved walkway. It was enough to make my eyes tear up.
I slowed to watch them lower the massive screen past the far end zone. To either side of the screen were walls of advertising, more than I'd ever seen at any other stadium. Aside from the near endless rows of block raised seats, you'd be hard pressed to find a square inch of the stadium that didn't have someone's logo on it.
My face and advertising, those two things were all over this stadium. I felt like I was a Nascar driver wearing one of those jumpsuits, covered head to toe in a patchwork of sponsors. The whole thing was such a chilling sensation.
I didn't like it at all.
“How do you like the memorial, Walker?” A voice split the howling wind.
I knew who it was before I turned around. How could I not? For better or worse, we'd spent years together. Most of that time was spent screaming at each other. Suddenly the ice in my veins melted and turned into molten lava.
With both gnarled hands planted firmly on the pommel of a cane, Aaron Miller didn't smile. He stared at me with the superiority of a rival who had the upper hand and knew it.
My boots clicked against the intricately laid stone walkway.
“Why?” I demanded, once I was close enough to be heard without yelling.
The old man came up to about the middle of my chest; I towered over him. Anyone else in his position would've pissed themselves at seeing an angry wall of muscle glaring down at them, but not Aaron Miller. His whole career had been spent gazing up to, and screaming at, giants even bigger than me.
“Nice flowers,” he said, completely unconcerned. “They wouldn't happen to be for me, old friend?”
We'd never been friends. I knew my reputation. I was an elitist hothead who fought with everyone all the time. My teammates never minded my feuds and publicity stunts. It was all in good fun. It got the team fired up, and that got us to the championship.
Coach hated the ant
ics, and me with them. To him, everything I did was an affront to the honor of the sport.
“Why?” I demanded again.
“Why what exactly?” Miller asked.
“Why the fuck are you here?” I demanded. “You run out of athletes to juice up?”
Miller's smug expression dissolved. That scandal finally got him kicked out of the league. He could never really fill the hole I left with another player, so he introduced steroids to a few of the guys.
After all his talk about honor, he was just as addicted to success as everyone else.
“I was hoping you'd stop by and see what I'd built.” Miller waved his cane toward the grand entrance. “You passed up one hell of an opportunity here, Walker. Then again, you were always shortsighted. You never had an eye for the long game.”
“Bullshit. This is a bad play and you know it. Saving this stadium, and this town, is going to cost way more than you're ever going to get back. Is all this just so you can recover your tarnished image? You going to be the one to swoop in and be the savior?”
“Savior?” He scoffed. His cheeks and double chin jiggled. “No. I’m going to squeeze this shit heap of a city for every penny it’s worth, then sell it off piece by piece. Two years from now, it’ll be another Detroit. Bankrupt and forgotten.”
My eyes narrowed. “The public will crucify you for this.”
“Me?” Miller placed a fat hand on his chest and feigned surprise. “Let me give you a lesson on Americans. Here, seeing is believing. Look around.” He smiled like a bag of broken glass. “You see my picture anywhere?”
“There'll be a paper trail. Your fingerprints are all over this.”
“You know who cares about that? Lawyers. I'm just a silent investor, and everything I've done has been above board. There's nothing illegal happening here.” Miller's cane menacingly tapped the ground as he walked a wide circle around me.
“As far as the public knows, you're the one who took a three-day vacation in serene Caldwell Hope,” he continued, relishing the sound of his own voice. “You even saved poor Judy Sullivan on the mountain when the power went out. 'The ruthless Grim Reaper has a heart after all, and it belongs to Caldwell Hope.' That's what the article said, right?” Miller squinted against a gust of wind that blasted us, as if to punctuate his point.
“Memorial,” I spat, remembering what he called the place earlier. It wasn't a stadium to him; it was a gravestone. “You're trying to bury me.”
My leather gloves creaked from my fingers balling into fists. It wasn't just my hands either. My whole body tensed and flexed, like a coiled snake. My spine straightened, and my shoulders pulled back and down. I visibly grew wider and taller, further towering over the troll of a man.
My eyes flashed red. I felt the old me return. Back before they added “of Wall Street” to my nickname. Back when I was just the Grim Reaper. Back when I crushed people.
Miller smiled, poking a finger into my flexing form. “And there's not a goddamned thing you can do to stop me.”
I held his gaze, but said nothing.
What was I going to do? Hit him? I'd kill him. Then what? My life would be fucked, not to mention all the shit my daughter would have to go through. He knew I couldn't do anything to him. Even worse, he knew I knew that, too.
“You see, Garrett. I made you. I found you and plucked you out of the cesspit you grew up in. You were nothing without me.” Miller's eyebrows furrowed, and for the first time, there was actual anger in his eyes. Old, deep-seated anger, like a scar that never healed right and constantly reopened. “And you broke your contract. No one ever breaks a contract with the league or with me.”
“My wife died.” The words dripped from my lips like venom.
“Boo-fuckin'-hoo.” He dismissed my justification with a lewd wave of his hand. “Women come and go. I’m on my fifth marriage. Football was your real wife, and you abandoned her.”
“There’s more to life than this fucking game,” I growled, barely containing my rage.
“No, there isn’t!” Miller shouted, throwing his hands up. “You owe everything to this sport. It’s what made you wealthy. Where would you be without it? You’d be just another one of these pissants!” He gestured to one of the construction guys pushing a full wheelbarrow far below us.
My parents weren't rich. I worked part-time as a construction laborer all through university to help them out. There was nothing wrong with getting your hands dirty from time to time. Sometimes it could even be the real measure of a man.
“I made you, billionaire.” Aaron slammed a fist down into his open palm for emphasis. “I can unmake you.”
“You won’t get away with this.” I forced the words through gritted teeth.
“There's nothing to get away with. I haven’t done anything legally wrong. I’m giving these gullible fucks exactly what they want.” He patted my shoulder. It was everything I could do not to take his fucking head off. Then as he walked away, he turned and said, “Send Judy my regards, will ya?”
Twenty-Three
Judy
The gravelly sound of my shoe sliding against concrete alerted Garrett that he wasn't alone. Garrett turned defensively as if expecting that it was a fan among the workers looking for a selfie or an autograph with him. The expression on his face when he saw me melted his hesitance.
“Judy?” he asked carefully, as he walked around the large free-standing beer vendor kiosk toward me.
Did he actually recognize me or was he just hopeful? I was pretty bundled up. A tuft of my hair poked out the front of my fleece-lined hood, and my eyes were showing, but other than that I could've been anyone.
God, I felt horrible. I was just stopping to rest against the kiosk when I heard the talking. Then I didn't want to be caught eavesdropping, so I stayed quiet.
My stomach turned and I felt light-headed. Stopping was a bad idea. I should've just run to my car. Now, I worried that I was too weak to drive.
It was freezing out. With the wind chill, it had to be ten below zero.
If it was so cold, then why was I sweating?
“Jesus, are you all right?” he asked when he reached me. He frowned, taking in the sight of me.
Did I look that bad?
The argument with Aaron Miller, his reputation, the fate of the town, all of that was brushed aside. There was only concern in his blue eyes. Concern and fear.
I was exhausted. Mascara streaked down my paler-than-normal face. It must've been easy to see that I was crying.
He touched my cheek, intent on rubbing the tears and black streaks away, but they were all dried. His eyes narrowed when he saw my pain as if they asked angrily, who made her cry?
I was still so angry at him for what he did, then for leaving altogether, but my head was swimming so much that I didn't care. I didn't trust him. I wasn't sure I even liked him, but part of me was always glad to see him. He exuded an aura of protection. I felt weirdly safer when he was around.
“Are those for me?” I asked, reaching for the beautiful long-stemmed white lilacs. I tried to remember the last time I'd received a gift like that. They smelled nice.
Had anyone ever given me flowers before?
Doug certainly never did. He barely even remembered my birthdays.
How fucking sad was that?
Garrett slipped a hand into my hood, then touched my forehead. “You're burning up. I'm taking you to a hospital.”
Garrett swept me up with ease, cradling me and my bag. He took the stairs in twos and threes as he rushed me out to the parking lot. I felt like a little girl who’d fallen asleep in the car and was being carried to bed. I was out of it and scared about so many things, but being in his arms made me feel like I was going to be alright.
I loved that feeling. I teared up again. After these last few weeks, I needed this more than I could describe.
I was going to be all right.
“Garrett?” His name tumbled from my lips. I didn't know why I said it. It just felt good to say. It
was reassuring. I hate you, but I'm glad you're back.
“Don't worry, dance partner.” His softly accented voice warmed parts deep down inside of me I didn't know were cold. He kissed me gently on the forehead as he helped me into the car. “I'll take care of you.”
I gasped awake, sweating and disoriented.
Where was I?
The room's lights were low, but as my eyes adjusted, I could quickly tell I was in a hospital bed. There weren't any clocks, but the windows in my room were dark. It must be late, or early. I couldn't tell which.
What happened to me?
Slowly the memories came back to me. I was at work and I felt awful, then that terrible man came into my office. Then... that's when it started to get fuzzy. I was outside.
What was I doing?
Garrett was there. That's right. I was listening to him argue with the new investor. I shivered, remembering now what they talked about. Aaron Miller never wanted to help us. That twisted asshole.
There was something else. Thinking straight was hard. My brain was oatmeal mush from whatever happened to me. It was like trying to remember the world through a kaleidoscope.
I threw up in an empty office, but before all of that....
I shot up in bed. Holy shit. The pregnancy test!
“You're awake,” Garrett grumbled from a nearby chair. The deep baritone of his voice told me he'd been asleep for some time as well.
Had he stayed here with me?
“Did they say...?” I paused to collect my thoughts. “What did the doctors say?”
He stood up, stretched his hulking form and rubbed his eyes.
“You'd think with how cliché it is for someone to sleep in a bedside chair at a hospital, they'd at least make them more comfortable.” He yawned, checked his watch, and then sat back down. “It was a fever. Doctor says you'll be fine.”
My heart slid back down my throat. I sank into the bed. “What time is it?”