Hawk: The Boys of Summer #4

by Heidi McLaughlin

  The youth center is quiet when I walk in, only the bell ringing against the glass door breaks the silence. The front desk is empty, but I can smell freshly brewed coffee. “Hello?” I call out from the hallway. “Anyone here?”

  “We’re closed until three,” a gruff voice hollers from behind a wall somewhere. I peer into the office, looking for whomever is here and find no one.

  “Excuse me,” I say as I step into the office and start toward the open door behind the desk. “I’m looking for Mr. Farmer.”

  As if on cue, he steps into the doorway. “We’re closed. Come back at three.”

  “But you’re here.” I point out the obvious. “I only need a minute of your time, Mr. Farmer.” I step closer and take a good look at my former teacher. He’s dressed like you’d expect, in jeans and a t-shirt. He’s got a round belly and seems to be growing his winter beard. If he keeps it up, he could easily play Santa in our winter festival. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Bellamy Patrick. I mean Carlisle. Bellamy Carlisle now Patrick. I had you as a teacher.” By the time he retired, I was long gone and living in Washington.

  He laughs, although not in a humorous sort of way. “I’ve taught a lot of students over the years, Mrs. Patrick.”

  Ms. But I don’t want to correct him. “I imagine, too bad my son won’t have you as a teacher, which is why I’m here . . . for my son, not the teaching part.” I’m flustered and losing my train of thought.

  He sighs heavily. “We really are closed until three. I only came in to do some paperwork since my secretary is on vacation. If you come back—”

  “What I have to say will only take a minute, I promise.” I hate interrupting him, but I’m desperate, and I don’t wait for him to brush me off again before I tell him what I need. “My son, he’s having trouble fitting in since we moved here. It’s been almost two years and I am at a complete loss on how to help him. You see, I’m recently divorced, and his father is hardly in the picture. It was my mother’s suggestion that I come down here and see if you have a big brother type program.”

  “Who’s your mother again?”

  “Rebecca Carlisle. Maybe you remember my father, Herb?”

  “Yeah, Herb I remember. What’s he been gone now, ten years?”

  I nod, not willing to talk about my father passing away. The old man studies me for what, I’m not sure, but his eyes are piercing and boring holes into my psyche. I don’t understand the animalistic machismo that flows through this town. Why can’t men be normal, caring, and understanding instead of this heavy-handed shit?

  “Anyway, back to my son.”

  “How old?”

  “He’s ten.”

  “You should get him into sports.”

  “I’ve tried, Mr. Farmer. He’s tried out for Little League, football and basketball. He’s been to camps, clinics and the open gyms offered. It’s a popularity contest here and he’s not popular.”

  Farmer motions for me to sit down in the chair across the desk. As I do, he pulls out the squeaky, rickety chair his assistant uses. “You’re not the first one to complain about the sports in this area being a popularity contest.” He picks up a pen and taps on the desk. “Youth sports is hard. The coaching is volunteer based. There are rules to follow, such as holding try-outs and creating equal teams. For the most part, this happens. However, when it doesn’t, I often find my hands are tied because if I come down too hard on the coaches, they won’t volunteer. If I don’t have any volunteers, the kids can’t play.”

  “And I understand that. What I don’t understand is how kids are singled out. My son wants to play. I want him to play. I want him to make friends! And when he’s constantly not chosen, it’s heartbreaking. I’m not saying he’s the best or most talented. All I’m saying is that he wants to play baseball, and it seems like if this is something parents are paying for, he should have an opportunity.”

  “Oh, he absolutely should. What I’m saying is . . .” his words are cut short by the ringing of the phone. Even though he claims to be closed, he answers anyway.

  “Richfield Youth Center. Oh hey, Brett. Yeah, let me pull up the schedule.”

  My stomach drops when I hear him say Brett. I can only suspect it’s the same asshole that is making it so my son can’t play. Of course, if I were to accept his advances, I’m sure my son would become the next star of Richfield. I love my boy, but not at the cost of my dignity.

  “Field schedule is online. Nope, not making any changes. You can swap with the other coaches if you want, but it stands.” Farmer slams the phone down and again, sighs heavily. Something tells me that Brett might be the cause of this old man’s gray hair.

  I clear my throat. He slowly looks up. It’s a long minute, maybe two, of silence before he opens his mouth. “I’ll ask the coaches how many kids were cut and see if they can find a spot for him on one of the teams.”

  It’s my turn to sigh and offer up a weak smile. His efforts will be futile, I know this, but it’s something. Maybe if Brett knows I’ve gone to see David Farmer, who basically runs the program, something will change. I stand and offer my hand. He stands with me and shakes it. “Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you. Chase, my son . . . he’s eager to start playing with his classmates.”

  “Yeah,” is all he says. I show myself out and when I’m in my car, I’m hoping to feel this unsurmountable relief, yet the only thing that comes is tears. Nothing’s going to change. In fact, I fear that I’ve made everything worse.

  I’m not halfway to my office when my phone rings. Brett’s name flashes on my screen. I picture him on the other end gritting his teeth and maybe tugging on his hair in frustration. Either that or he’s laughing hysterically at my failed attempt. Chase loses no matter what happens. He’ll forever be known as the kid whose mom had to complain to get him on a team.

  “What have I done?” I mutter. Nothing but regret washes over me. I know I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life going to see Farmer. Instead of going to my office, I go to the bank. Inside, I rush to my mom’s office, bypassing her assistant and opening her office door. Once I see her, I collapse into a heap on her couch and bury my face.

  “What happened?”

  Shaking my head, I inhale deeply, but feel like I’ve taken in no air. My lungs are constricting, my throat is tightening up, and my heart is breaking. “I went to the youth center and Brett called while I was there asking about the schedule. It seems as though I’m not the only one who has complained.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Farmer gave me this song and dance about coaches being volunteers and without them the kids can’t play. He said he’d talk to the coaches and see how many kids were cut and try to find a spot for Chase.”

  “Again, good.”

  I finally look at my mom and shake my head. She’s wearing her reading glasses, her hair is in a bun, and she’s dressed smartly in a pinstriped suit. Our town may be small but being the only bank in town and being the manager, she’s important. “Brett called after I left. I don’t think I was five minutes away when his named popped up on the screen.”

  “What did he say?”

  Looking down at my phone, I tap the screen to bring it to life and type in my passcode. The text, mail and phone icons all have numbers telling me how many messages are waiting. I press the phone button and then the voicemail one to start Brett’s message.

  “Bellamy, I believe I was crystal clear last night. You know what you have to do to get your son on a team. Don’t fuck with me.”

  Mom gasps. My finger hovers over the delete button but I don’t press it. I’m tempted to call him back and ask him to explain himself but I don’t want to know what he has to say. Something in my gut tells me he knows I went to Farmer. My gut is also telling me either Farmer called him after I left, one of Brett’s cronies saw me or he’s following me. I need to save this message, not that I expect it’ll do me any good. I send it to my email and then put my phone down. “So . . . now what?”
r />   My mom sits back in her chair. She picks up a pen and starts tapping it on her desk. The longer she ponders her thoughts, the closer I come to blurting out that Chase and I are going to move. Maybe down south where it’s warmer and the people tend to be nicer.

  “We’ll figure something out,” she says, shrugging.

  “Even if we do, the damage is done. Chase will be bullied by those kids on the team because Brett Larsen is a petty asshole.”

  “I could freeze his assets.” She starts typing on her computer.

  “Don’t do anything illegal, Mom. It’s not worth losing your job over. If he’s this upset over something as trivial as baseball, I can’t imagine what he’d do if his money went missing.”

  “My grandson’s happiness is worth a lot of things.”

  I agree with her. “Maybe just slow down his next loan request or something.”

  “That I can do.” Oddly enough this makes her happy. I give her a kiss before leaving and decide to walk to my office. It’s only two blocks away, the sun is shining, and I need the fresh air.

  As soon as I step in, my boss, Owen, is hollering for me to come to his office. He waits for me to enter before shutting his office door behind me. Karter must’ve spent a long time in here after Owen’s rampage the other day because the place looks tidy as can be. He passes back and forth behind his desk, muttering to himself.

  “Owen . . .”

  He holds his hand up and then immediately runs it through his hair. “What in the hell did you do to piss off Brett Larsen?”

  Everything I felt in my mother’s office comes back tenfold, except this time my heart is racing so fast that I fully expect a heart attack to follow. This was how my dad died, a heart attack.

  “I don’t know.” My voice cracks as tears come rushing forward. Owen is standing in front of me within seconds with his hands on my shoulders. “I just want Chase to have a chance. He’s cut him from everything he’s tried out for, so I went to the youth center to talk to David Farmer. He’s just a ten-year-old boy who wants a chance, Owen. Why is Brett so hell bent on making our lives so difficult?”

  “Because you have something he wants, and I suspect you know what it is.”

  “So, what? I’m supposed to sleep with him?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but unfortunately he intends to make your life a living hell until you do.”

  I step out of Owens grasp and do my own pacing. “What did he say when he called you?”

  “He wants me to fire you,” he sighs. “I told him no, that you’re an asset, but . . .”

  I turn and look Owen in his eyes. “But for the company to keep peace, it’s the right thing to do?”

  Owen straightens up. “I don’t cower to bullies and neither should you. There’s a plot of land for sale next to his hardware store. They’ve been using it for storage without permission.” He goes to this desk and hands me a file. “Adverse possession applies. Take a surveyor out, mark the lines, take an inventory of what’s on the property. The owner wants to sell. And be sure to put a damn for sale sign up so big it blinds that asshole.”

  “Won’t that create a bigger problem?”

  My boss smiles. “Sure will, but it will also tie up some of his stock in a legal battle.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “If he wants to pick on someone, he can come after me.”

  I stand there for a minute, trying to comprehend everything and imagining what my future will hold because of this. Owen is willing to stand up to the monster, but will anyone else? Not likely, and that makes moving more appealing. With the file in my hand, I go to one of the free desks in the office and get to work. I keep telling myself that I’m only doing what my boss is telling me to do, but part of me feels like we’re poking a grizzly bear out of hibernation.

  Nine

  Hawk

  My physical therapist is the spawn of the Satan. She’s an unruly woman named Emma with crooked teeth, a wart on her nose, and her skin is green. She hides her horns with two the buns she has on top of her head, but I know they’re there.

  Okay, I may be over exaggerating. She’s not the spawn of Satan, but some other evil being who disguises itself as a beautiful woman meant to cause pain in the form of torture to unsuspecting men. “You’re being a baby,” the young, brunette spitfire says without making eye contact. “How do you expect to be back on the mound if you’re unwilling to rotate your shoulder.”

  “Is this a trick question?” I lean slightly, hoping to make her smile but my wit and charming good looks mean nothing to her.

  “It’s my job to make sure you’re healing.”

  “I’m healed.”

  Finally, she smiles. “Good, then lift your arm above your head and bend your elbow.”

  I do as she says, thinking I’m cool as shit, until she starts pushing on my arm. I scream out and the sadist laughs. “I think I hate you.”

  “You’re not the first athlete to tell me that.”

  “Do you enjoy hurting people?”

  “Not all at. I enjoy helping them recover so they can get back to what they love.”

  “You’re mean,” I tell her, proving how childish I am.

  She giggles. “And oddly enough, I’m okay with that. Treadmill time, let’s go.”

  She walks away, leaving me on the table. I’m slightly confused as to why I need to get on the treadmill and remain seated until she hollers for me. I walk to the other side of the room and stand in the doorway, looking at every piece of gym equipment you can think of. This facility is a trainer’s heaven. Sure, we have state of the art equipment in Boston, but this place is a mecca of machines for exercise and rehab. When I told the BoRe’s that I was going to come back to Montana, the training staff there went to work to find me the best physical therapist possible. The only downfall is it’s an hour away from my parents and I have to be here three days a week.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I had surgery on my arm.” I make my way over to the treadmills where she’s standing, poised to press the buttons that will project me into the depths of hell. I hate running. I loathe it. I will always find a way to get out of it if I can.

  Emma smiles softly. “Tell you what . . . how about you don’t question my job and I won’t question why you waited months to tell your trainer that you were experiencing numbness in your fingertips?”

  I glare at her. She shrugs.

  “Had you said something earlier, there’s a chance you could’ve avoided surgery.”

  “Doubt it. There’s nerve damage.”

  “There are new ways, new procedures.”

  “I don’t like new age medicine.” I step onto the treadmill and sure enough, she presses some buttons to get the belt moving. Thankfully, I’m only walking, but know she’s going to press that button so many times it’ll soon be like I’m competing for the Boston Marathon . . . all by myself.

  “It’s not new age. What I’m talking about has been around for centuries.” She presses the button, increasing my speed. “Does your arm hurt?”

  “No,” I tell her as I jog along.

  “Anyway, we send a lot of our patients to a chiropractor who specializes on your vertebrae with the torque release technique.”

  “Arm hurts and I don’t need my back cracked.”

  Emma decreases the speed but doesn’t allow me to stop. “This technique allows for the chiropractor to correct subluxation or spinal misalignments in a non-invasive way. What I’m saying is, had you mentioned the numbness right away, a chiropractor practicing TRT might have been able to help. Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t have a chiro on staff doing this for you.”

  Ignoring her seems like the best option for me right now. I have to focus on this half jog, half speed walk thing I’m doing and I’m trying not to move my arm so much. The last thing I want to do is tear a ligament, pull a muscle or damage the tissue. Let alone, move my arm in a direction that might cause my incision to open.

  “When can I start throwing?”

 
“You have an x-ray in a couple of days, that’ll tell us how things are looking in your shoulder.” Emma decreases the speed slowly until it’s back at zero. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I hate running.”

  She laughs. “Follow me, Hawk. Let’s go work that arm.”

  The sadist works my arm until it feels like jelly. It hangs limp at my side as I follow her back to her torture chamber. She has me lie back on the table and tells me to remove my shirt. I’m too tired to come back with some smart-ass comment and wish like hell that Travis Kidd were here to say something crass for me. I do as she says, lying back on the thin paper that covers the table.

  Emma squirts a thick, clear substance up and down my arm and puts some into the palm of her hand. She starts massaging my fingers, gently pulling, twisting and rubbing the cream into them. The more she works up my arm, the warmer it becomes and the less pain I feel. The sensation feels so incredibly good, I find myself falling asleep.

  “Why did you come to Montana for therapy?” she asks.

  “I’m from Richfield. My parents own a cattle ranch there and my mom thought it would be best that I come home so she could keep her eye on me.”

  Emma chuckles. “She sounds like my mom. I have to video chat with her every day, no matter what.”

  “Most moms are like that.”

  “How does your arm feel?”

  I open my eyes and see a satisfied smile on her face. “It feels really good.” But something tells me she already knew this.

  “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, Hawk. Have a good day.”

  Before I can ask her what she used, she’s out the door and greeting her next patient. I put my shirt on and slip my arm back into the sling. If anything, I’d like to get rid of this by the end of the week.

  On the way back to Richfield, I stop for lunch, hitting McDonald’s. When I pull up to the drive thru window, the young clerk recognizes me right away.