by Ellie Hall
What would he or his father say about the way Ryan was acting? What would his mother say—or rather, ask? When he was troubled, she always asked the right question that brought him to an answer of his own. But he couldn’t risk thinking about all of that.
Ryan gripped the ball. His knuckles blanched. “Nah, I’m fine.”
For the next thirty minutes, they tossed the ball around, ran a few plays, and did some drills.
When their hour was up, they all sauntered off the field to the locker room. Ryan hung back, feeling ambivalent about leaving the turf and turning back to real life. He had to face his brothers and the fact that it was only a matter of days until Christmas and he hadn’t fulfilled their father’s wishes. He had to talk to Rachel too. But what would he say? The coach’s comment about trust floated into his mind. Maybe he just had to trust that the right words would come.
Chase held the door to the locker room open for him. Lines ran across his forehead. “You sure you’re okay, Ry-Man? You seem a little...I don’t know. Off.”
He shrugged. “I guess being back home around the holidays is a bit tough.”
They all knew about the tragedies in Ryan’s family, but not about Rachel.
Chase nodded. “You’re always running into a solid wall of guys on the field, trying to protect, pass, or intercept a football. What’s keeping you from facing your family and from running back to them?”
It wasn’t entirely his four brothers; it was Rachel too. With an increasing twisting of the knots in his stomach, he had to face his fears.
The guys’ voices floated to him. Chase paused in the doorway.
“We could replace the soap in the dispensers with pudding,” Gray said.
“Where are we going to get pudding?” Declan asked. “Although, that work out built up my appetite. I haven’t had pudding since I was a lad.”
Hearing his teammates plot to prank the Crush made Ryan think of his brothers. They were the kind of men who’d make Dad proud, who’d fulfill his wishes. Not only was he a little boy, but a loser. He stared at his sneakers.
“What if we put plastic wrap over all the toilet seats?” Wolf said.
“Remember we did that during playoffs to the opposing team and—” Grey replied.
Chase clicked his tongue. “No, we’re not going to do any of that. We’re going to—”
As Ryan lifted his head to find out Chase’s grand plan, four massive men tackled him.
He crashed onto the tile floor as over five hundred pounds took the air from his lungs. Okay, not five hundred pounds, the guys were taking it easy on him and didn’t want to break the star running back’s ribs, but still, they were heavy.
The Boston Bruisers were tough and over the years they’d all opened up to each other in their own ways, but when something was up, and they didn’t want to talk, they’d perform what they called a team tackle.
When Ryan was finally able to come up for air, he gasped a breath. “This gives new meaning to the name Colorado Crush.”
“Something’s up with you. You fumbled the ball and even tripped over your own feet out there on the field. We can’t afford those kinds of missteps with the game coming up.” Gray held him in a steady gaze.
Wolf offered a mock laugh at the pun.
“You know what we do when one of our men is feeling sorry for himself.”
That was just it. He wasn’t a man, but he was feeling sorry for himself. Ryan blinked a few times.
“True to our name, the Bruisers fight,” Chase added. “We fight for each other. We’re a team.” He slung his arm around Ryan’s shoulders, squeezed his arm, and then mock punched him in the stomach. “Which means you need to spill your guts all over this locker room floor or we’ll do it for you.”
Wolf and Declan were in attack stance.
Ryan held up his hands. “Alright, alright.” Then he told them everything.
After a bit more ribbing, a pep talk, and another threat to team tackle him, Ryan’s energy returned. He straightened, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.
Gray checked his watch. “We have to catch our flight.”
“Let’s hope more bad weather doesn’t delay it.”
“I think you like it here,” Ryan said. “Give me a shout if you can’t fly and hey, thanks, guys,” Ryan said as they exited to the parking lot.
“Sounds like the Bruiser is back,” Chase hooted.
The others called their goodbyes and left.
As Ryan got back in his truck, he took a deep breath that reached deep into his lungs. He had endured some of the hardest, most grueling training for football. He’d sustained the loss of both parents. He’d felt the lonely ache of running from the girl he loved. He knew pain and loss and heartache.
Like the guys did for him, whatever it took, he’d fight for Rachel. Even though he’d been trying, he wouldn’t give up. He’d show her that he’d changed and he’d never leave her again. Words were important, but he had the feeling Rachel needed action. She needed to see him running toward her and not away. Of opening his arms and his heart to her and to love.
It wouldn’t be easy. It wouldn’t be only words that would fix things with her. He had to take action. Massive action.
When he returned to the ranch, the tree was lit and Clark sat on a stool at the counter. “Hey, just the brother I was looking for.”
Ryan lifted an eyebrow, unsure if bad news was coming or something else.
“I heard you played Santa over at the hospital.”
“Yeah. Rachel’s mom is there. I just thought it was the right thing to do.” He shrugged.
“Speaking of the right thing to do...there are only a few days left until Christmas.” There was an edge to his brother’s voice.
“I’m well aware.” The clock ticked down. There was no chance he was going to get married in time. He also hadn’t gotten the funding for P.U.M.P.E.D.
Clark held a thin leather-bound book in his hand. A pink ribbon hung from the pages. “This might help you.”
Ryan ran his thumb along the pages. Familiar handwriting filled the lines. With wide eyes, he met his brother’s gaze.
“I found this one and four others when I was going through some old things. She wrote one to each of us. Mine relayed everything from when she was pregnant with me to select stories from when I was a kid, up until—” He cut himself off.
“Thank you.” At that, Ryan surprised himself by opening his arms wide and drawing Clark into a hug.
He rushed into his room, sat on his bed with the football print comforter, and parted the pages of the journal. He hoped to find the right question that his mother always had a knack for asking to lead him to the answer he needed.
Chapter 14
Rachel
After Rachel and Ryan had met by the tree on the trail, and she ran from him, she succumbed to hibernation. She closed the curtains, tucked under a couple of blankets on the couch, and closed her eyes. She thought she’d shake the chill she had. The chill from the cold weather, the chill from turning her back on Ryan, the chill that caused her to sniffle and cough.
She’d caught a cold or flu, which meant she had to stay away from her mother and the other patients in the critical care unit. She burrowed under the blankets with new worries. What if something happened to her mom and she couldn’t be there? She imagined her mother was lonely without her daughter’s daily visits. But the nurses were strict about the policy to protect them and the patients and Rachel didn’t want to jeopardize anyone’s health.
Instead of sleeping like a bear, the scene with Ryan replayed in her mind, making her feel worse and worse. It skipped back in time to the days they’d spent together.
He’d made a solid effort to get back in her good graces, and had made his apology. While she accepted it and forgave him, she’d never been able to forget what had happened. She felt achy from the flu or whatever she had and she felt stuck. Stuck in the past, unable to let go. She cared so deeply for him, but she couldn’t trust him b
ecause so many what-ifs plagued her mind.
What if they did have a future together, things got hard again, and he took off?
What if her mother’s inevitable passing reminded him too much of his own mother’s death and he ran away?
What if he went out for a run one day and never returned?
What if? The possibilities continued to play in her mind, getting wilder and more elaborate. Maybe she had a fever. She sipped some water and remained on the couch. The yarn from her knitting project was strewn across the table.
She had to focus on her mother and not get involved in romantic entanglements. The lights on the Christmas tree blurred. Her head ached and her chest rattled. She was tired. Tired of running. She thought putting distance between them would’ve made her feel better. It seemed to have worked for him. Instead, she felt worse. Running from him was stupid. It made her feel childish and helpless. She was miserable and not only because she was sick. She beat herself up for the decision, but it was too late. He was probably on his way to Boston or getting married to some Bruisers fangirl. She wallowed in self-pity as her thoughts looped around and around, getting darker and more muddled.
Rachel wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but eventually her eyes dipped closed, her mind clouded, and at last, she slept.
The next twenty-four hours were a haze as Rachel’s body fought off the flu. Her thoughts were vivid, yet abstract things. She dreamt of her and Ryan breaking up, of getting back together, of him having a football instead of a face, of her knitting herself into a tangle that she couldn’t find her way out of.
She came in and out of consciousness. During lucid moments, she envisioned herself packing up the rest of the house and returning to Miami. But mostly she was lost in a landscape of dreams that always included Ryan. Would she ever be able to shake her love for him and find someone new? What if she didn’t? A new question interrupted the others.
But what if she trusted him?
She woke in a cold sweat. The blankets were damp. The fever had broken and her thoughts were suddenly, mercifully clear—one in particular. What if she trusted him?
Rachel had hardly moved from the couch in over a day except to tend to the kittens.
She didn’t know what to do, so she slid onto the floor, knelt, and prayed. She prayed for her mother, with gratitude that she was feeling better and seemed to be over the twenty-four-hour flu or whatever it was, and to figure out a way to trust Ryan or let him go.
She couldn’t hang in the limbo she’d been suspended in for the last days—feeling torn between her love for him and her fears.
Her prayers continued as she asked her Heavenly Father to guide all families to forgive each other for wrongs done, to reconnect, and celebrate the Christmas season in the light and love of their Lord and Savior.
As she rocked back on her heels, her phone buzzed. The caller ID indicated it was from the hospital. Her heart drummed and her stomach twisted as she answered.
“Hi, this is Dr. Mueller. Is this Rachel Moore?” The doctor’s voice was even.
“Yes, this is she,” Rachel croaked.
“I have some news regarding your mother.”
She swallowed, unable to speak.
“We received back the results of the tests we conducted to determine the efficacy of the trial treatments for her diagnosis.”
Rachel’s head spun. She feared the fever returned. She gripped the edge of the table. “Yes,” she managed.
“I have good news,” Dr. Mueller said.
A zing of energy shot through Rachel and she leaned forward.
“She’s not entirely cured, but everything is progressing in the right direction.” The doctor went on to explain about blood cell counts and other medical jargon.
All Rachel heard was that everything was progressing in the right direction.
“Are you still there?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, I am. Thank you.” Relief washed through Rachel followed by joy, by trust in her faith. The kittens appeared and rubbed her legs with their fuzzy little heads.
“We’re going to move her from critical care to the main floor, and in two days follow up with her progress. If everything continues to look good, and I believe it will, we’ll be able to send her home for Christmas. The intensive phase will be over and we’ll move onto management.”
Tears filled Rachel’s eyes. She yelped for joy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” All her excitement caused her cough to return even though she was feeling ninety-nine percent better.
The doctor warned her about the flu, getting her inoculation, and protecting her mother.
“Yes, of course,” she said with a smile. She was so happy she could dance.
When she got off the phone, she turned on some carols and together with the kittens, she rocked around the Christmas tree.
Whatever happened with Ryan, she would be okay. Her mom was getting better. Rachel knew their time wasn’t infinite—at least on earth—, but whatever happened next it wouldn’t be as shocking as getting the call from her mother and having to suddenly return home. They’d still have another holiday together and for that, she was eternally grateful.
After working up a sweat during her mini dance marathon, Rachel fed the cats, giving them a few extra treats. Afterward, she showered, washing away the residue of the fever.
Even though her mind, body, and heart were still on uncertain terms, she resolved to talk to Ryan. She owed him that and she owed it to herself. She wasn’t sure if she could trust him, but she did love him and just as she’d prayed when in the living room, it was time to at least reconcile for real.
As she dried her long red hair, she thought she heard the doorbell. Probably a delivery of some sort even though she wasn’t expecting anything. She knew they’d leave it on the stoop. When it sounded again, she turned off the blow dryer and went to the window that overlooked the driveway.
A large pickup truck was parked and a familiar figure walked slowly back to it. He wore the black and blue Boston Bruisers cap. She knocked on the window to get Ryan’s attention, but he must not have heard it as an actual delivery truck rattled by. She rushed downstairs, but he’d already pulled onto the road.
On the stoop, there was indeed a delivery: a box of cookies and a gift bag. Rachel bent over and picked it up as his truck’s taillights disappeared around the corner.
Rachel set the box and bag on the kitchen table. The bakery box was from Love from the Oven and contained twelve traditional Christmas cookies and one extra of a football-shaped sugar cookie with green and white icing, making it a baker’s dozen. She took a bite, the first thing she’d eaten since the day before. The buttery, vanilla flavor melted on her tongue. A delighted sigh escaped.
When she’d eaten every last crumb, saving the other twelve for later, she parted the decorative paper from the gift bag. Inside, was a slim brown journal with a pink ribbon dividing the pages along with a note. She tore open the envelope.
Dear Rachel,
I know I’m not perfect. Apparently, my mother knew that too. She was great at making scrapbooks of all us boys, but she’d also written us each a journal. Mine outlined what it was like to be pregnant with me, my birth, some funny stories from when I was little, and I dare say a few charming ones from when I was a bit older.
As you know, my father wanted to raise strong, respectable men who had their own careers and an understanding of what it was to serve our family, country, and God. I feel like I’ve come up short. Originally, when we turned forty, he intended to give us each our portion of the inheritance from his efforts. Well, that was cut short when he found out he was sick.
It turns out, Jack Kelly, as formidable a man as he was—and intended to raise us to be much the same—, also wanted us to know true love. To him, family was essential. Perhaps he’d seen how we’d thrown ourselves into our careers, walked (or ran) from commitment, or had our own fears and hang-ups about saying yes to the women we love.
You’d heard right a
bout us brothers having to marry by Christmas in order to receive our inheritance. If not, we’d lose funding from the Kelly Foundation to our charities.
While I don’t want anything to jeopardize what I’ve built, I would never marry you or anyone for money. That’s not who my father raised me to be. He just wanted to light a fire under us to take action. He knew how much I care about the kids in P.U.M.P.E.D.
Anyway, all of that is to say that I’ve been feeling less like a man and more like a boy, uncertain and afraid, but I owe you more than that. I owe you the man I really am. The one who’s strong, determined, and willing to fight, whatever it takes, for the woman I love. That woman is you.
And it was another woman, my mother, who reminded me of that.
Feel free to read the journal if you’re looking to shed a few tears and laugh. I did. But most importantly, I want you to read the page where the ribbon is.
When I was upset or troubled, I’d always ask my mother for advice. Instead of telling me some piece of wisdom, she’d ask me a question in response so I’d come up with my own answers to my problems. I thought without her around to do that, I couldn’t come up with solutions. Well, I was wrong.
It was on these pages I found the question I needed to hear.
The one that brought me to my own answer.
There’s only so much I can say.
So that leaves only one thing. Do.
I will show you how big and strong my love is for you no matter how long it takes. I will prove it today, tomorrow, Christmas, no matter if it takes the next sixty years.
If you made it this far, thank you for reading.
Love,
Ryan
Rachel gently held the old journal in her hand. Parting the cover felt strange as if she was looking at someone’s secret diary. The first page said, To Ryan, Read this when you’ve become the man you’re meant to be. Love, Mom