This is the part that kills me. He’s a good dad when he’s around and not working. He loves that little girl, but he screwed everything up, and that makes me hate him.
Rick leans down beside me so Cora can give me a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Mommy.”
“Bye, baby. Have fun,” I tell her.
“I hope you feel better, Logan,” Cora says.
“Thanks, kiddo.” Logan whimpers, falling backward into a pile of pillows and wrapping his arms around his stomach like he’s in pain.
Tiana smiles at me as if she’s broken down one of my barriers. I’ll let her think that for now, but I don’t forget that easily.
The house is empty except for Logan and me, and I’m watching him for a moment, gauging his level of discomfort. “You really want to go to the hospital?” I ask.
“I think so. I don’t know. Everything hurts.”
“What does everything consist of?”
“My head, stomach, back, neck, legs, and arms.” Yup, I guess that’s everything.
He’s on his side, so I make my way around the bed and climb in so I can rub his shoulders. Maybe if he relaxes a bit, some of the pain will subside. I didn’t have any pain when I was sick, so I’m not sure if he has the same thing.
I press my fingers into the muscle of his shoulders, then knead the areas with my fists. Almost instantly, I feel some of the tension in his body subside, and his head falls deeper into the pillow. “That feels nice,” he mumbles.
I continue massaging his shoulders and back until my hands become weak. As I pull away, I hear his breaths lingering softly. He’s asleep.
I want to curl up and join him, but I’m wide awake and focused on the TV replaying parts of a baseball game from last night.
The sight of baseball reminds me of this little secret Logan has been hiding inside his pants. What kind of injury would be so traumatic it caused him to both retire, and fear taking his pants off?
I look down at his legs that are tangled up in the sheets, suddenly wondering where he got those sweatpants from. Before I think too much, though, my lip snarls because I know exactly where they came from. Logan is wearing Rick’s sweatpants.
Please, make this stop.
Rick is a bit larger in the waist than Logan, which means the sweatpants must be loose on him.
I shouldn’t do this.
I should know what I’m getting into, though.
But, he’s asleep, and this might be considered some kind of necrophilia crap.
Though, I’d just be taking a look.
Then I could tell him I saw it, and it’s no big deal, and he doesn’t have to hide anymore. It sounds like the perfect solution to this problem. Whatever the problem is.
Logan’s quiet breaths are a bit heavier now, verging on a slight snore. He’s out cold. I roll off the other side of the bed, careful not to make any sudden movements or shake the mattress. I crawl around the side of the pull-out where I’m face to face with the lower half of Logan’s body. He’s curled up on his side, so I’m hoping it will make it easier for me to get a good look.
I slip my fingers gently beneath the waistband of his pants and pull them away. There isn’t much restriction since the pants are, in fact, loose. I create just enough of a gap for me to see what’s going on.
Okay, so first … why wouldn’t you be wearing boxers or briefs when wearing another man’s pants? I’m not complaining because it’s making things easier at the moment, but really, what would make a person want to do that?
I’ve already familiarized myself with his impressive ballpark sausage, but I haven’t met the ballpark itself. I reach down carefully to push his fella to the side, and as soon as I touch it, it pops up like a watchdog protecting its bones. I guess that’s one way of revealing what’s beneath the curtain. My gaze trails down the length of his leg, finding no scars or any other obvious disfigurement. So, what is the big deal?
Oh. Ohhhh. I tilt my head to get a better look at what I’m seeing. Oh, wow. That’s a big scar and a lot of loose skin. Oh no, poor Logan!
“What the—what are you—why would you? What is wrong with you?” Logan asks with a growl slicing through his throat. I fly backward, shocked that he’s awake, and mortified that I’ve been caught because I have no type of explanation I can follow this up with.
“I’m sorry,” I offer. “It’s just that Rick seemed to know, and Tiana was making weird comments. It’s like I was the only one who didn’t know what you were hiding down there.”
Logan sits up, pulling the pants tight around his waist. “You probably are the only person who didn’t know, Hannah. It was all over the goddamn news for a month.”
“Your love sack was all over the news?” Did I just say that out loud?
He nods his head and bites down on his lip. “Wow. I guess I should have just assumed you’d be like all the others. I actually thought I was lucky because I met an attractive woman who hates sports.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you. I say weird things when I get uncomfortable, and right now I’m uncomfortable.”
“I’m the one missing a ball, Hannah. I’m not sure why that would make you uncomfortable.”
Gee, I don’t know. I had my hands down your pants and was studying your anatomy while I thought you were asleep. No biggie. “Does it hurt?” What the hell kind of question is that? This obviously didn’t just happen last week.
“No, the accident was over a year ago.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.” And I can assume that’s not what he wants to hear.
“Well, let’s just get this out of the way first. The doctors said I’m most likely shooting blanks, so babies are out of the question.”
I don’t recall mentioning the topic in the week I’ve known him, or even considering the idea of a second child once in the past four years. Cora is more than enough for me to handle right now. I’m grateful for her, but I’m not jonesin’ for another baby. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was giving you that vibe, not that we were at a point where that should have been discussed. In any case, I wasn’t planning on having any more kids, so hopefully, that thought wasn’t going through your head about whatever was going on between us.”
“You don’t want another child?”
I shake my head without a thought. “No, Cora is my world, and maybe I’m selfish, but I don’t know if I have more room in my heart for a second child.” I hadn’t considered the topic after leaving Rick. It’s not like I’ve dipped my toes into the dating scene much this past year, and whatever I did experience never went past a first dinner. In the back of my head, I figured most men would be happy to hear I wasn’t looking to settle down as quick as possible so I could pop out some more kids before I’m too old.
“I wanted a baby,” he says. “I wanted a family—the full package.” I’m going to assume he intended that pun, but I’m ignoring it.
He wanted a baby. “I thought you said you had a baby …”
He points to his back, where I saw the tattoo, and my heart immediately begins to hurt. “Stillborn. Sierra Grier, five pounds, three ounces, and a full head of blonde curls. It destroyed my marriage. Then, to add insult to injury, my accident happened, and the dream of a baby for both my wife and me was more or less gone. That’s when she left me. There, that’s my story. Now you know everything. The injury forced me to retire early, and I’ve been sitting on my ass for over a year doing nothing. I needed something to fill my time, so I got a job.”
“I am so sorry,” I tell him. His story has me on the brink of tears, and I feel terrible for acting so ungrateful in the form of exhaustion with Cora. He must think I’m horrible. Being a single mom has been the hardest thing I’ve had to deal with, but I recognize that it’s nothing in comparison to a surviving a stillborn baby, and everything that came after it.
“I held her for a minute before she was taken away. I have that.”
“Logan, I don’t know what to say.” I don’t. Life is cruel and unforgiving, and
it’s not fair what he’s gone through and is still probably going through. I inhale sharply and look up at him through my blur of tears. “You don’t have to hide anything from me. We all have our scars, pasts, and haunting memories. I’ve convinced myself over the past year that the only thing that matters is what I do today, tomorrow, and every day after that. There are other ways of obtaining your dream, but broken hearts leave scars, and not even time can fix that sometimes. We just have to find the good parts of life to fill in some of the gaps.”
“Yeah, what you’re saying is everything I’ve thought,” he says. “I had too much time to think, though. It wasn’t a good thing.”
“I can’t imagine time alone to think helped.”
“Hannah, it’s like my man-card has been taken from me.”
“Because of a silly missing ball?” That doesn’t make him less of a man.
He looks at me like I’m crazy and missing some part of his point. “Well, yeah.”
“But, I mean, it makes your one ball special and unique, you know?” I say it with a straight face. I think it was just the first thing that came to mind. I’m a mom, I try to make everything better. It’s my job.
He’s looking back at me with the same straight face, waiting for me to crack up or follow it with something else, but that’s all I should say. Nothing good will follow, I’m sure.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m as serious as a bag of uncracked nuts.”
Logan throws his head back and folds his arm over his face to cover his smile and laughter. “You really don’t care about this, do you?”
“Everyone has their thing or lack thereof. I do care about your baby. That’s different, but your ball … I don’t think you should focus so much on it.”
He peeks out from under his arm. “Are you done?”
“Yes, but how are you suddenly not in pain anymore?”
He recovers his face, followed by a groan. “I feel better.”
“You felt better last night,” I tell him.
“Yeah, and then I remembered I said I’d take my pants off when I felt better.”
“Do you know what you’re making me sound like right now?”
“A sex addict?” he replies with a grin.
“It has been a long year,” I sigh. “I’m not an addict, but you showed interest, and I had hope.”
“So, that’s all you want with me? Sex.”
“No.” I want it all. I want a mutual feeling of care and love with a man. I want someone who doesn’t need to go looking elsewhere for a good time when I’m at home waiting for them. I didn’t realize it was a lot to ask for, but clearly, it is.
“What do you want?”
“I’m not sure, but this living alone as a single mom crap sucks. It’s not my thing.”
“You’re doing a great job if it’s any consolation.”
“Pfft. You can’t tell that after a week of knowing me.”
“I’m a good judge of character,” he says.
“We’ll go with that. So, what now, Logan? Where do we stand with each other?”
“TV?”
I climb up on the bed and slip under the covers with him. “Hey?”
“Yeah?” he replies.
“If you’re feeling better, why were you on all fours when I walked in the house?”
“Uh—” I don’t know if I like the reason for his pause.
“Spit it out …”
“Cora came downstairs, and Rick and I were shouting at the TV—we were watching a recap of the game from last night. She called us out on being sick.”
“So, you tricked my daughter into thinking you were still sick … by acting like a dying cat?”
“Yeah, I think I scared her a little.”
“You scared me a little.”
“I never said I was a good actor.”
“True. Okay, next question. What happened to your ball?” I’m just going to throw it out there. “Or, should I Google your name?”
“I must say, I’m a little surprised you haven’t already Googled my name. You strike me as that crazy type.” I am that crazy type, but with the stomach flu and man flu all in one week, I haven’t had much time to do my typical man stalking.
“You have me pegged wrong,” I lie.
“Go ahead and Google me. You’ll have all your answers and more.”
19
Sunday is for balls … err
Logan decided to go home yesterday as I was opening the Google browser. I don’t need to wonder why, but he is the one who suggested I go look. He told me he’d see me at work on Monday, so I didn’t say a whole lot because I was caught off guard. To be fair, he was at my house for almost two days, so maybe it was just time for him to go. It didn’t take me long to realize I don’t have his phone number, and he doesn’t have mine. Therefore, our unorthodox date that lasted way too long must have ended up being one of those kinds of dates—one where we pretend it never happened when we run into each other—or in our case, see each other at the office tomorrow. This could be an interesting, and awkward, week at work. What was I thinking? Maybe the flu virus I had impaired my ability to make rational decisions. Yeah, that must be it.
It never fails, the one day my house is quiet, I’m up by eight and ready for a full day of errands and Sunday have-tos. Why can’t I sleep in? I really need the rest, but my brain is in overdrive.
After debating it all afternoon and night yesterday, I still haven’t decided whether I should I Google Logan or just let the story slide. My imagination is already doing a number on me, so I’m kind of hopeful that what I’m assuming happened is a lot worse than what happened, but I know there’s only one way to find out the truth. It’s inevitable that I’ll eventually look, so I might as well get it over with.
I sit down at my desk up in my loft and wait for the laptop to boot up. I have my fourth cup of coffee of the day, a blanket, and quiet, the perfect components for taking the time to reflect on this past week of my life. Last Sunday, I was hustling around to get the grocery shopping completed, laundry done, and the house clean. My life was normal and lame as it always has been. If I knew what the week had in store for me, I might have called out sick from work for the week.
“Come on, hurry up, you damn laptop.”
My fingers stumble across the keyboard as I type his name into the search bar and watch the little circle thingy spin while it searches the Internet for a lost ball.
Pages and pages of Logan Grier pop up, and I can’t imagine how I managed to miss hearing about this. There are articles and videos on all the major news and social media outlets, including Facebook and Twitter. I’m a loser.
I open the top link since it’s apparently the most popular, and I’m greeted by this headline:
Chapter 20
One Foul Ball for Another
Ouch. Don’t they know the athletes will see these stupid headlines? Assholes. I’m guessing they all still have their balls intact.
Last night, at the top of the ninth inning, Logan Grier was up to bat when a slider pitch came in at eighty-five miles per hour. It looked as though Grier was preparing to let it fly, but didn’t decide in time. The ball made contact with the bat and ricocheted off of his right foot before bouncing directly upward into an unfortunate bodily location. Grier was knocked out cold, clearly not protected properly by his gear. He was quickly carried off the field on a stretcher, and we are still waiting on a final diagnosis of his injury, but at this time, things aren’t looking good for Grier and his career.
There’s footage. I don’t know if I can watch. My muscles are hard as stone right now at the thought of what happened. I’m aware I don’t have that body part, but I know how sensitive that area is for men, and the thought of being hit there in those dangling parts makes me cringe.
Like any car accident, though, I can’t stop myself from clicking play.
As Logan walks up to the plate, I notice a look on his face I haven’t seen before. I can’t tell if it’s pride,
or maybe just a different kind of happiness. It’s hard not to admire what he looks like in his uniform, the way his pants hug his muscles, and the bands on his wrists accentuate his dark tanned muscles. I can only see one side of his profile, but it’s pretty much the definition of perfection. He’s covered with some of the reddish dirt from the encircling field, and it accents his appearance like a halo. Wow, he looks amazing. The pitcher throws the first ball, and Logan prepares to swing but stops. His forearms tighten, and his hand grips the bat a little tighter.
How could I not have ever been a baseball fan? It just got a lot hotter in here. This Logan is completely different from the Logan I know right now. Not that I know him well, but it’s like he’s two different people. The crowd is screaming his name, and the video switches to the stands where the crowd is watching, enraptured. They love him. Here I am, not knowing who the hell he really is, and he’s been staying in my house for two days. Maybe because I wasn’t drooling all over him, he found me intriguing.
The announcer begins talking about the pitcher winding up, and—I can’t do this. I can’t watch him get hurt. I won’t be able to un-see it, and it’s all I’ll be thinking about the next time I see him.
I hit pause and close out of the search engine. My mind is everywhere but mostly centered on how life managed to bring Logan and me together in such a peculiar way. I mean, it all started when he got assigned to my office as a temp. Then he wanted to have lunch with me. Nothing was coincidental. He had intentions, but what were they if he didn’t want me to know his secret? I love how men think women are so confusing, yet I’ve spent more time scratching my head over the men in my life than those men have probably spent scratching their balls. It’s not right.
I head down to the kitchen, grab my phone off the center island, and text Brielle. I don’t usually send her messages on the weekends, but I need to know if she knew about Logan. Maybe I’m the only one in the world who didn’t know who he was or what happened to him. The whole “living under a rock” thing I’ve been doing since Rick and I divorced doesn’t always bode well for me.
The Man Cave Collection: Manservant, Man Flu, Man Handler, and Man Buns Page 49