Gray's Girl

by Mina Carter

  Shrugging, he’d offered a small smile. “But history is littered with accounts of little old ladies lifting cars off of their grandchildren, soldiers who don’t let little things like mortal wounds stand in the way of making that last charge to defeat the enemy. It’s amazing what the human mind can do, even if the body shouldn’t be capable of it.”

  He’d gone on to outline a likely recovery plan, warning her that they had a long, hard road ahead and there was no guarantee that Leighton would walk properly after it. Neither of them mentioned rugby, but the fact that he might never play again hung in the room like a specter waiting to join the party.

  It didn’t matter to her if he didn’t. Didn’t matter if he always had a limp and had to walk with a cane as the doctor warned. Her gut clenched at the thought of how different it could have turned out. How a random turn of events could have stolen their future together. But it hadn’t. He was here. Her hero had made it through and he was safe. Alive. With her.

  Exhaustion and the medication they had her on pulled at her body, her eyelids drifting down as she gently stroked the back of his hand. They’d said it would be a while before he woke, but she didn’t want to leave him in case. With a sigh, she leaned over the bed, resting her forehead on the covers next to his hand. Just a few minutes’ nap and she’d be good.

  The movement of her hand over his slowed as she relaxed, dropping into that comfortable fuzzy feeling that signaled oncoming sleep. The scent of the flower arrangement on the cupboard opposite wafted over to her, covering the more medical smells of the room. If she ignored the soft bleeps of the monitors, she could almost believe that they were at home, curled up in bed.

  “Ms. Cross?”

  The sound of a tentative male voice brought her back out of her light doze before she could slip fully into sleep. Feeling a frown crease her brow, she sat up, blinking sleep away to look at the two men who had appeared in the doorway to Leighton’s room.

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  Her gaze flicked from one to the other in assessment. They were dressed smartly, in casual clothes with jeans and jackets over shirts, but there was something about their manner. Plainclothes police, if she didn’t miss her mark, a guess borne out as both removed wallets and flashed warrant cards.

  “Hi there, I’m DC Jerry Campbell, this is DC Matt Newton,” the taller of the two said quietly as he came into the room. “We’d like to chat to you for a couple of minutes, if you’re feeling up to it?”

  “Oh. Yes, no problem.”

  She sat up straighter, feeling tired and crumpled despite the new cotton nightwear and robe Damon had brought in for her to replace the hospital gown she had been wearing. She hadn’t asked, but assumed the clothes she had been wearing were ruined by the crash.

  “Thank you. Are we okay in here?” Jerry asked as he turned the chair by the bed around to face her. His gaze flicked from her to the sleeping Leighton on the bed. “How’s he doing? I saw him play in the international last year. Amazing, just amazing. The opposition didn’t stand a chance once he got going.”

  Her lips curved in a fond smile. Seemed Leighton had fans everywhere, even in the police force.

  “Yeah, he’ll be out for a while yet. And he’s doing good, thanks. The doctors say they managed to repair a lot of the damage but until…” She shrugged. “Like anything, we won’t know for sure what’s going on until he heals.”

  Jerry nodded, head bobbing in understanding as he sat down, his partner finding a chair at the end of the bed. “Yeah…for sure. Well, I hope he makes a good, swift recovery. Wouldn’t be right watching the Wolves play without him. He and Cross…they make a good team. Your brother’s a good player as well.”

  “He is, yeah. And they do. Although I’ve only seen them play together a couple of times. Wasn’t really my thing, you know, before we got together.” She trailed off, more awake now and looked at the detective directly. “So how can I help you? I’ve already given a statement about the crash to Uniform. Was there something you needed to check?”

  Jerry paused for a moment, looking at his hands as though trying to think how to phrase something. After a second or two, he looked up and speared her with a bright blue gaze. Direct. Honest. Good qualities in a detective.

  “Yes, we have your statement and it was very helpful for our investigations, thank you. But it’s not that we’re here about. As you know, in an RTA, Road Traffic Accident, we have to look into any and all possible causes. Since it was Mr. Gray’s car that caused the accident due to brake failure, we obviously had to start there.”

  She nodded. So far that seemed reasonable, par for the course. “I remember him saying he had no brakes and trying everything he could to stop. He ran the car against the curb for a start, but it didn’t stop…then… I don’t remember much. I’m sorry.”

  Jerry smiled softly. “No, no. That’s fine. You were lucky Mr. Gray is such a good driver. Running off the speed on the curb undoubtedly helped to save both your lives. It’s just the matter of the brake failure that concerns us.”

  Wariness threaded through her. “Well, it had to have been a mechanical failure or something. He keeps…kept that car in top condition. It had only just come out of the garage for a service, so I know it had to have been mechanically sound.”

  Jerry was nodding, but the look on his face was grim. “Don’t get me wrong; we’re not trying to suggest Mr. Gray was in any way negligent. Not at all. But our guys found something quite disturbing when they looked over the wreckage of the car. They’re telling me that the brake lines were cut. Deliberately.”

  The last word dropped into the sudden silence in the room. She looked at them in complete shock as the world yawned beneath her like the deck of a ship on the high seas.

  “But… Oh.”

  Belatedly she remembered to shut her mouth, teeth closing together with a click as what he was saying sank in. Someone had tried to kill them. Had very nearly succeeded. She frowned in confusion. But why? Who would want them dead? She lifted her eyes, catching Jerry’s gaze again and waited for the next question. She’d seen enough cop dramas to know the routine.

  “We have a suspect in custody.”

  The statement was soft, but not the one she was expecting. That wasn’t how it went. They were supposed to ask if she and Leighton had any enemies. If they knew anyone who would want to hurt them.

  Her voice little more than a whisper, she had to push the word out. “Who…?”

  “Robert Ward.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We believe he tampered with the brakes on Mr. Gray’s car, and we have evidence that he set the fire at your flat a couple of weeks ago as well.” Jerry reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing in reassurance. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Cross. I know you and he were close…but we have to ask. Did he show any indication he wanted to hurt you or Mr. Gray?”

  Robby had tried to kill her. The words echoed around in her head with a sickening clang.

  “No.” She started to shake her head, then stopped and frowned.

  “Hang on, I have had a couple of strange texts recently. I thought they were just someone messing about and had the wrong number—”

  Nausea rose, sharp and immediate to steal her breath. Hot and cold chills raced over her skin as Jerry’s words sank in properly.

  “They’re all on my phone. My brother has it, I think,” she managed, clutching tighter to Leighton’s hand as tears welled in her eyes. It was all her fault. Robby had—

  Breathing carefully, she looked at the two policemen, her expression hard. “Please, ask him for it. You’re also free to go through my apartment, see if anything there helps you. Again, you’d need to ask my brother for the key. It’s at Leighton’s apartment. Anything you need, just as long as you nail the bastard.”

  “Believe me, Ms. Cross, it would be our pleasure.” Jerry smiled, his expression mirrored by his partner as they both stood. “You just concentrate on getting better, and looking after Big L there.
We’ll deal with Mr. Ward. You can count on it.”

  * * *

  The world was painted in shades of gray. Comfortable shades. Fluffy like a warm duvet as he floated in a warm sea of cotton wool. A soft bleep broke through his pleasant dream and he grumbled. Damn alarm was getting earlier. It couldn’t be time to get up yet, surely? Trying to shift his arm to hit Snooze, he was stopped by a warm weight over his hand and wrist.

  “C’mon, Frankie, move. Need to get to training,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

  Just the mention of her name started to burn the fuzz out of his brain. The comfortable duvet got thinner, became sheets and blankets as the beeping changed from the shrill, insistent demand of the alarm to a softer, continuous sound. Like a heartbeat.

  His heartbeat in electronic form.

  The smell hit him next. That god-awful “clean” smell of a hospital and in the blink of an eye he put it together. He was in hospital. The crash. Memory slammed into him, granting him an exclusive rerun in wide-screen high definition.

  The lights, pain, tumbling through the air as the windscreen shattered on the tarmac. Pain lancing through him as he pulled them free…the scene shifted. Medical staff swarmed around him. A woman in a mask, bright blue eyes sincere as she held his hand. “Mr. Gray, we’re taking you into surgery. Frankie’s okay…you just hold in there, big guy.”

  He snapped his eyes open to a view of a ceiling. Neat white squares lay in a grid, just the edges rising from the shadows. Neat green walls, a window with drawn blinds in the same color. Calming, tranquil. Serene. A bouquet of flowers sat on a cupboard to the side of the bed, riotous colors muted by the shadows, like a veil had been drawn over a vivid still life. Their scent permeated the air as a soft breeze rattled the blinds at the window, masking the ubiquitous hospital smell.

  He turned his attention to the weight on his hand and smiled. Frankie lay half across the bed, her cheek resting on his forearm. She was bundled in a dressing gown, her dark hair loose over the bedclothes. Dark bags shadowed under her eyes, and there was a bruise on one high cheekbone, but she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her skin felt like silk as he trailed a fingertip down her cheek, savoring the moment. They’d come so close…

  Hand dropping back to the covers he closed his eyes for a second. The tented area around his leg hadn’t escaped his attention but it was the signals from his body he was more interested in. The fuzzy feeling he discounted. He’d been in surgery, so they’d have him on painkillers and God alone knew what else. He tried to tense his leg muscles, to test what was going on down there.

  His thigh flexed just fine but when he tried his calf pain tore through his leg, making him tense. Not agony, more a “fuck off and don’t try that again, mate” kind of pain. In reply, his side pulled, the feeling of stitches and something not quite right there as well warning him to be careful. Fuck. Leg injuries were bad news; add in a side injury and he was likely to be out for months, if not all of the next season.

  Breathing through his nose, he rode the pain out and waited for it to settle down. Instantly he started to sort through what he was going to do. Injuries were injuries. It wasn’t uncommon for a player to be out for months, even a year, to heal. Most of them took damage on the pitch rather than on the road, but it ended in the same result. At least he could feel the leg; he hadn’t lost it. Just needed to wait for the doc’s verdict on how long he’d be out.

  Grimly, he forced himself to face the worst-case scenario. What if he couldn’t play again? Instead of the panic he expected, a sense of peace washed over him. He had enough saved, and insurance. If he couldn’t play, he could coach. Get more involved in grassroots rugby. Teaching kids to play and love the game as he did had always interested him.

  And he had Frankie. God willing, she’d say yes when he asked her to marry him.

  The door was pushed open, the slight noise making him look up. A nurse bustled in, clipboard in her arms, and smiled as she saw he was awake.

  “Hey there. How are you feeling?” Her query was soft as she put the clipboard on the bed and checked the machines around him.

  “Groggy,” he admitted, his voice rough and rasping from disuse. “How long has she been here?”

  Her gaze followed his to the woman sleeping across the bed and she smiled.

  “Your fiancée? She refused to leave until you woke up. Dr. Anderson got quite annoyed with her at one point, but she was very stubborn.”

  “Oh yes, she is that.” Gray chuckled, stroking Frankie’s hair again. Under his touch, she started to stir. Pleasure filled him at the fact she was calling herself his fiancée. Hopefully it was a clue she wanted to fill that role for real.

  “If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll leave you guys to it.” The nurse picked up her clipboard. “Just hit the button if you need anything. More painkillers or if there’s a problem. I’ll be at the station down the hall.”

  “Thanks, will do.” He nodded, all his attention on Frankie as she lifted her head and blinked sleepily at him. As soon as she saw he was awake, her eyes widened and she sat up.

  “Leigh…oh, thank God. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?”

  “No, sweetheart, I’m good. All the better for waking up and finding you here. Come here.” He didn’t need to urge her twice; she was already standing to get on the bed next to him as he lifted his arm to make room for her. Wrapping his arms around her with a sigh, he buried his face into the curve of her shoulder and held on.

  “I nearly lost you—”

  “It’s my fault—”

  They both spoke at once, a chaotic jumble of words. He pulled back, smoothing her hair back to look into her face.

  “Let’s start again, shall we? The crash wasn’t your fault. I had my attention on the road. There was something wrong with the brakes.”

  She nodded, her eyes twin pools of darkness and hurt. “Yeah, they arrested Robby. He cut the brake lines, tried to kill us. Me. Tried to kill me. The police said he had a life insurance policy out on me.”

  “’Scuse me?” He looked at her, stunned, feeling the rage building up like a storm behind a damn wall. He grabbed her, dragged her into his arms to plant gentle kisses against her temple.

  “It’s all my fault you were hurt. He was after me, not you.” Her soft whisper rang with misery and guilt. “I don’t blame you if you don’t want anything to do with me ever again. The doctors…they said you migh—”

  He cut her off with a soft kiss. Nothing hot and heavy, but lingering enough to get her attention and give a hint of the emotions surging through him.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. We… I can cope with anything, Frankie. As long as I have you. As long as we’re together.” He looked her directly in the eye, his hand in her hair as the other one smoothed down her arm.

  “I know I’m supposed to get down on one knee for this, but give me a break on that this once?”

  Taking a deep breath, he played his last card. The only card that mattered.

  “Frankie Cross, will you marry me?”

  Stunned pleasure crossed her face, like the sun breaking through the clouds. With a squeal, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. The weight of her body was slight against his but still drove the air from his lungs, an indicator of how weak he was at the moment.

  But it didn’t matter; as he pulled her tighter in his embrace, peace settled over him. Whatever happened, however long his recovery was…whether he ever played again…none of that mattered.

  Gray had his girl, and he was never letting her go.

  Epilogue

  “And it’s Lamont with the ball…Knox and Ross from the Kings challenging. Lamont is down…Stone and Church with him. Ohhh, big hits there. These lads are really going to feel this tomorrow. The Kings are looking for turnover…less than two minutes on the clock, they can’t afford to give the Wolves an opening…”

  Tension mounted in the packed stadium as the announcer kept up his r
unning commentary on the game. Thousands of fans held their breath as the action unfolded on the pitch below them, worshippers held in thrall before an altar of emerald green turf and the gods battling it out below. Behind goalposts that reached for the heavens, the clock ticked down, each second stretching out to infinity.

  “Chaney and Garrison are in support. Does Lamont have… Yeah, there we go,” the commentator announced excitedly as the big screen zoomed in on the pile of bodies on the ground. A hand extended from beneath, extending the ball to the rear as the opposition surged against the heap of players, trying to get over the top of the men on the ground and to the ball but being rebuffed by the two heavyset men protecting it like old-world sentinels.

  Frankie held her breath as another man thundered up to the back, hands on the soldiers of the sentinels, to hook the ball gently backward with his foot. She winced as he was shown on the big screen.

  His face and body was smeared with dirt, a cut on his cheekbone bleeding, and his other eye was darkening with the beginnings of a vicious bruise…all shown in high-definition. If either hurt, he didn’t show it, concentration and grim determination etched on his face as he shot a glance backward to check where his teammates were. Opening his mouth, he yelled orders that were lost, the view on the screen visual only, and the Wolves in their black and gray sweaters spread out across the pitch as they were supposed to.

  “Cross is up there at the breakdown. He’s delaying…he needs to use it or lose it—”

  The words cut off as Damon leaned down and snatched the ball up from the floor. Dropping his shoulder he ran straight at the opposition line, low to the ground and fast.

  “Cross is going for it. DeMarcos coming up—No, we have Gray…Leighton Gray is coming up fast on the outside. It’s Cross to DeMarcos…to Gray…”

  Frankie surged to her feet, the rest of the stadium going wild as the Wolves’ favorite son returned to action in blazing form. Tears and hope filled her eyes as the camera picked up her husband sprinting up from the outside of the pitch. Blond hair loose and flowing around his shoulders, he slid past an opposition player to drop into place as Damon turned and passed the ball. It hit him in the center of his broad chest, caught and tucked under his arm tight as he focused on the line.