After The Fire (One Pass Away Book 3)
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AFTER THE FIRE
ONE PASS AWAY BOOK THREE
~
MARY J. WILLIAMS
Copyright © 2016 MARY J. WILLIAMS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Writing isn’t easy. But I love every second. A blank screen isn’t the enemy. It is an opportunity to create new friends and take them on amazing adventures and life-changing journeys. I feel blessed to spend my days weaving tales that are unique—because I made them.
Billionaires. Songwriters. Artists. Actors. Directors. Stuntmen. Football players. They fill the pages becoming dear friends I hope you will want to revisit again and again.
Thank you for jumping into my books and coming along for the journey.
HOW TO GET IN TOUCH
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MORE BOOKS BY MARY J. WILLIAMS
Harper Falls Series
If I Loved You
If Tomorrow Never Comes
If You Only Knew
If I Had You (Christmas in Harper Falls)
Hollywood Legends Series
Dreaming with a Broken Heart
Dreaming with My Eyes Wide Open
Dreaming Again (Coming in July)
One Pass Away Series
After the Rain
After All These Years
TABLE OF CONTENTS
About the Author
How to Get in Touch
More Books by Mary J. Williams
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Coming Soon
An Excerpt From After the Rain
An Excerpt From After All These Years
About the Author
How to Get in Touch
PROLOGUE
SHE HAD ONCE asked him if he believed in a higher power.
God? Buddha? Fairies dancing around a blazing fire late at night? Something. Anything bigger than us.
Gaige Benson hadn’t known what to say. Not then. But as he stood in the empty open-air stadium—the stars lighting the evening sky—he knew the answer.
Football was his religion. The field he played on and the building surrounding it, his cathedral. If a higher power had a hand in it, then his answer was yes.
He believed.
Walking to the center of the field, Gaige took it all in. He found football at the age of thirteen. A boy who saw his future mapped out. Working in a factory. Drinking away his salary. Divorce. Doling out child support without maintaining a relationship with his children. A weekend father, who half the time didn’t bother to show up.
The first time Gaige picked up a football, he felt a connection. The first time he threw it, it wobbled with the grace of a drunk leaving his favorite watering hole on a Saturday night. But it didn’t matter. He threw the ball again. And again. Until he taught himself to make it spin in a perfect spiral.
At the time, Gaige didn’t know his talent could be useful. Where he came from, Brooklyn kids didn’t dream of bigger or better. Most of them didn’t dream at all. Gaige was no different.
One day he was passing a playground when a football landed at his feet. The boys on the field yelled for him to toss it back. Without thinking, Gaige sent it sailing, a perfect strike. Then kept walking. He was wary of the man who ran after him. Strangers were the enemy—according to his father. They either wanted money or accused you of something you hadn’t done.
Gaige took everything his father said with a big grain of salt. Don Benson didn’t have a dime to his name. Why would anyone expect to get money from him? And if a man accused his father of something, chances were he was guilty.
But Gaige was a cautious boy. He fought when necessary and ran when he had no choice. The man trying to get his attention was big. His dark complexion didn’t worry Gaige. In his experience, a man was either good or bad. The color of his skin had nothing to do with it.
It turned out that this man wasn’t simply good. He was the best thing that ever happened to Gaige.
Terrance Aldridge coached the local Pop Warner football team. A boy with an arm like Gaige’s shouldn’t let his talent go to waste. Gaige listened. Play football? On a field? With other boys? Was such a thing possible? He didn’t know if it were a scam—nor did he care. If there were the slightest chance, he would take it.
The only obstacle was getting a parent’s permission. Terrance gave him the papers to be signed, telling Gaige to have his folks call him if they had any questions. Gaige didn’t laugh aloud, but he wanted to. His mother never asked questions. Unless they were directed at his father. Wynona Benson hadn’t made a move in fifteen years unless she received permission first.
His father was another matter. His word was law. Don Benson could do no wrong. If he drank too much and staggered home two days late, it was his right. If he backhanded his wife—just because—whose business was it? He earned the money. He made the rules. End of discussion.
Gaige hadn’t asked his father because he knew what the answer would be. No! Not because he thought there was anything wrong with football. He watched it every Sunday—after laying down a bet that he never won. No, he wouldn’t let Gaige play because he was a mean bastard who wanted everyone to be as miserable as he was.
Gaige got around it easily enough. He forged his father’s signature. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. There was no reason to think anyone would find out. His parents didn’t care how he spent his days as long as the police didn’t come knocking on the door.
He could steal. Lie. Cheat. Hell, his father wouldn’t bat an eye at murder. Do what you want as long as you don’t get caught. The mantra at the Benson house.
Gaige had no intention of his father finding out. He tried out for the team and made it. The money for equipment was another matter. Gaige didn’t steal. Or cheat. Lying was a necessary evil. He would have done almost anything to play but it looked like his first and only dream would die before it had a chance.
Luckily, Terrance was able to dip into a discretionary fund to help boys like Gaige. It rankled to take charity. Especially when the other boys on the team had families to pay their way.
“Don’t let it stop you, Gaige,” Terrance told him. “Remember. And one day, when you have the means, pay it forward, son.”
Twenty-five years later, Gaige hadn’t forgotten that kindness and generosity. When he saw someone in need, he did something about it. Over the years, the Gaige Benson Foundation paid out millions of dollars to charities and individuals. He had filled the board with people he trusted and could count on to distribute the funds judiciously and without prejudice. The first man he had recruited was the man to whom Gaige owed everything—Terrance Aldridge. Friend. Father figure. Teacher.
“Hey, Gaige.” Logan Price called out from high in the stands. “You coming? The guys are waiting to go to dinner.”
“Fi
ve minutes.”
Closing his eyes, Gaige breathed in the air. February in Texas. Tomorrow he would play in his first—and last Super Bowl. Win or lose, he was hanging up his cleats. He was thirty-eight years old. He had more money than he would ever need. He had won every award from Rookie of the Year to league MVP—four times.
This season he put everything on the line to get here—including the possibility that he had lost the only woman he had ever loved.
Gaige Benson was known for his razor-sharp focus. Any distractions off the field were left there as soon as the first whistle blew. It wouldn’t be any different tomorrow. Nothing would get in the way.
His gaze drifted to the section where she would be sitting. If she showed up. Gaige planned on going out a winner. But what about the day after? Or the day after that? His future stretched out in front of him. He had plans in place. There were hundreds of options for him to consider.
Do you believe in a higher power?
Her voice and that question had haunted Gaige for almost sixteen years. If there were a God, he prayed the woman he loved would find it in her heart to forgive him. He had a lot of years left. He didn’t want to spend them alone.
In his lifetime, Gaige Benson had dreamt of only two things. Playing football. And loving Violet Reed.
CHAPTER ONE
SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER
“Keep your nose clean, Gaige. Training camp begins in three weeks. The Knights need you. But that starting job isn’t a gimme.”
“Relax, Walter. I signed the contract. Forty-six million dollars. Half of which is guaranteed. Seattle can’t take it, or my bonus, back.”
“It’s a shitload of money. But the gravy train has just begun. Endorsements. That’s where you’ll make your fortune. Trust me—Wheaties wants the all-American golden boy. No DUIs. No fights. And please,” Walter emphasized, “no unplanned pregnancies.”
Gaige snorted. “I can’t get anyone in trouble when I’m living like a goddamned monk, Walter.”
Walter Crenshaw looked at his client with the eyes of a man who had seen more athletes come and go than he cared to remember. He was a sports agent. For thirty years, he had represented the good, the bad, and the irredeemable. But Gaige Benson was his first potential superstar.
The real deal. A blond Adonis with a cannon for an arm. Gaige had it all. Looks. Personality. And the rarest commodity of all—brains. He never put a foot wrong because he understood what was at stake. His future was reliant on two things. A strong, durable body and absolute tunnel vision.
However, when a man was young, rich, and looked like Gaige Benson, it was foolish not to enjoy a reasonable amount of what life had to offer.
“What happened to…” Walter frowned. “What was her name? The little brunette cheerleader with the big pom-poms.”
“I haven’t seen Camilla since before graduation. She wanted the one thing I wasn’t willing to give her.”
“What was that?”
Walter knew the answer. It was the same thing all these college girlfriends wanted when they dated an athlete. A big diamond. A big house. In other words, built-in security. Catching a man like Gaige Benson was the brass ring. Marrying him brought a huge bonus. The cache of being the wife of an NFL quarterback.
The last thing Gaige needed was a grasping woman with reality TV stardom in her eyes. Walter held his breath as he waited for his client’s answer.
“An engagement ring.”
Yes! Walter mentally high-fived himself.
“A steady girlfriend is nice, Gaige. But you’re only twenty-two years old. When you’re named starting quarterback of the Seattle Knights, you’ll be in rarified air. You think you had it made in college? This is the NFL. Women will fall from the trees—legs spread and begging for it.”
Shaking his head, Gaige laughed. “You paint quite the picture, Walter. The problem is I need to get laid. Now.”
Walter couldn’t imagine that was a problem. Gaige didn’t need fame and fortune to attract a woman. Mother nature had blessed him with an overabundance of good looks. When Gaige walked into a room, heads turned—and jaws hit the floor. He was a big man. Six foot four. His shoulders were broad and his hips lean. Add to that gold hair and crystal clear green eyes, he checked off every item on any woman’s wish list.
“All I’m asking is that you use some discretion.”
Walter knew that Gaige understood the meaning of the word. Unlike some of his clients, he even knew how to spell it. Lord, he was tired of dealing with uneducated cretins. All the more reason to keep his golden boy on the straight and narrow.
The intercom on Walter’s desk buzzed.
“Yes, Melissa?”
“There’s a phone call for Mr. Benson. It’s his mother and she says it’s an emergency.”
When Gaige nodded, Walter told his secretary to put the call through. With a sigh, Gaige took the phone from him.
“Mom?” Gaige frowned, his voice calming. “Stop crying and take a deep breath. What happened?”
Walter watched with growing concern. Gaige rarely spoke of his parents, but it wasn’t a close relationship. As far as he knew, neither had ever seen their son play. Never. Not in high school, or at Yale. For his mother to call, it had to be serious.
“I’ll be there as soon as possible. Yes, I promise.”
Gaige, his face devoid of emotion, hung up the phone.
“I need to get on the next plane to New York.”
“All right. I’ll have Melissa make the arrangements.” Walter spoke quickly to his secretary, then turned back to Gaige. “Is your mother ill?”
“No. My father was in a car accident.”
“Oh, my God.” Walter stood, ready to lend support. “I’m sorry. How serious is it?”
Gaige’s green eyes turned to ice. “Unfortunately, the bastard is expected to make a full recovery.”
THE BROOKLYN NEIGHBORHOOD hadn’t changed in four years. The corner grocery store had the same sign touting fresh produce. Gaige knew it for a fact because when he was eleven, he was the one who had drawn the gigantic handlebar mustache in the corner. He had used red ink—permanent, according to the packaging. Apparently, the company that made the marker knew what they were talking about. It blazed as brightly as it had the day he put it there.
Some would find that comforting. A touchstone to their childhoods. It made Gaige slightly sick to his stomach. To be fair, the feeling had started before he left Los Angeles.
As the cab drove down the same streets on which Gaige ran wild for the first thirteen years of his life, all he could think about was the last time he set foot here.
It was the day he left for Yale. Gaige was eighteen with a full-ride football scholarship burning a hole in his pocket. He had done it. That little kernel of a dream that he had silently nurtured had poked its head out of the soil, stretching toward the sun.
That scholarship was the next step. Gaige had been given four years to make the dream grow. If he continued to work hard—and with a little luck—the day would come when it would burst into full bloom. The day he took the field and played in his first NFL game.
If Gaige had had his way, he would have left Brooklyn the second class let out on his last day of high school. It was his plan. But for some reason, his mother decided she had to see her baby graduate. She pleaded with Gaige to walk across the stage with the rest of his class and accept his diploma.
Maybe it had been the tears in her eyes. Maybe it was because it was the only thing she had ever asked of him. Maybe it was the sneer his father sent his way when she showed Gaige the freshly pressed graduation gown. Whatever his motivation, he stuck around seven more days—avoiding the house, and his father, as much as possible.
Don Benson loved to taunt his son. Words became his only weapon when Gaige grew too big and too strong for him to beat. The last time he lifted a fist to knock some respect into the boy, Gaige caught the hand in mid-swing, squeezing until his father staggered back, clutching his aching fingers. His eyes hel
d the look of shock, and a little fear. He suddenly realized the little boy on whom he had so easily taken out his frustrations, had grown into a young man.
At fifteen, Gaige topped his father by several inches. Their weights were similar. But Don Benson carried a beer gut that grew in circumference each year. Gaige was young and fit. His body lithe and muscular. In a fight, it would be no contest.
Gaige could defend himself. His mother was another matter. Don stopped hitting her when Gaige was around. But he couldn’t be there all the time. He would come home to find her sporting a black eye, swearing up and down that she walked into the door. Gaige warned his father. But Wynona Benson was the problem. She refused to admit that her husband beat her. She wouldn’t go to the police and she wouldn’t leave. She wouldn’t budge, no matter how Gaige tried to convince her.
“You think going to that fancy school will make you better than me?”
Gaige could still hear the final words his father had spoken to him. Don Benson had stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him pack his suitcase.
“Football.” Don spit out the word. It was ten in the morning and he already had three beers under his belt. “Good luck making a dime. Chances are, you’ll blow out your shoulder and end up right back where you started—tail between your legs. Well, don’t think I’ll be waiting with a welcome home banner, boy. When you walk out that door, it will be for the last time.”
“You don’t get it, old man.” Gaige rounded on his father. He no longer enjoyed the spark of fear in the faded green eyes. Instead, he found it sad and pathetic. “I will play professional football. Nothing will stop me.”
“Life is a bitch—then you die. You’ll find that out soon enough. I give it six months before you’re sitting at the corner bar, swilling beer with the rest of us lugs, begging for a place to live.”