Hometown Hero

by Marisol Logan

  The gap between them had really started to form when Mark had solidified his stance as the town superstar, leading the high school to two state championship victories and being heavily pursued by many Division I college teams. And any time he had outside of practice those two years had been spent with Mara, whom he started dating the summer before his junior year. Everyone had doted on him, everyone had wanted to be his friend, and he had enjoyed the fact that he had many friends and admirers. Erin had been proud of him, but just couldn't be around that many people. It was hard for her to even go to the big games, and she didn't enjoy hanging out with his friends once Mark got his license and first car.

  But she never stopped being supportive, a beacon of caring and thoughtfulness. She was almost maternal, which he'd never understood, since their own mother had never shown anything of that nature to them. Where had she learned it? How to take care of people so quietly and selflessly? If he forgot something when he rushed out for practices at dawn, she'd bring it for him when she came for first period. When their mother had been at one of her giant museum galas in the city and forgotten to leave cash for dinner, Erin would always scrounge up some sort of pasta dish that the perpetually-starving Mark would gobble up with delight. When Mark wanted to impress Mara, Erin always had the perfect idea for a gift or gesture, even going so far as to choose Mara's senior prom corsage because Mark forgot what color she had said her dress was.

  He didn't deserve such a wonderful sister. He couldn't imagine how much he had hurt her by leaving the way he did. Just another thought he had shoved to the back of his head so he could live with himself...but now it was right in front of him. No ignoring it anymore.

  Mark shifted his stance, wondering whether to go into the house or go back to his lonely bachelor pad. He had left them, his mother and sister, without a word. He wouldn’t blame them if they refused to allow him into the house.

  He had run into Troy, his best friend from the basketball team, when he had finally made it to the liquor store and even he had not wanted to hear Mark's story, so he certainly doubted if his mother and sister would, even if they were family.

  “Come back here, Greyson!” his sister rushed out of the front door chasing a little boy of about two down the lawn. “Don’t make me come all the way there to get y—” she stopped in her tracks upon seeing Mark.

  The stare graduated from that of shock, briefly to love, and then to a stern anger. The little boy, oblivious to the tension in the air, danced around the lawn with something that looked like a cell phone in his right hand. He toddled towards Mark as soon as he saw him standing on the sidewalk.

  Mark stooped to the child’s level and was shocked when the little boy flopped into in his arms in a silly hug. He felt his muscles go tense, however, when he heard his sister yell, “Greyson! Come back this instant! What have I told you about strangers?”

  The child ignored Erin's warning and playfully buried his face into Mark's chest, peeking up at his face out of the corner of his mischievous and curious eyes. Mark stood up with him in his arms, a rush of affection for the little boy that he was surprised to feel, since he had never met the child before. He smelled so fresh, like a breath of fresh lavender air and amber-scented sweat. Mark tightened his arms around him and whirled him around, causing a fit of giggles to break from the boy's slobbery mouth.

  He turned and found Erin observing them quietly, not even making an effort to come towards him. He smiled at her as he walked closer, but she just narrowed her eyes further in response.

  “It’s okay, Greyson,” Mark said softly to the still giggling toddler, but his eyes were fixed on his sister while he spoke the words. “I am not really a stranger. I'm your uncle Mark, your mommy's big brother.”

  “My brother died three years ago,” Erin snapped without hesitation.

  The words fell on Mark like a slap to the face. Even Greyson squirmed uncomfortably in his arms.

  “Jesus, Erin,” Mark groaned, “in front of your own kid? Does he really need to hear that?”

  “If you don't mind, please let my son down,” she demanded, ignoring his question. “It's his nap time. So you should leave.”

  “Mark? Is that you?” came a voice from inside, and Erin rolled her eyes in aggravation, grabbing Greyson from Mark's hold and storming back into the house with a huff. She passed their mother, Amelia, on her way in. Amelia Mitchell, looking perfectly put together and composed as ever, stood in the arched doorway, surveying her son carefully, not for recognition, but possibly for the right words.

  “Yes, Mom, it's me. I'm back,” he said, gesturing with his hands and waiting patiently for her response.

  But without a single word, she closed the gap between them and threw herself into his arms, hugging him so tightly she almost cut off his air supply. Mark relaxed and hugged her back, feeling all the misery, frustration and confusion of the last few months evaporate into the humid August air. It felt so good to be held by her, he had missed her so much. How could she forgive him? he wondered. Surely, his actions had hurt her worst of all? But mother's were so capable of forgiveness, especially for their children.

  He was so overwhelmed at her gesture of unconditional love and forgiveness, he felt tears forming in his eyes, and sobs forming in his throat, and he tried to hold them all back for her benefit, knowing if he cried, she would, too. But he was alerted to the fact that she had beat him to it when she sniffled into his chest and shook with gentle sobs in his arms.

  She held him at arms length and smiled at him. Wiping the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand, she quietly ushered him into the house. As soon as they sat down with iced teas in the perfectly polished kitchen, Mark felt comfortable enough to open conversation.

  “I—I have to explain,” Mark tried through the hot, stony lump in his throat. “To everyone.”

  “I don't need an explanation,” his mother shushed, holding up a hand to stop him. “Just needed to know you are okay. Erin will come around. She's just so sensitive. Have you talked to Mara?” she added, tenderly.

  “I tried, but—” Mark started, but she cut him off, sliding a plate of shortbread cookies across the dinette.

  “Well, try harder.”

  SEVEN

  Mara studied the larger than life man standing in front of her door. She couldn’t remember extending any invitation to him but, knowing Mark, he never stopped until he achieved his purpose. She had just been about to get into the bathtub, for some much needed relaxation, when she had heard the doorbell ring. She had jumped out and hastily wrapped herself in her robe, and rushed to the door thinking it was Phillip, or maybe Lucy, the only two people who came to her house to visit.

  “What do you want Mark?” she asked wearily, holding her robe tightly around her waist.

  She saw Mark's eyes fixated on the bit of cleavage the robe revealed, and she pulled the robe a little tighter, though she wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen her naked a thousand times before. The memory of the first time he'd seen them flashed to the front of her thoughts: it was their first formal dance together, Homecoming of their junior year, and instead of going out with the basketball team afterward, they had gone to the lake and camped under the stars. Their physical relationship had been very innocent—hand holding and mild make-out sessions—up until that point. But, something about being alone under the stars that night had unlocked something inside both of them, an awareness of their deep intimacy. They had proceeded slowly, partly to savor the emotions, but also because they had both been so nervous and self-conscious. It was cliché, she realized, but that had been the night that Mara had realized she loved him. And that love had carried them through almost five years of being in the spotlight, through balancing education and work and sports and family, but apparently hadn't been enough to carry him into the future, she thought to herself.

  “We need to talk,” Mark finally said, taking his eyes from her body to her face.

  “You are right about that, Mark,” Mara said. �
�And I apologize for running off on you earlier, I'm just...in shock. But I think we both have important things to say and we should say them.”

  Mark cocked his head, seemingly confused, but a flash of intrigue in his eyes.

  “Ladies first, then,” he said, holding his hands out in a gesture that matched his words.

  Mara took a sharp breath in and sighed slightly before diving into the statement she'd been rehearsing for whenever she ran into him again. “Look, Mark, I'm glad you are okay, but I need you to know that I am engaged, and so...” she hesitated as his golden eyes bored into hers, grabbing ahold of her soul with the same intensity they had that night they first made love as innocent teens, the same intensity they had always regarded her with. An intensity she never could handle—it stole her breath, her thoughts, her words, her control every time. “So, I don't know why you came back to Heronville, but if it's anything to do with me, I just need you to know that's not going to happen.”

  “What's not going to happen?” he asked, coyly, his head still cocked to one side.

  He was trying to get her to say the words and be specific, but his tone was almost playful. Mara shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, causing droplets to fall from her hair and roll down her back.

  “A relationship, of any kind,” Mara stated.

  “You think that's what I wanted?” Mark pressed, and Mara could swear he leaned in.

  “I haven't a clue why you came back,” she replied. “But I've moved on, and so should you.”

  Mark shrugged and nodded. “Is that all?” he asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

  Mara nodded. “What did you want to say?” she asked.

  “I just thought you deserved to know what happened,” Mark said, plainly.

  The cork on Mara's bottle of anger suddenly popped. She felt her cheeks flood with hot blood, and her hands clenched into fists.

  “You know what, Mark?” she snapped. “I do deserve that. I deserved it three years ago! I deserved it every day since the day you left, and certainly deserved it before you decided to abandon everyone who loved you. And I've had plenty of time to realize that I literally do not care what your reason was because there is no reason that would make what you did okay!”

  Mark surveyed her carefully as she tried to calm her breath after her rant. She felt her pulse pounding in her neck and chest, her knuckles aching in the tight, angry balls she'd forced them into.

  “So you did have more to say,” he quipped.

  Mara threw her hands up in frustration and scoffed, turning away from him and making her way to the kitchen. He followed.

  “I understand that you’re angry—” Mark started.

  “Angry?” she spun to face him, forgetting her grip on to the robe until it threatened to split open at the front, and she hastily wrapped it around her waist and retied it. “I am not just angry, Mark, I am livid. If you think you can just show up back in my life, and follow me around until you get your 'forgiveness' so you can sleep at night—”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “How dare you ask anything of me?” Mara shook her finger at him as he stood, stock straight, rooted in place, taking her words like they were rocks being hurled at him. “After what you did to me?!”

  When she stopped for a breath, Mark regained his voice, “I am sorry! You know that I am. I am sorry I left without telling you. It was the worst thing I've ever done in my life.”

  “Really? So after three years you finally decided this was the right time to apologize to everyone?” Mara snapped.

  “I was afraid, damnit!” Mark objected. “I was selfish, and afraid of losing everything, and I made a terrible decision, Mara. I woke up from that surgery, the doctor said he screwed it up and I'd never play again, and I was afraid of what everyone would think of me if I couldn't play. And I thought of reaching out to everyone at home many times, but I was scared of how everyone would react. So I thought I'd wait until maybe things calmed down, and then weeks turned into months, and years. I know it's not an excuse, but it's all I have.”

  Mara stared him down throughout his explanation, but by the end of it, she felt the tears well up. “I can't believe you thought so little of me, of us. You left because you thought, what, I wouldn't love you if you weren't some basketball star?” She angrily wiped her eyes with the back of her palm, her voice quivering with emotion.

  “That's not what I meant—”

  “Then what did you mean?” she snapped. “Because it sounds to me like you didn't have any faith in my feelings for you, and obviously I wasn't worth sticking around for when you actually hit a bump in the road for once. So what did you think we were? Was I just your trophy? Your compulsory hot girlfriend for the ESPN cameras to pan to when you it your three-pointers?”

  “Mara, you know that's not true—”

  “I should have told you to go to hell long ago. Then I wouldn’t have ended up feeling like some used, worthless tramp—”

  “That's enough!” Mark grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her one short, jerky shake, which shocked her enough that she stopped talking.

  She went rigid in his arms, heat rising from her stomach into her chest as his eyes locked with hers. His were wild and filled with emotion, and his lips broke open as if he were about to say something. But, instead of speaking, pulled her in sharply, abruptly, without warning, and took her lips with his.

  Their mouths met with feverish passion. Her soft lips bended to the will of his firm, pressing kiss. His tongue was bold, but not invasive, as it exchanged stroking caresses with hers. He kissed like a man whose life depended on her lips.

  He moaned with hunger and need and she instinctively reached for his neck, her fingers trailing up the length of it into his dense, black hair. She felt his hands slide in from her shoulders, to the gap of the robe at her chest, weaving under the terry cloth until they laid flat against her collarbone, then slipped it off her shoulders completely so it hung around her waist. He easily pushed the robe down, over her hips, until it hit the floor at her feet with a soft, wet thud.

  Mara hated herself for giving into him so quickly and easily, but she couldn't stop now, and her hands felt their way to his stony chest, and as she worked the buttons of his shirt, she noted that he was much more muscular than before he left. Soon she had him out of his shirt, and ran her hands across the defined pectorals and abdominals, and down to the waist of his jeans.

  A growl of urgency rumbled in his throat as she dipped her fingers between the denim and his skin. Suddenly, he was walking her backward, and she stumbled, but he steadied her with his strong arms around her back. Her backside came up against the edge of her dining room table and they both stopped their kiss-locked shuffle. Mark's hands moved down her back, over her hips and to the underside of her thighs, lifting her deftly to sit on the table. Then, he broke their kiss long enough to lay her back against the polished wood, and he leaned the upper half of his body over hers to rejoin their lips.

  Mara waited until he shimmied out of his pants and then wrapped her legs around his waist, using their strength to pull him in. When she felt his nakedness against hers, she gasped and he moaned. She wanted him like she'd never wanted anyone before—even more than she remembered wanting him when they were together. Sure, they had been passionate, and spontaneous, and had intense chemistry and attraction to each other. But it was now as if they both had three full years of anticipation and desire built up inside them, ready to explode.

  She put her lips on the lobe of his ear and was about to beg him to take her that instant, but he was a step ahead of her.

  “I don't have anything,” he whispered in her ear, his hands squeezing her buttocks in urgent frustration.

  “I'm on the pill,” Mara murmured in reply, rubbing her lips along his jaw.

  “Okay,” Mark said, and she went to pull him closer, but he kept his body at a bit of a distance. “But, I'm worried,” he added nervously, his voice shaking.

  “Worried about what?
” Mara asked, sitting up slightly to try and view his face, concern keeping into her brow. Did he not trust her? Or, had he gotten something from someone in his time away?

  But while she awaited his answer, everything changed in an instant.

  EIGHT

  Mark jerked up suddenly, pulling his hands away from her and clutching one to his chest and one on a dining chair. He slumped forward and winced, a roar of pain breaking from his throat.

  “Mark?!” Mara gasped, jumping up to sitting. “Oh my god, Mark, what's wrong?”

  She grabbed his shoulders and rubbed them comfortingly, but knew it wouldn't do anything—he was obviously in a great deal of pain. “Is it your shoulder?” she asked, remembering how terrible the pain was that accompanied his career-ending injury.

  “No, it's—I'm fine,” he managed through gritted teeth.

  “You are not fine, Mark!” Mara argued. “Please, tell me what's—”

  Mark cried out in agony and his grip tightened on the chair, his giant frame slumping forward further until his head nearly rested on her shoulder. With a sickening crunch, the dining room chair gave way under him, splintering into pieces. He lurched downward with the loss of his support and Mara shrieked, instinctively reaching out to support him. How did he break that chair? Mara thought. It's too sturdy to give under someone's weight or grip.

  Mark corrected quickly, stumbling back away from the table. His hands clasped over his ears and he winced, as if he were hearing something that hurt his ears, but Mara heard no sounds.

  “Mark, you're scaring me...” she said slowly, sliding off the table and moving toward him.