She pulled her arm from his grasp and stepped to the side, away from him. "Don't touch me."
"Courtney, I—"
"No. I don't want to hear it. You said everything there was to say the last time we saw each other." She kept walking, feeling the weight of his gaze between her shoulder blades as she hurried up the steps. The door opened from the inside and Courtney said a small prayer of thanks when her mother stepped forward to open the screen door. She took one of the bags then carefully studied Courtney's face before turning her dark gaze to the sidewalk outside.
"Courtney, maybe you should—"
"No, Mom. There's nothing to say to him."
"You know that's not true."
Courtney pushed her way deeper into the house, heading for the small kitchen. She dropped the bag to the floor then gripped the counter with both hands.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Muffled voices spoke from somewhere behind her. She couldn't hear the words, didn't need to. Her mother was saying something to Harland, her voice quiet and soothing. Then she heard the click of the door closing, followed by the subdued sound of her mother's steps on the tile floor.
Courtney took another deep breath then released her grip on the counter and reached for the bag on the floor. A hand closed over her shoulder, the touch firm but gentle.
"I'll get that. You get some water. You look pale."
Was it any wonder? If anything, Courtney was surprised she wasn't more than just pale. Her heart raced in her chest; the quick thumpa-thumpa-thumpa beating against her sternum physically hurt. Her skin felt hot, flushed in spite of the chilled sweat covering her. Her hands shook as she reached for the handle of the refrigerator and she stopped, curling them into tight fists as her mother moved around her, putting things away.
"How—" Her voice cracked and she swallowed, tried again. "How long was he here?"
Her mother sighed and she could hear the hesitation in her voice. "Almost two hours."
Two hours? But why? Why show up at all? Now, after all this time, after everything.
Courtney spun around, her eyes narrowing as she studied the back of her mother's head. "You didn't let him in? You didn't tell him?"
Cold fear gripped her when her mother's back stiffened. Then she turned around, her gaze soft and understanding. "No. He didn't come inside. And I didn't tell him anything." Her mother paused, her mouth pursing in quiet censure. "You need to be the one to tell him."
"No. No, absolutely not."
"Courtney, he has a right to know."
"He gave up that right when he said what he did. When he walked away. You know that."
"It's been over three years. Things change. And you know as well as I do why he said those things."
Courtney shook her head, as if the motion would be enough to make everything go away. To just disappear, like none of it had ever happened. No, she couldn't think that—wouldn't think that.
"It doesn't matter, Mom. Not anymore. Not after everything—" Her voice broke again and she sucked in a shaky breath, wishing that the emotions battering her would just go away. Why? Why had he shown up, now of all times?
And why was she reacting this way? Pain and hurt and anger and regret and sorrow. And, deep below all of that, a tiny sliver of hope. That was the emotion she needed to crush. Hope? Even now, after everything, her heart could feel hope? She was such a fool.
Something barreled into her legs, nearly knocking her over. Courtney grabbed the counter to catch herself then looked down at the soft grunt. A smile spread across her face and she lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged as she leaned against the cabinet. Noah climbed in to her lap, his hands gently patting at the tears on her cheeks. Then his fingers slowly moved, his small brow creased in concentration as worry filled his light brown eyes.
His father's eyes.
Why cry?
Courtney brushed the dampness from her cheeks and forced a smile to her face, answering him. Because I can.
Noah's face scrunched up, his mouth opening in a silent giggle. Then he placed one hand on each side of her cheek and gifted her with a loud kiss. She pulled him into a hug, holding his small body close to hers.
"Every boy needs their father, Courtney." Her mother's voice was gentle despite the admonishment lacing it. She didn't bother whispering—there was no need to.
Courtney tightened her arms around Noah and looked up at her mother. "Because that worked so well for Harland?"
"Harland isn't like his father."
"Isn't he?" Courtney's voice was bitter, accusing. Guilt flooded her as soon as the words came out. No, Harland wasn't like his father. At least, she would have never thought so all those years ago. But now—
No. Even now he wasn't. Despite the last few years, despite what had been said and done, despite not seeing him in so long—she knew he wasn't. But he could be. Just two steps in the wrong direction and he could be.
And that's what scared her the most.
Chapter Four
Harland jammed the key into the lock, opened the door…and stopped. Anger swept through him and he tamped it down, his back teeth grinding so hard he was surprised they didn't disintegrate.
The volume from the television was turned high enough to rattle his abused back teeth. An empty pizza box, complete with congealed grease, was tossed on the floor. Empty beer cans rested on their sides inside the box, along with a pile of cigarette butts and ashes.
Harland slammed the door shut as hard as he could. The man sprawled on the sofa jumped; the arm carelessly tossed over his eyes dropped to the floor and he rolled to his side. But he didn't fall off. No, that would be hoping for too much.
Harland dropped his bag to the floor with a thud and stormed over to the sofa. "What did I tell you about smoking in here?"
"What?" The man's voice was scratchy, like he hadn't used it in a while. He pushed himself up then ran one large hand through his graying hair. Harland's eyes focused on the hand: square, blunt, the fingers long and thick, the nails lined with shadows of grease. Had they ever not been lined with grease? Not that he could remember.
"I told you I didn't want you smoking in here. The place reeks. And couldn't you even bother to clean up your shit?"
"Yeah. Whatever." His father leaned forward, reaching for the can of beer sitting on the coffee table. He drained it with one long swallow then crushed the can in his hand and tossed it with the others before turning the television volume down.
"I just said—"
"I heard you. I'm getting it." His father leaned over, scooping up the old pizza box and folding the lid closed. He stood and pushed past Harland on the way to the kitchen.
Why the fuck was he still here? Why was he here, period? Because Harland didn't have the balls to kick him out when he showed up a few weeks after he'd been sent back here to York, that was why. His old man had just shown up, out of the blue. Somehow wormed his way into staying here—because he knew his son wouldn't say no.
Harland had to stand up to him. Had to do something, anything. This couldn't continue, couldn't keep going like it was, not if Harland expected to keep his sanity intact. He'd tell him. Now, tonight. Just tell his old man that enough was enough and he had to leave—
"Why the hell are you home so late?"
Harland blew out a breath, knowing he wouldn't say anything, couldn't say anything. He never could, not when it came to his old man. "I stayed after practice."
"Really?" His father pulled another beer from the refrigerator then leaned against the doorway, his gaze penetrating, flat. "So you decide to get your head in the game after you fuck everything up? Should have thought about that before."
Harland clenched his jaw again then retrieved his bag from the floor. How the hell did his father expect him to answer that? Yeah, he had fucked up. Everyone knew it.
But not everyone kept throwing it in his face like his old man.
"I'm jumping in the shower then going out."
"Where to now?"
<
br /> "Just out. Why? Are you suddenly keeping track of what I do?"
"Somebody has to. You can't afford any more mistakes, son. Not as long as there's a chance you can make it back to the pros."
"Yeah, sure." Harland tossed the bag over his shoulder then pinned his father with a hard glare. Eyes nearly identical to his own stared back at him, void of all emotion. Is that what Harland looked like to others? Cold? Flat? Emotionless?
He didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it. He already resembled his father too much physically. Looking at him was like looking in a mirror that magically aged the viewer twenty-five years. They had the same eyes, same hair; the same facial features and the same build. His father's body was finally showing the signs of time and harsh living but, in some odd way, that only made the resemblance more striking, more pronounced.
No. It was bad enough Harland looked so much like him—he didn't want to be like him, too.
"What are you staring at?"
"Nothing." Harland shook his head and moved toward the hallway.
"Just remember what I said: no more mistakes."
"Yeah, Dad. I heard you. That's why I'm practicing my ass off."
"I'm not just talking about the game. I mean all mistakes."
"Like what?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Getting into a conversation—about anything—with his father right now was the last thing he needed.
"Everything. You have condoms, right?"
"Fucking shit." Harland nearly lost his grip on the bag. Had he heard right? Yeah, he had. His father was still staring at him, his own jaw clenched, the warning clear in his gaze. Harland shook his head. "I am not having this conversation with you. Ever. Christ. I can't believe—no, forget it. I'm not doing it—"
"All I'm saying is you can't afford any more mistakes. Find a girl, fuck her if you want, but take precautions."
"What the fuck, Dad? I'm not discussing my sex life with you. What I do is none of your damn business—"
"It is when you make mistakes. I'm only looking out for you, son. Just like I did a few years ago with that one girl."
"What the hell are you talking about now?"
"That girl you used to run around with."
The blood in Harland's veins froze instantly. Icy tendrils of anxiety spread through his limbs and he took a step forward. "Are you talking about Courtney?"
His father took a long swallow of beer then raised the can in a salute of acknowledgement. "Yeah, that's the one. Never could remember the little sleaze's name. Never understood what you saw in her, either."
"What are you talking about? What did you do?" Each word was clipped, precise and cold. His father didn't notice, just moved past him back into the living room.
"You know what I did. That whole pregnancy thing. I set that straight, didn't I? To think she tried blaming that on you."
Emotion slammed into Harland, nearly doubling him over. He didn't want to think about that time all those years ago. Didn't want to remember all the angry words and accusations. Didn't want to remember the emptiness he felt at her admission. Hollow, cold. Betrayed. Like he'd lost his best friend.
More than his best friend. So much more.
He laughed, the sound short and bitter. Didn't want to remember? Christ, he couldn't stop remembering. Isn't that why he stopped by her place last week? Like maybe she was the missing puzzle piece to whatever the fuck was going on with him. Like seeing her would somehow make things right, or at least let him move on.
He'd been a fool—in more ways than one. Seeing her hadn't helped. If anything, it had only made things worse, made him feel even more lost and adrift than he had been before seeing her.
"Don't bring Courtney up. Ever. I'm not talking about her."
"Didn't expect you to, Har." His father grinned and sat back on the leather sofa, getting comfortable. Probably settling in for the night, just like he had every night since moving in.
"Still can't believe she tried to pass that bastard off as yours. Well, I guess she learned her lesson, didn't she?"
"She didn't pass anything off, Dad. She didn't have it." Had his father noticed the strained tone of his words? How he had to force them through numb lips? No, of course not. His father was too busy flipping through the channels to pay attention.
"Is that what she told you? Figures." His father glanced over his shoulder then shrugged. "No, she had it alright. No idea whose it is, though. All I can say is good riddance. You don't need to be taking care of someone else's bastard, not when you need to focus on your career."
Harland heard the words but didn't understand them. Not at first. His brain caught each word, examined it, moved to the next one. Slowly, like his mind had been encased in molasses, unable to process things. Then, one word at a time, he repeated the words to himself. Over and over until comprehension sunk in.
He dropped the bag and stormed over to the sofa, his fists resting on the edge of it as he leaned over his father. "What did you say?"
"What is your problem? Stop leaning over me like that. You're in the way." His father tried pushing him away but Harland didn't move.
"Are you saying Courtney had the baby?"
"Yeah. What about it?"
"She told me she was—" Harland swallowed the words, unable to say them. Unable to forget the anguished screams and accusations from that long-ago day. "She said she wasn't going to have it."
"Well she did. What do you care? She told you it wasn't yours. It's not your problem."
Problem? Was that what his father thought? Harland straightened, fought to stay upright when his legs wanted to buckle beneath him. His stomach tightened and lurched, threatening to rebel against him.
Yes, Courtney had said it wasn't his…after he had accused her, over and over and over. Because he had let his father convince him she was seeing someone else. Because he had believed his own flesh-and-blood was looking out for him.
So he had confronted her, accused her. Wouldn't leave it alone until she admitted everything he was saying was true.
But deep down, a part of him had never really believed her, even after his father had convinced him. Even after Courtney had admitted it. A part of him had always hoped…it didn't matter what he hoped. It was done. Over. The words and accusations had cut too deep, left wounds that would never heal.
And now his father was telling him that she'd had the baby? Like it was no big deal. Like it was nothing more than an inconvenient problem—somebody else's problem.
Harland took another step back, sucking in deep breaths, trying to control the sudden shaking that seized him. He turned, stumbled, righted himself.
"Where the hell are you off to now?"
His father's voice was nothing more than an irritating buzz in his ears and he waved it off. He needed to get out of here, get away. He needed air. He needed to clear his head and think. To be by himself.
But more than any of that, he needed to find out the truth.
Chapter Five
Breathe. He needed to breathe.
Fuck that. He needed answers.
Harland banged his fist against the door again. Hard. Over and over. He knew someone was home: the lights were on, he could hear the muted sounds of the television coming from the back of the house.
Why weren't they answering the door?
An image came to mind, devastating in its clarity: Courtney, curled on the edge of the sofa, wrapped in the arms of another man. Too preoccupied to hear the banging on the door.
"Fuck." Harland ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to calm down. Courtney wasn't like that. Yeah, it had been several years, she could be seeing someone. Probably was seeing someone. But this was her mother's house, she wouldn't—
Except she had, with him. Numerous times.
He curled his hand into a fist and banged the door again, harder this time. Something else drove him, something besides his father's revelation. An almost desperate need to see for himself, to prove Courtney
was alone. If she would just open—
The door swung open, revealing a surprised—and irritated—face. Soft and oval, just now starting to show the signs of a full life. Soft brown hair, gently threaded with an occasional strand of silver, curled around the aging face. The eyes widened briefly in surprise then narrowed.
"Harland. Good Lord, I thought the door was ready to come off the hinges. What on earth are you trying to do?"
"Mrs. Williams, I'm sorry." Harland tried to step forward but she didn't move, didn't step back to let him in. "Is—is Courtney here?"
Pale lips pursed in a small frown and for a brief second, Harland actually expected her to close the door in his face. "So it's 'Mrs. Williams' now, is it? I remember a time when you used to call me something else."
Mom. The memory slammed into him, just one more thing to add to the long list of things making it hard for him to breathe. Harland pushed the memories—and the accompanying emotions—away, sucked in a raged breath.
"I—" He hesitated, started again. "Is Courtney here? Please. I need to see her."
Christina Williams' hands, small and gentle, tightened around the edge of the door. She threw a glance over her shoulder then looked back at Harland. Something like sorrow passed across her face and she slowly shook her head. "But I don't think she wants to see you, Harland. You should just go home."
The door started to swing closed. Harland reached out and placed the flat of his hand against the thick wood, stopping it from closing in his face. "Please."
Maybe it was the quiet desperation in his voice, or the panic he knew was etched on his face. For whatever reason, she finally relented and opened the door wider, stepping back to let him in. "I'll go see—"
He pushed past her, his gaze raking the empty entranceway, the empty living room just beyond it. He turned, ready to head toward the stairs.
"Harland Anthony Day. Don't you dare go tearing through my house." A hand clamped around his arm, the strength surprising him. He felt himself being tugged away from the stairs, toward the small eat-in kitchen area. She led him to a chair and forced him to sit. "You know better."
[York Bombers 01.0] Playing the Game Page 3