Making the Play

by T. J. Kline

  Mr. Hunt came into the main room of the office as Steven escorted Jeremiah in to see the nurse. James’ steps faltered when he saw the principal.

  “This way to my office, Mr. Mills.” Mr. Hunt gave Bethany a nod.

  She knew he was a fair man, but her mama-­bear instincts rose to the surface. It wasn’t entirely James’ fault. If Jeremiah had been willing to share the ball instead of snatching it from James, something she’d scolded him for several times over the past week, this might not have happened.

  If Grant hadn’t taught him how to tackle. . .

  “Mr. Hunt, I’d like to come in too, if that’s okay.”

  Steven returned from the nurse’s office. “I’ll go help Julie with the other students until you’re finished,” he offered.

  Bethany could have hugged him.

  “Follow me,” Mr. Hunt said as he led the way.

  James moved like a prisoner on his way to execution but Bethany didn’t miss the confusion on his face either. Tears welled in his blue eyes and it broke her heart, knowing that she couldn’t rescue her child from a situation he hadn’t meant to create. She knew she could bail him out, she’d seen plenty of parents who did it daily, but it wouldn’t help James learn to accept the consequences of his decisions. She steeled herself and clenched her jaw as Mr. Hunt steepled his hands, pressing a finger to his lips.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Mr. Mills?”

  James looked at the principal, then to his mother, pleading with his eyes for her to rescue him. Tell him, she signed.

  Her son looked so small, swallowed up by the large cheaply upholstered chair in front of the principal’s desk, his shoulders slumped as he wrung his hands.

  “I didn’t mean to.” His breath hitched as his tears began to spill onto his cheeks. “He said he wanted to play football.”

  Mr. Hunt shot Bethany a quick, knowing look and nodded, closing his eyes slowly. She knew he was a good man, a strong presence who demanded respect from the older students, but he was also fair and beloved by the younger kids.

  “Did you have the ball first?” James nodded, staring down at his hands, unable to look Mr. Hunt in the face as tears fell onto his pants. “And did he ask for it?” James shook his head sideways. “So he came and just took it away from you?”

  At her son’s affirmative nod, Mr. Hunt stood up and moved around to the front of his desk before squatting down in front of James and laying a hand on his knee. “Why did you tackle him, James? Were you angry?”

  “No, I thought we were going to play.”

  Bethany bit her lip, wishing this was over for her son already.

  “You know we can’t tackle ­people at school though, right? Haven’t you heard me tell the older boys not to roughhouse in the field before school?”

  He nodded again. “But Grant told me that’s how you play. He showed me how to hit with my shoulder and not my head.” James twisted his lips to the side, trying to remember what else Grant had told him. “He said to wrap up.”

  “Ah, I see,” Mr. Hunt said on a sigh. “I’m betting that Mr. McQuaid meant that you should tackle that way when you play Pop Warner football next year. But we don’t do that on the playground at school, okay?” James nodded solemnly as Mr. Hunt turned back toward Bethany and rose. “James, I think that as long as you apologize to Jeremiah, we can assume that you won’t tackle anyone again. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, his lower lip still quivering as he swiped away his tears. “I will.”

  Mr. Hunt nodded to Bethany who held her hand out for James. He jumped down from the chair and grabbed for her fingers, practically dragging her from the principal’s office.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” Bethany said as he walked them out of the office. “I’ll be having a chat with Mr. McQuaid as well.”

  “I’ll bet you will,” he said with a chuckle. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.”

  GRANT TUGGED THE baseball cap lower on his forehead, reaching into the passenger seat to scoop up the deep-­dish pizza and a paper bag with the two liters of soda. He pressed the button on the key fob, and the truck chirped, signaling that it was locked, and then he began the trek around the block to Bethany’s house. He’d driven the area several times, making sure that he didn’t see anyone who might have followed him or realized who he was under this asinine disguise. He looked ridiculous, but he was going to do whatever he could to make sure there weren’t any more news articles about Bethany. Several times in town today, he’d heard whispers and rumors about their relationship. Luckily, years of publicity had taught him to evade direct questions and he was able to fend off the gossip mongers. For now.

  He glanced up and down the sidewalk as he approached the house, knowing that the pizza was getting colder with each passing moment. Seeing no one outside, he jogged up the walkway and rang the bell.

  It took a moment before Bethany answered the door, and when she did, she walked outside onto the porch, shutting it behind her and leaning against the door frame. Her hair was still wet from a recent shower and he could smell a fruity citrus that must have been either her shampoo or soap. Wearing yoga pants and a t-­shirt, she looked as deliciously adorable as she had wearing a sundress and cowboy boots. Even barefaced, she was beautiful, but he was a bit surprised to see she wasn’t ready for their date, considering how she’d dressed up for their park outing and when she’d gone out with Mr. Kindergarten Teacher. And then he looked into her eyes.

  “This can’t be good.”

  “You showed my son how to tackle someone?” She crossed her arms over her chest, not letting him past.

  “I guess. Sort of?”

  The tone of her voice spoke volumes. She was pissed. This was the protective woman he’d seen the first day, when she thought he was using James to get close to her. He glanced over his shoulder. If she raised her voice, the entire neighborhood would know he was there.

  “Can I come inside and explain?”

  “I told you I didn’t want him to play football. You knew how I felt about it.”

  Her brows knit and she jabbed a finger into his chest, forcing him back a step. Even with him standing a step lower than she was, she was still looking up to meet his gaze. Not that it mattered to this woman. She was protecting her son, at least in her mind, and she’d take on someone ten times her size if she had to. It almost made him smile but, wanting to keep his head still attached, he kept his grin in check.

  “It was one thing for him to play catch with you and your brothers, but you had to push the limits I set. I am his mother. If I don’t want him playing, he won’t. Do you realize how hard it is for him to fit in? How much harder he has to work at it than other kids his age?”

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to guess at the real reason behind this sudden indignation. “Is this really about James playing football or you sharing him, Bethany?”

  She stood even straighter, stretching her tiny frame a few inches taller as she inhaled a furious breath and clenched her jaw. “He tackled a boy at school today for taking the football from him. He had to go to the principal’s office, Grant.”

  Grant pinched his lips, trying to hold back the proud grin that tugged at the corners of his lips. “I’m sorry.”

  He said it because he knew it was what she wanted to hear. In truth, he was proud of the kid for standing up for himself. He’d watched a few of the kids bullying James the day he’d gone to the school. Even his presence hadn’t stopped them from trying to push James around. If he had played even a small part in shaping James’ self-­confidence, he was thrilled.

  “You should go.”

  He sobered instantly. “What? Are you serious?”

  “Completely.” She turned back to open the door.

  “Bethany? Look, you’re right. I shouldn’t have taught him how to tackle if you didn’t want him playing
football. But I have seen how hard he has to try to fit in. I’ve also heard him talk about being bullied. So have you,” he reminded her.

  She spun on her heel, ready to do battle again. “Teaching him to tackle ­people isn’t how he needs to learn to handle it.”

  “No, it’s not but, damn it, that kid needs to know how great he is. He shouldn’t be getting kicked by girls or pushed around by other boys on the playground just because of . . . because he’s different. He’s the most incredible kid I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of them in my career. I should have asked you before I showed him, but it just happened the other day. I’m sorry.”

  She took a deep breath, staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read, a mixture of anger and awe. He decided he might as well push his luck a little further and pray she was leaning toward wonder. “Can I bring this in before it gets any colder?”

  She pursed her lips and he caught himself before he smiled. It was a less exaggerated version of the face James made when he was thinking about something seriously.

  “Fine.” She opened the door for him and he eased through it carefully in case she changed her mind and slammed it shut in his face. “But, Grant?” He looked back at her over his shoulder. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  He held up his pinkie finger. “Pinkie promise.”

  She turned away from him and walked toward the kitchen, but not before he caught a glimpse of the smile she was trying to hide.

  Chapter Sixteen

  GRANT HADN’T FELT this content in years. Bethany was tucked into his side, her hand resting over his stomach. He inhaled the scent of her, his fingers brushing the side of her arm lightly as he traced patterns on her smooth skin. James was sound asleep on the living room floor, wrapped up in the old quilt Bethany had informed him had once belonged to her Great-­grandmother. Grant had laughed when James asked to be rolled up in it like a burrito from the waist down and Bethany obliged, turning him so that he faced the television. Now he snored softly as the end credits played on the television.

  “I should probably get him upstairs,” she mumbled, sounding sleepy.

  “I’ll help you,” he offered, but neither of them moved and he smiled into her hair, more content than he could ever remember being.

  His heart swelled with longing. As much as he loved football and his career was his life, in this moment, he could honestly say that he didn’t care if he played again. He finally understood what his mother had been wanting for him all along. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine each and every night like this with Bethany and James. He could visualize tucking James into bed, taking Bethany into his arms, into their bed . . .

  She released a long sigh but instead of the relaxed sound he’d expected, it was a regretful exhale.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Grant wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. He didn’t want to ruin this moment of domestic bliss. It was something he’d never considered worth letting go of his career for, at least not for many years to come, until he’d met her.

  When she didn’t answer right away, Grant tipped his head down to look at her. “Bethany?”

  She bit her lower lip and he felt desire kick him in the chest before sliding straight to his groin. He closed his eyes for a moment to regain control of the yearning racing through his veins, touching off a wildfire of desire.

  “When do you leave for camp?”

  He laid his hand over hers, twining their fingers together, pressing his palm to hers. “Do you really want to talk about this now?”

  “Do you not want to talk about it?” Her voice was tentative, hesitant and wary.

  “Okay, you’re right. We’ll talk, but let’s get James up to bed first.” She nodded slightly and rose from the couch. Grant immediately felt a chill in the air as it replaced the warmth of her body against his. He followed her, wishing they could go back an hour in time, before he had to tell her the truth about his future, or lack thereof. He had to admit to her that he had no clue what would happen.

  Bethany slid the battery packs from James slim arms and pulled the magnetic pieces from over his ears. “If you lift him, I’ll pull the blanket off.”

  Grant did what she asked, wrapping his arms around the limp warm body, still sound asleep. At least that was what he’d thought until James stirred, his arms going around Grant’s neck and his legs, now untucked from the blanket, wrapping around Grant’s waist, clinging to him like a monkey.

  Parental love and devotion swelled inside him for the boy, taking Grant by surprise. He liked the kid, more than liked him, but the desire—­no, the burning need—­to protect him and keep him safe, to keep both of them safe, rushed over him like a tidal wave. He could understand the fierce protective instincts Bethany had shown because he felt the same way. It didn’t matter that James wasn’t his son by birth, or that he’d only known them a short time. These two had filled an emptiness in him that he had never realized existed.

  He followed Bethany upstairs and tucked James into bed, feeling oddly bereft when she pulled the door nearly closed behind her, leaving it open a crack. He stood peering through the doorway at the sleeping child, unwilling to leave just yet, and she paused at the top of the stairs, just outside her bedroom doorway.

  “Are you coming?”

  He made his way to where she stood, uncertain he should move any farther. There would be no going back if he did. “Have you ever thought you wanted something badly enough that you’d give up everything for it, only to realize it would have been a mistake?” His hands found the indentation of her waist, splaying over the narrow curves.

  She frowned up at him, her eyes worried and confused, unsure whether she wanted to answer. Then she nodded. “I thought I wanted my marriage to work. For years I’d have given up anything to bring Matthew back, to let him be a father to James.”

  Grant felt a stab of jealousy at the mention of the other man. He didn’t know what had ended her marriage, wasn’t sure if she’d even be willing to tell him, but he wanted to know her, to know everything about Bethany and James. “What happened?”

  Her eyes widened, surprised by his question. She gave a sadly bitter laugh. “That’s a story that deserves its own Lifetime movie. Let’s just say, when the going gets tough, some guys would rather run out than face the difficulties.”

  “He left you?” Grant couldn’t fathom anyone leaving Bethany. She was the kind of woman men dreamed of finding, the kind a guy would only find once. It was something that had plagued him the past few days when he’d worried he might be forced to make a choice between her and his career.

  She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug, twisting her mouth to one side. “A week after James’ diagnosis. The morning after the appointment when the doctors told us what we could expect in the first few years.” Bethany moved to the stairs, taking them quickly but not before Grant saw the hurt shadow her eyes. Either the rejection still stung or she wasn’t yet over James’ father.

  “Do you still love him?” He steeled himself to face the truth she was about to hit him with. If she still loved her husband, he couldn’t stand in the way.

  “Matthew?” She turned at the bottom of the stairs and looked back at him incredulously. “No! The man ran out me and our son. He quit his job so he wouldn’t have to pay child support and asked to terminate his parental rights during our divorce. He didn’t even have the guts to show up in court. He left me to figure out how to raise our child alone.”

  “But you said—­”

  “I said, for years I thought that my marriage was what I wanted. But it would have been a mistake. Matthew didn’t love James, he obviously didn’t love me. Not the way we deserved to be loved, the way he should have loved us. I’m not sure he ever knew how. He wasn’t evil, but he was just a bad husband and father. James and I have been better off without him, even through the struggles we’ve faced. It hasn’t b
een easy, but James has only been surrounded by ­people who love him.”

  She slipped her hand into his and pulled him back into the living room, shutting off the television as they walked back to the couch. She folded her legs beneath her and patted the seat beside her, urging him to sit. “What are you thinking about? You’re the one who seems troubled.”

  “I have an appointment with my doctors early next week. If all goes according to plan, I could be heading for spring training right after.” He studied her face, watching for any reaction, any indication of her feelings about his revelation. He didn’t mention that he probably wouldn’t be playing in Memphis, that there was a possibility he’d be on another team, that he might not be playing at all.

  “I see.” She folded her hands in her lap, staring at his face but looking through him. She shrugged stiffly. “You have a job to do, a life there. I get that, Grant.”

  Grant reached for her hand. “But I’m not sure I want it. I mean, I do, but that’s not all I want anymore. I thought it was but . . .” He ran a hand through his hair. Everything he said was coming out wrong.

  “Hey, it’s okay, Grant. I understand. You like me and you like James, but you have a job and responsibilities. Those things have to take precedence and—­”

  “No, they don’t,” he interrupted. He couldn’t stand the idea that she might think he put anything above how he felt about her.

  She gave him a patronizing look, tipping her chin down, and he could easily read the doubt in her eyes, even as her voice was quietly empathetic. “Grant, you barely know us.”

  Pain radiated through his chest as her words hit home. “Is that how you feel about me? Like you barely know me? Like this is just some fling? Some short-­term experiment to jump back into the dating game?” He clenched his jaw, trying to stop the words that spilled out. He didn’t want to hear her answer, didn’t want to know that he was nothing more to her than a way to test the waters after a long dating drought.