Brody didn’t have time to ask because everyone hugged him at once. His friends pounded his back. Lance lingered just beyond the fringe of their group. They locked eyes. His baby brother had tears in his eyes. He knew his thoughts as well as his own—if only Dad were here for this.
Along with his brother, Zane, Jackson, and Kyle were his pack. His tribe. They’d all been friends since their days at USC. Lance had nicknamed them the Dogs after the famous painting of dogs playing poker.
“Brody.” A high-pitched shout rose above the chaos. Honor had been lost amid the crowd, her petite stature enveloped in the throngs of people. He knelt to hug her, but she pushed him away with her hands. “I don’t want your stinky sweat all over my clothes.” She shouted this but followed with a softer proclamation in his ear. “You did good.”
“Don’t start mentioning anything about endorsements until tomorrow,” he said. “I want to enjoy myself for the rest of the night.”
Honor tossed her long blond hair behind her shoulders. “Lance already made me promise.” Her heart-shaped face and big brown eyes belied her sharp intelligence. She ran his business affairs with precision and merciless attention to details. He loved and trusted her, like the sister he never had. Which, in his opinion, was a blessing. To fall for Honor Sullivan was the first step to a broken heart. “No time for whiny or needy men,” she always said—right before she kicked another one to the proverbial curb.
“Where’s Flora?” Brody asked. Flora, his family’s longtime housekeeper, was a second mother to him and his brother.
“She had to stay home. She’s a little under the weather,” Lance said.
“We didn’t want to tell you before the game.” His mother, Janet Mullen, brushed blond hair from her cheeks and looked up at him with her penetrating eyes.
Brody’s stomach dropped. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing to worry about,” his mother said. “Just enjoy your moment.”
He wasn’t sure she was telling the truth, but for now, he chose to take her advice. He’d been waiting for this his entire life.
Chapter Three
Kara
Kara watched the Super Bowl alone in her room at the hotel. She’d given the last of her testimony Friday afternoon. Tomorrow they would tell her where she was to start her new life. For now, there was football, at least, to keep her from careening into the madness of uncertainty.
On fourth down, with seconds left on the clock, Brody Mullen threw a perfect fifty-eight-yard pass to his wide receiver, Beeson, in the end zone. The ball might have been a few inches too high for almost any other player, but the tall and lanky Beeson caught it in his giant hands with seemingly little effort. The referee called it a touchdown. Mullen fell to his knees.
Minnie jumped onto the bed and curled up beside her. As much as Kara loved the feline beauty, Minnie was a poor substitute for the Super Bowl party she’d thrown last year. Twenty people had crammed into the living room of her two-thousand-square-foot condo. They’d spilled chips and screamed at the television and laughed at commercials. Her best friend, Jessica, had collected bets on the winner and the scores. Kara won.
Now, the sound of the game and the announcers, Roger King and Tom Coleman, softened the sharp edges of her sorrow. Wherever she went, she’d still have football to watch.
“Brody Mullen turned thirty last month. There’s continued speculation that he will retire after this season, but in an interview last week he assured fans that he had no plans to give up any time soon.”
“Given the way he played tonight, Tom, he’s nowhere near done with what has been a spectacular career.”
Brody Mullen. Her football nemesis. She was sick to death of hearing about him the past few weeks. All the sports channels could talk about was his wonderful character and leadership and his football royalty family. If she saw one more advertisement with him hawking that new luxury car, she might vomit. What a jerk, on and off the field. Obviously, women found him attractive, but he reminded her of a hawk with intense, angry green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a hard mouth. He had this way of running his hands through his cropped hair during interviews that was so obviously meant to make him look vulnerable and approachable, nervous even. So ridiculous. Men like Brody Mullen were never nervous.
Seriously, off the field, he was everywhere: print ads, television spots, charity functions. He had recently pledged a million dollars to build a center for underprivileged youth in one of the Bay Area’s poorest communities. She had to give him some points for that, although she was disgusted by how often he posted his picture on Instagram with a sick child. Her mother had told her that good deeds only counted if no one knew about them. Brody Mullen made sure the world knew about everything he did.
She focused her attention back on the television.
The camera stayed on Mullen as the field flooded with people. He stood and tore his helmet off. His teammates mobbed him. Seconds later, he held out his arms and an older woman embraced him.
Roger King and Tom Coleman continued to commentate.
“Brody Mullen hugging his mother there. What an emotional night it must be for them. His father, our colleague here at NCS Sports, was his biggest supporter.”
“That’s right, Tom. Just last week he broke down when he spoke about his father and how much he wanted this win for him. It’s a shame Simon isn’t here to share this great night with him.”
“Hard to believe it’s been two years since we lost him,” Roger said.
“One of football’s greats, no doubt about it.”
Kara shut off the television. She didn’t want to hear anyone else’s sad story tonight.
Kara’s love of football came from her mother. Before she died when Kara was ten, they’d watched every Philadelphia game together. If they’d won or lost, her mother had reveled in the pure joy of the sport. Over the years, Kara had calmly defended her love of football to friends who thought the game was either boring or a waste of time—and quite possibly misogynistic and dangerous. No, she argued, look beneath the surface. Football was the human story. Football, with all the twists and turns, was like life. One never knew what would happen next. Sometimes the clock brought unexpected triumphs. Other times, it brought disaster. Often, and this was the best part, the clock brought an upset, a last-minute play so surprising and heroic that no one in their wildest imagination would have thought it possible. That was the magic of the game and the human experience. Just when one thought all was lost—redemption.
God knew, Kara had not seen this twist in her life coming. At last year’s Super Bowl party, she was still naïve, never questioning the surface story of her family. But now, she knew the truth, and there was no looking back. She would pay for her father’s sins for the rest of her life.
Today, she could not imagine redemption. Today, she was a reluctant hero.
Chapter Four
Brody
A few days after the Super Bowl, every muscle in Brody’s body ached as he pulled into the driveway of his Cliffside Bay home. He winced as he limped toward the front door. The game had taken more of a toll than he wished, but he didn’t care. Any price was worth the win. He rubbed his shiny Super Bowl ring and grinned.
Fog sheathed the house, limiting the view of the Pacific Ocean. Waves crashed against the rocky shore below his property. Built between trees on a piece of land that looked out over the ocean, he’d made no compromises. The design was a marriage between a classic cape cod and a modern beach. Large windows and patios made a seamless transition between outside and inside. From every window, there were views of the sea or woods. A swimming pool and outdoor kitchen took up part of the manicured gardens.
He pulled his fleece tighter and took in a deep breath. The air smelled of the briny sea. Home. An hour north of San Francisco, the small town of Cliffside Bay was about five minutes up the road from his place, but it could have been an hour given how quiet it was on his property. An iron fence and a gate insured their privacy and safety. He couldn�
�t be too diligent in this regard, especially now that his mother and Flora lived with him.
When his father had passed away two years ago, Brody’s mother had abruptly retired from her job as a human rights attorney. Shocked and worried, he’d convinced his mother and Flora to leave Brentwood and move in with him.
Brody had first visited Cliffside Bay with his USC roommate, Jackson Waller, when he was eighteen years old. He fell instantly in love with the sleepy town and vowed to one day build a house there. When a piece of land had come up for sale three years ago, he hadn’t hesitated to make an offer.
The five thousand or so residents of Cliffside Bay didn’t care for newcomers. However, his friendship with Jackson and Zane, who had both grown up here, combined with his football status had softened most of the residents. It had only taken three years, but he no longer fielded dirty looks when he went into town for church, shopping, or to eat at Zane’s bar and grill. Three years, Zane told him, was relatively short for a newcomer’s acceptance into the Cliffside Bay fold.
Happily, Jackson had recently moved back to town to join his father’s medical practice. Zane had taken over the town’s bar and grill from his father. Now if he could just get Kyle and Lance to move here, all the Dogs would be together. They could resume their Friday night poker games.
An eerie silence greeted him as he entered the house. He called out. “Hello, anyone there?”
A second later, Jackson’s father, the senior Doctor Waller walked into the foyer. “Brody, welcome home.” They shook hands. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore. I’m getting old.”
“No way. You’ve got lots of good years left,” Doctor Waller said.
His age seemed to be on everyone’s minds these days, including his own. His body’s capacity for regeneration declined with every season. It took him longer and longer to recover between games. He trained harder than he ever had, but it was a fight against time. Today they called him the best quarterback in the league, but for how much longer could he sustain that title? He’d been playing in the pros for eight years. His body knew it, even if his brain refused to acknowledge the inevitable truth. He had two good years left if he was lucky.
“Thanks, Doc. What’re you doing here? Is Flora still sick?” Around town they still called him “the new doctor,” even though he’d taken over the practice from the original doctor over thirty years ago. To Brody and the rest of the Dogs, he was just “Doc.”
“Flora’s still sick, yes. I’m afraid her nasty cold turned into pneumonia. However, my visit this afternoon was to see your mother. She fell this morning and broke her leg.”
“Is she all right?” His mother was sixty and healthy, other than being too thin. “She’s been down since my dad died. I swear, she doesn’t eat enough to keep a cat alive.”
“Janet’s doing well, although a little doped up on the pain meds I gave her. She’s resting, as I suggested.”
Brody let out a deep breath. “Good. How long before she’s out of the cast?”
“It’ll take her a little longer to heal because of her age, but she should be up and about in six weeks. It was a clean break. Nothing to worry about. But I need to talk to you about Flora. Let’s talk in the study.”
Alarmed, he swallowed. What was wrong? Was the pneumonia serious? He knew it could be with old people, but Flora was the same age as his mother, only more robust and full of energy. He followed Doc into his study which was decorated simply with a modern, black desk. The walls were painted light gray. Three framed photos of glass bottles took up most of one wall. Brody invited him to sit in the camel-hued leather chair as he lifted the shades and turned on a lamp. “What is it, Doc? Just tell it to me straight.” He sank into the chair behind his desk, prepared for the worst.
“Flora has a brain tumor.”
Fear scampered up the back of his neck like a spider. “What? She hasn’t even been sick.”
“She came to me complaining of headaches, along with occasional slurred speech, last month. These were red flags to me, so I sent her into San Francisco Mercy Hospital for a CT scan. When the results came back, I referred her to an oncologist at Mercy. He’s the best there is.”
“How bad is it?”
“Meningioma, also known as a meningeal tumor, is typically a slow-growing tumor that forms in the membranous layers surrounding the brain and spinal cord.”
“Speak English please,” Brody said.
“Like I said, it’s slow growing. There are three categories of brain tumors. Unfortunately, her tumor isn’t benign, but it’s a category two, which means she has atypical meningiomas. Her tumor is the size of a golf ball and causing symptoms, so her doctor is recommending surgery and possible radiation treatment, depending on what they find.”
“So, she’ll be okay?”
“Average patients with her symptoms live eleven years, give or take.”
Brody pushed into his eyelids with his fingertips. Eleven years? That was nothing. Decades slipped by without notice. “This can’t be happening.” His throat ached. Feisty, cantankerous Flora, sick? She took care of him. Of his mother. Of everyone who came into this house. She had for his entire life. It was impossible for her to be sick.
He would take care of her. He would fix her. Whatever it took.
“Her surgery is scheduled for next week,” Doc said. “Between her and your mother, I would recommend hiring a home care nurse for their recoveries.”
He wiped the corners of his eyes. “Yes, sure. Of course.”
“Her insurance will cover a lot, but there will be expenses,” Doc said.
“Whatever it costs, I’ll take care of it.” He glanced out the window. Mist hovered over the driveway. “She’s never had anyone but us.” We liked it that way. Had that been selfish of them? She’d worked hard all her life taking care of them. Why hadn’t he done more for her? Taken her more places? Bought her a house if she wanted? “Lance and I were going to take her and Mom on a cruise to the Mediterranean later this spring. We had it all planned.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for trips. After surgery. If all goes well, she’ll have many years of good health to come.” Doc reached over and patted his arm. “Before I go, though, I have another concern I’d like to talk over with you. It’s about your mother. I’m worried she’s depressed.”
“Depressed?” It was true she’d been sad since his father’s death, but depressed seemed a stretch.
“Have you noticed any usual behavior?” he asked.
“I haven’t been here much, to be honest. For most of the season, I stay in town.”
“Flora tells me that she often stays in her room all day. She rarely gets dressed. Some days she doesn’t get out of bed.”
“What? No, that can’t be right.”
“I mention it so that you can keep an eye on her now that you’re home for the off-season. We might consider medication.”
“No, she’s fine.”
Doc rose from his chair. “Again, I suggest you hire someone to help you. Sooner rather than later.”
“I don’t like to have strangers in the house.” He didn’t allow anyone but his inner circle into his home, other than cleaners and gardeners, but they were watched closely by Flora.
“You’ll have to make an exception. You can have her, or him, sign a confidentiality agreement,” Doc said.
“Right. I guess.” He had no other choice. Doc was right. He couldn’t handle this alone, given his training schedule and business commitments. “Where do I get someone?”
“Have you met Nora? She runs a little job placement business in town. I’ll call her on my way home and describe the situation. I’ve known her for a long time. We can trust her to understand the delicacy of the situation.”
“Fine. Yes. Thank you.”
Doc stood. “I should go now. I have a full afternoon in the office, but I’ll call you later tonight to check in on both our patients.”
“Yeah. All right. Thanks, Doc.” Brody stood on shaky
legs. He held on to the back of the chair for support. “Is there anything else I should do?”
“Try not to worry. It’s all going to be fine.”
Brody escorted him to the door and then wandered into the kitchen. The doctor’s words echoed through his mind. Flora. Brain tumor. Depression. If only Lance were here. He would know what to do.
Of the two of them, Lance was the better communicator, especially when it came to emotional situations. Like their dad had been, his brother always knew what to say and what not to say. He was kind and self-deprecating and always knew how to make everyone laugh. Lance was the only one who could cheer his mother up after their dad had passed. Brody knew he was an inadequate replacement. But his brother was in Zurich doing whatever he did with gobs of money for his clients. It had to be him.
BRODY KNOCKED SOFTLY on Flora’s bedroom door. “Flora, it’s me. May I come in?”
“Yes, yes.” Her voice was hoarse from the head cold. She lay in bed, her shoulders supported with several pillows. Her salt and pepper hair, which usually hung in gentle waves, lay matted and tangled on the pillow. She reached out to him with a frail hand. “Oh, Brody, I’m so sorry. It practically killed me to miss the game.”
Dark smudges under her light blue eyes marred her attractive face. She seemed fragile. How had he not noticed? He perched on the side of the bed. “It’s no problem. I’d rather have you here getting better.”
“I watched it on television. Boy, did you make me sweat those last few minutes.”
He smiled. “You and me both.”
“I suppose Doc told you my news,” she said.
“He did.” The painful lump in his throat made it difficult to swallow.
“I was just thinking about my mother when you knocked. She always told me to play the cards I was dealt. She always gave me that instruction when I was faced with something unpleasant.”
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