Hometown Hero

by Cate Cameron

  And she started sobbing. Her rage couldn’t carry her in the face of kindness. Still, the tears were completely humiliating, a betrayal of every woman who’d had to be strong in a man’s world. She was tough! She didn’t do this! But somehow she just couldn’t stop.

  She turned away, buried her head in her hands, and tried to apologize. Terry didn’t respond right away, but after a few moments she felt something cool and hard brush her hand, and looked over to see a tumbler of water. “Try to take a sip,” Terry’s voice rumbled by her ear.

  Good. A goal. Something concrete, something to focus on. She took one breath that turned into a shuddering sob halfway through, then another that she managed to exhale with only a little quaver. A sip from the glass helped, the cool water soothing as it washed through her burning body.

  “I’m an idiot,” she mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re not an idiot. And what are you sorry for? For crying? Don’t worry about that. I have fighters in here crying all the time. The intensity you need in the ring doesn’t just shut off when you’re in the real world. You feel things. It’s allowed.”

  She took another sip, not sure whether to believe him, but grateful for the words whether they were true or not. “I don’t cry. Not in public.”

  “This isn’t public. Don’t worry about it.” He let her take another sip, then said, “Now, if you were planning to say sorry for not telling me about a serious health concern? Yeah, that might deserve an apology.”

  Her head. That was what she was here about. Strange to realize how far it had been from her mind. “Oh. Yeah. I don’t know, I just got a second opinion. The doctor couldn’t find any proof that I couldn’t fight, so there wasn’t much point in telling you. Right?”

  “There’s a point in telling me you’re not sure you’re healthy,” he said firmly.

  “Why? The commission isn’t going to give me a ban. And anything short of that is no use.”

  “Bullshit. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do a gut check.” She stared at him, but apparently he was done being gentle with her. “You want to be the victim here? ‘Oh, boo hoo, I have to fight even though I don’t want to’? Bullshit.” He stepped away from her and started moving around the room as if his thoughts were too strong for his body to stay still. “If you don’t think you’re ready to fight, then don’t fight. It’s that damn simple. You can talk to me about keeping the title, and I can try to leave it with you for a while, but if you lose it? Big deal! You’ll either win it back or you won’t. Still not a big deal.”

  “That’s easy for you to say—” she started, but she caught herself. This wasn’t Cal she was talking to. Terry had pulled himself up from the streets just like she had; he knew why it was important. “People respect me because of the title.” Surely he could understand that.

  But he shook his head. “People respect you because you’re a hell of a fighter, you’re tough, and at least most of the time, you’re smart. The title? It’s just a title. It’s not you.”

  The same things Cal had said to her, more or less, but she hadn’t been willing to hear them from him. She’d thought he couldn’t understand.

  Which she’d been right about, she reminded herself, and she tried to dig up some of that anger. He’d betrayed her. She had trusted him, more than anyone else, and he’d come to Terry and told him everything. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of Terry’s floor-to-ceiling windows and tried to find something solid she could hang on to and believe in.

  “How bad is your head?” Terry asked, his voice gentle again. “What did the doctor say?”

  She sighed, too tired to play the game. “You’ve already heard this. Cal probably has a better memory than I do. I mean, whatever he said, he’d have put it in the worst possible way, but the facts would be right.”

  “Cal? Calvin Montgomery?” Terry sounded genuinely confused. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

  And there was the familiar, welcome anger. “Was that your deal?” she demanded. “You’re not supposed to admit it came from him?”

  “Zara, what are you talking about? It was Andre who mentioned this to me, not Cal Montgomery.”

  She spun around to stare at him. Andre. Not Cal. Andre. It made no sense, but if it was true . . . “No. I never told him about the doctor. Cal’s the only one who knew.”

  “I can call Andre and ask for clarification if you want.” Terry looked thoughtful. “He didn’t seem to have details about the diagnosis. He just said I should know you’d seen a neurologist.” A moment’s thought and he added, “Does he handle your business expenses? Does your insurance paperwork go through him?”

  The world was spinning, but this time it wasn’t her head making her dizzy—it was her heart. “He takes care of all my bills,” she said, her own words sounding far away. “My insurance . . . yes. It goes through his office.”

  “So that’s how he knew,” Terry said, as if Andre was the important part here. “But why did he tell me? He’s your manager, but he’s going behind your back? What’s going on there?”

  Zara wasn’t sure she cared, but she tried to focus her mind on the issue, at least for a moment. “Anna Cade,” she said. “He’s trying to sign her—maybe he already has. He thinks she’s the future and I’m the past. But we’ve been training together, sparring against the same partners.” It all seemed so empty, but she kept talking anyway. “I’m going to kick her ass. She’s good, but she’s not as good as I am.”

  “He’s an idiot,” Terry said. “And I won’t tolerate this sort of thing in my organization. I’m going to investigate this, Zara, and if that’s what happened, if he breached your confidence like that? He won’t be doing any more business with us, and I’ll make sure everyone knows why.”

  It should have felt like a victory, she supposed, but it didn’t. She stared out the window, trying to make sense of anything. “I made a mistake,” she said. Obvious, but still not easy to say. “I blamed Cal for you finding out.”

  “I’m still a bit confused about that. How would Cal know about the doctor?”

  Because he’d gone with her, and sat by her, and supported her. Because he’d cared enough to fight with her and try to change her mind. Because he’d been part of her life, until she’d pushed him away and ruined everything.

  “I’m out of the fight,” she said. The words didn’t even hurt. “I’m probably healthy for it, but I’m not sure. I shouldn’t take the chance. And . . .” She swallowed. “I have something more important I need to be fighting for.”

  He gave her a long look, then said, “You’re sure? I can try to keep the title with you, but I can’t guarantee it.”

  It would hurt to give that up, she had to admit. But not nearly as much as it would hurt to give up Cal. “Do what you have to do. I’m really sorry about the short notice. I should have figured this out a long time ago.”

  He shrugged. “I can make it work.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Her cheeks were still stiff from dried tears, but she could barely even remember why she’d been crying anymore. She felt light, as if she could float out of the office and bounce gently down the stairs to street level. “I can make things work, too,” she vowed.

  A quick kiss to Terry’s cheek and then she was gone, striding toward the elevator, phone out and dialing as she moved. She’d been wrong, but now she was going to make it right. That was the only thing that mattered.

  Twenty-three

  “I LEFT HER two messages,” Zane said as he slid into the booth opposite Cal at Woody’s. “Hopefully she calls back soon.”

  Cal nodded and finished his glass of scotch. He was trying to remove himself from the situation, trying not to think about Zara or the hole she’d left in his life. “This would be easier if you’d stop talking about her.”

  “Easier?” Zane looked genuinely confused. “Oh, you mean easier for you. The
moping. You’d be able to drink yourself into oblivion with less effort if I stopped talking about her.” He looked disgustedly at Cal’s glass. “It’s barely six o’clock and you’re already that sappy? You need less scotch, more beer. You should be belching and scratching your belly, not whining. Come on, man! Let’s have a little less self-pity, okay?” He raised his hand and made some sort of signal to their server, apparently ordering a drink.

  Cal stared down at his glass. Everything was over with Zara, and it was his fault. He’d been the one to walk away. Another woman might have given him a second chance, but Zara? No. She wasn’t looking back. He’d loved her and she’d . . . she’d spent time with him as long as he was well behaved. And still he couldn’t seem to make himself let go. “I’m so screwed,” he mumbled.

  “Patriots are playing tonight,” Zane said. “The Dolphins, I think.”

  Cal squinted at him. “Football? We’re going to talk about football?”

  “Sure. Why not? I mean, if you want to talk about Zara—okay. Make sure you remember who you’re talking to, but the general stuff? I can handle that. But is there really anything to say? You tried, and it didn’t work out. That sucks. I’ll talk to her about the plan for getting out of the fight, once she calls me back, and we’ll see how that goes.” He waited for a response, then said, “You heard anything about Brady’s knee? Is he going to be playing tonight?”

  “You think talking about sports injuries is a good way to keep me from thinking about Zara?”

  “I knew it was bad as soon as I started saying it. I hoped maybe you weren’t paying attention.”

  Cal snorted, then leaned back to let the server put a pitcher of beer and two glasses on the table between them. It wasn’t like he’d have been able to forget about Zara anyway, not at Woody’s with her face staring down at him from all the posters, not at home, where every inch of the place seemed to hold a memory of her, where his sheets still carried the hint of her scent.

  “I’m going to drink too much to drive. I’m staying at your place, okay?” Zane asked, and when Cal didn’t argue, Zane poured two glasses of beer, shoved one toward Cal, and raised his own. “Alcohol,” he proclaimed. “If we keep trying, maybe one of these times it will actually make something better.” Then he drained half his glass.

  Cal did the same. As toasts went, it was honest, at least. “If I’d stayed—” he began, but then he stopped. If he’d stayed, what would have been different, really? Anything? Maybe, but he could never know. “Shit.” He took a deep breath, laid his hands flat on the table and said, “I don’t care about football. You want to play pool?”

  “Yeah,” Zane agreed, and they headed for the table.

  They were just finishing their first game when Cal felt . . . something. Something that made him turn around and look toward the main doors. So he was among the first to see Zara come inside.

  She looked strangely nervous, maybe because the place was essentially a shrine to her greatness, but her gaze slid right over the life-sized cardboard cutout that guarded the entrance, and scanned the crowd. He stood frozen until she saw him, and then still couldn’t move as she worked her way through the crowd in his direction.

  Zara. Zara was in Lake Sullivan, and she seemed to be there for him.

  She looked beautiful. Tense and unhappy, tired and uncertain, but beautiful. She came and stood in front of him, and for a moment it was enough for him to just stare at her.

  Then she said, “I thought you told Terry about the doctor.”

  It took a while for the words to make sense. “The neurologist? You thought I told Terry? Why?”

  “Because he knew, and you were the only one who could have told him.” She stopped, then miserably added, “That’s what I thought.”

  “Wait. You thought he knew, or you thought I told him? I mean, what’s going on? Does Terry know?” And if he did, what did that mean?

  She took a deep breath, then said, “Can we get out of here? Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  He almost roared his agreement, but then caught himself. It seemed like she was willing to listen to him now, but he couldn’t be sure how long that would last. He didn’t really know what was going on, so he couldn’t judge how she’d react to much of anything. And he was pretty sure it was still important for her to hear the plan, the ideas he and his mother and Zane had come up with the night before. She needed to hear it from someone she’d be more likely to listen to.

  “You should talk to Zane,” he made himself say. Damn it, was he blowing his chance? But it was more important to be sure she was safe.

  “Zane?” She frowned over at her brother, leaning on his cue stick by the pool table. “About what?”

  “He can explain,” Cal said. “I mean, if you have questions or whatever, give me a call. But you should talk to him first.”

  Another frown at Zane, but then she nodded. “Okay. I’ll talk to him. Listen to him. Whatever. But, Cal . . . can I just say I’m sorry? To you, I mean, before I go talk to him. I made a mistake this morning, jumped to a stupid conclusion, and . . . I’m sorry.”

  It was almost enough. Enough to make him lose his discipline, stop doing what he thought was best for her and start doing what he thought was best for him. If she’d said one more thing, he’d have given in. He’d have tried to be with her, tried to talk to her himself.

  And if he’d been unable to persuade her and she’d gone ahead and fought anyway, it would be because he’d gotten greedy and tried to take more than he could hold. “I need to go,” he said quickly.

  He threw a few bills on the table and headed for the door. Probably Zane was watching him leave. Probably most of the bar was, considering they were all locals and all knew either him or Zara or at least some version of their story. Yeah, probably every set of eyes in the place was on his back. But the only ones he felt were Zara’s. And that imagined gaze stayed with him long after he left the bar and headed down the darkening street toward home.

  * * *

  “HE wants me to explain his plan to you,” Zane said as he and Zara settled into the booth. “Our plan, kind of. Him and me and Mrs. Montgomery, believe it or not. But honestly, Zara, mostly his. He was really working at it, trying to use all his business sense and whatever, trying to find a way to make it so you’d be okay with not fighting.”

  She felt numb. Why were they still talking about this? She wasn’t going to be fighting. She didn’t care about that anymore, at least not right then. All she wanted to talk about was Cal. But Cal had wanted her to hear this, whatever it was, so she kept her mouth shut and listened.

  “It’s built around the idea of making you into even more of a celebrity,” Zane said. “And Cal knew you wouldn’t like that, but he thought you might go along with it, on certain terms. He wants you to go big, and be the spokesperson for head injuries in women’s sports. There have been lots of male athletes who’ve spoken up about it, but no really famous women yet. So he wants to build this whole campaign—he has lists of people to talk to, and ways to spin it—and he figures that if you go that way, you’ll be making it totally clear to everyone that you’re not backing out of the fight because you’re scared. You know?”

  “I already backed out of the fight,” she said numbly. Cal had been making plans to help salvage her pride? They’d fought, she’d told him she never wanted to see him again, and he was still worried about making her feel better? “I told Terry this morning. I drove up here to tell Cal. And to . . . to apologize.”

  Zane was watching her carefully. “Apologize for what exactly?”

  “For not trusting him. Not listening to him.”

  “And how do you see things going from here?” Zane asked. She didn’t answer right away, and he sighed. “Trust me, Zare, I’m really not looking for details on my baby sister and her boyfriend. It’s just, he’s pretty busted up right now, but he’ll get over it. If you’re planning to co
me back and get back together with him? I don’t think you should do that. Not unless you really mean it. If you’re still going to be doing your I’m just killing time with this guy while I’m stuck in Lake Sullivan thing? I don’t think that’s fair to him.”

  The words stung. No, more than a sting. They hurt. But not because they weren’t deserved. She had treated the relationship like that, at least at the start. She’d held back, resisted, made Cal work too hard for every step of progress they made. “So what are you saying?” she almost whispered. “He won’t take me back?”

  Zane snorted. “No. He probably will. But what I’m saying is you should think it through. Because you’re a good person, and you don’t want to hurt other people, and if you get back together with him and then dump him the next time the MMA world comes calling? That’s not fair to him. He deserves to be with someone who wants to be with him, you know?”

  “I do,” she said. She knew she meant it. “I want it more than anything.”

  Zane gave her a long look, then nodded slowly. “Okay. So while we’re on it . . . there’s one more thing he deserves. He deserves to know that. Because I don’t think he does right now. I don’t think he ever has.”

  It was hard to breathe for a moment. Her chest was too tight, and she didn’t seem to know how to loosen it. Finally she drew a shuddering breath. She wasn’t going to cry anymore, so she nodded hard, willing the tears to stay where they belonged. “Okay. Yeah. I need to fix that.”

  She pushed out of the booth, not sure where she was going, but feeling the need to move. “Give him this, okay?” she said, and pushed the grocery bag she’d brought with her across the table toward him. “I need to . . . I don’t know. I need to get myself in order. And then I’ll find him, and, yeah, I’ll . . . I’ll make it better. I will.”

  She was a few steps away from the table when she heard her brother call her name. Damn it, she wasn’t sure how much more of his truth telling she could take. But she turned around and waited.