Sidelines (Wounded Hearts #1)

by S. M. Smith

  I watch as the memories of his past haunt him. He closes his eyes and a single tear slips down the side of his face before getting swallowed up by the hair on his face.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  He shakes the demons tormenting him away and gives me a small smile. “You know, Logan has every right to hate me. But he doesn’t. I wish that America could see that side of him, but he’s too kind to let even our parents think ill of me so…”

  “You’re not a bad big brother, Drew. I think he does respect you, regardless of your past transgressions.”

  He takes a long draw from his mug and nods to whatever affirmation is playing through his mind. “I ruined the most important relationship to him, and I can’t ever undo that. I’ve made some serious mistakes in my time, but my baby brother makes me want to be a better man.”

  His admission makes my heart squeeze. I’ve witnessed enough of Logan’s goodness to know what kind of a man he is. He’s loyal and kind, hardworking and honest. Everything a girl could want in a man, especially an abandoned girl from the streets.

  Drew watches me for a second before giving me a knowing smile. “Hmm…”

  “What?”

  “There it is again.” His eyes glint for second, just before his eyebrows wiggle up and down. “Been getting down and dirty on the ranch, have we?”

  “What?!” I can’t help the nervous laugh that escapes me as I cover my face in my hands. “Oh no! You and I both know that is so not the case. Our…relationship—if that’s even a good word for it—is professional at best.”

  His laugh is full and rich and I’m reminded of Fallon. Seeing him like this just further explains why she’s so smitten. Oddly though, everything about him reminds me of Logan. The deep roll of his laugh. The way he shows his emotions in his eyes. The way he naturally intimidates, but at times will try to put you at ease with a smile or a joke.

  “Well, I did happen to have the privilege of watching you two at the hoedown—”

  “Apparently people find that offensive,” I quote his brother.

  “Ha! You sound just like him. Well, I saw you guys the other night at the farm, too. He’s weirdly comfortable around you. I’ve never seen him like he was around you. Not even with Cassady.” He gives me a look as if that should mean something.

  And to an extent, it does. I know that her betrayal wouldn’t have hurt him so badly if he hadn’t cared for her so much. To have Drew, who had to have known their relationship on a level no one else could have, say something like that. Well…it just adds to the guilt.

  “Well, he is a good dancer,” I retort, hoping to disguise the twinge of pain in my chest.

  Drew—not missing a beat—picks up his mug again and smirks. “Taught him everything I know.”

  A laugh bursts out of my lungs in both relief and delight. This is one thing that is unique to Drew that I will forever appreciate. Knowing when a change of subject needs to be made, he can put anyone at ease with a lighthearted comment like that.

  My laughter subsides when my phone starts to ring. I dig it out of my pocket and frown at the number on the screen.

  “St. Mary’s hospital in San Jose?” Drew asks, confusion and concern churning in his tone and eyes.

  Remembering Walt telling me his appointment was this afternoon, fear and dread settles in my belly like an anvil. “Um, I guess, I should probably take this.”

  He nods and before he can say a word, I’ve slipped off my stool, taken three giant steps to the front door and have the phone to my ear before I can even pull it open.

  “This is Allie Mooreland.”

  “Yes, Miss Mooreland. This is Anna from St. Mary’s County Hospital. I have you down as an emergency contact for Walter Mooreland.” The tired tone in the nurses voice makes my heart stop and my blood run cold.

  “Um, yes. That would be me. Is everything okay with Walt?” I feel the world stop turning and all the oxygen get sucked out of the air. My entire body decides to stop functioning, causing my knees to lock up.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Mooreland. I’m going to need you to come in…” Blood rushes to my ears and I’m at serious risk of fainting right where I stand.

  Before I know what’s going on, Drew takes the phone from my hand, bracing an arm around me. My will to stand escapes and the only thing to keep me up is his tall frame. I watch as he finishes the call and hangs up my phone. He hands it back to me before digging his own out of his pocket. Gently, he guides me to a bench and has me sit as he dials a different number. A bird lands on the sidewalk in front of me, but as if someone has pushed the mute button, I don’t hear a thing. He’s not on long enough for me to gain my hearing back to know who he’s called. When he hangs up and runs a hand through his long, dark hair, his sad eyes turn to me, clearly unable to find any words that will help me understand what has just happened. When Drew finally sits beside me, he puts an arm behind me and pulls me to him. Before I know what is happening, quiet tears for the only man who’s ever really loved me just the way I am start to slip down my cheeks.

  I don’t hear a thing until someone else takes a seat to my left and lays a hand over my hair. As if his touch could unravel the vines that hold me against Drew, I feel myself slip into the only arms I care to be in. His quiet shushing is the first thing I hear.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He chants the words over and over again until I feel the sobs stop wracking through my body. Like someone pulled the plug to my soul, I feel everything drain from me. I abandon everything that has held me in place and let myself be comforted by the only arms that I know can comfort me in any way.

  I don’t know how long we sit there, outside, on a bench in the middle of Walker on a quiet summer evening. But Logan makes no attempt to pry my fingers from his shirt or to push me away and tell me to dry it up. With the compassion I’ve come to know is second nature to him, he holds me tight, pressing gentle kisses to the top of my head as I grieve the only person left in my life.

  ***

  “You don’t have to drive me to the airport,” I tell Logan for the fifth time. And for the fifth time, he rolls his eyes and ignores me.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “My flight leaves so late and I have to take my rental in. How will you get back to the ranch?”

  “I’ll get someone from Inman’s office to come out and return it for you.”

  Tossing the last of my clothes into my suitcase, I sigh as I zip it up. “Logan.”

  In two long strides, Logan is all up in my space, with each of his hands holding a side of my face and his breath tickling the tips of my lips.

  “Please don’t argue with me. I’m taking you to the airport. End of discussion.”

  Wishing he would lean in the few extra inches, I let a timid breath out and find my voice to be barely a whisper. “Fine.”

  He rubs a thumb along my cheek and instinctively, I lean into his hand. A moan escapes the back of his throat and before another heartbeat can pass between us, I’m swallowed in his embrace once again. He tucks my head under his chin and carefully tightens his hold. A million words float around us like specks of dust in afternoon light, all things we’d like to but are afraid to say. A part of me doesn’t want to leave this little slice of heaven, but every instinct within me is pulling me back to the west coast. As if answering the call, I loosen my grip on Logan and step away when his arms release me.

  “We should probably get going then.”

  His jaw clenches—a move that once infuriated me, but now has become so common it’s almost comforting—but he reaches around me and picks my suitcase up off the bed. He waits for me to exit the room before him and doesn’t speak another word while he loads me and my luggage into his truck. The silence blankets us, nearly to suffocating proportions, as he guides his truck onto the highway. Needing the distraction, I pick up my phone and start searching my email for my flight information. Before I can find it, I have to scroll through several emails from coaches, bloggers,
reporters and various players I have the privilege of being acquaintances with, all with kind words of condolences. After reading about the third email, I feel Logan’s hand reach for mine. Grasping it, I cling to the hope that despite having lost the last person who truly knew and loved me, I might just make it on my own.

  Chapter Thirty

  The red-eye back to Santa Cruz should have wiped me out, but by the time the morning sun touches my face, I’m wound so tight someone should probably cut me off from any caffeine. I’m not sure if I’m fortunate or not to have no one to do so.

  Just as that thought crosses my mind, my phone pings with a text.

  Logan: Please call me when you get there.

  Without stopping to consider if contacting him now is a good idea or not, I immediately hit his contact icon to dial him. He picks up on the second ring.

  “You’re there already?”

  “I’m home.”

  A pause of silence worries me that he might have hung up, but when I hear him blow out a breath I nearly sigh in relief myself.

  “Good. What are you going to do now?”

  I hail a taxi and wait for it to approach the curb. “I’m going to his house.”

  “Alone?”

  I roll my eyes, knowing he can’t see me. “Well, I can’t say there is really anyone else to go with me.”

  He hisses. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go.”

  My heart twists but reality sinks in as the taxi driver jumps out and pops the trunk to the car. He does a double take when he realizes who I am. A big grin covers his face and it’s then that resolve hits me with hurricane-force winds. Logan and I can’t be together while we continue to do what we do.

  “I’ll be fine, Logan. I need to go.”

  “Okay, but just keep me posted on what is going on. I’m worried about you.” The way he says that last statement makes it sound like it was hard for him to admit it out loud.

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you for checking up on me, but I’m a big girl and can handle things from here.”

  I hear him call my name as I pull the phone from my ear and cut the call. I’ve never had to say goodbye before, but I’m almost certain that wasn’t how you’re supposed to do it. However I’m reminded that now is not the time to be concerned with proper relationship etiquette when the taxi driver eagerly asks me where he’s taking me.

  “1313 Sallsberry Lane, please.”

  “Certainly, Miss Mooreland.”

  ***

  I tip the driver handsomely when he hands me the handle to my suitcase. I feel bad because the poor guy attempted to ask me a million questions about which players he should look to pick for his fantasy team this year, but I couldn’t answer a single one whole-heartedly. When he had asked me about Drew, I answered him honestly and told him to make sure that Drew Lassiter is on his team this year. But when he asked me about Logan, I nearly lost my composure. A simple “absolutely” was all I could contribute.

  I stand in front of the gate that leads to Walt’s front door, rooted to the sidewalk and unable to move a muscle. How many times had I walked to this gate, opened it and crossed the paved walkway, skipped up the concrete steps and barged right into the house like I owned the place? I guess, now I do.

  “Doesn’t feel quite right, does it?”

  Mr. Whitman, or Larry as he’s tried to get me to call him for years, steps up beside me and just stares at the house before us.

  “I keep picturing myself walking in and finding him passed out, propped up in his recliner with spittle dripping down his chin and an empty Spartans mug on the table next to him. But I won’t find him like that, will I?”

  Turning to the the African-American gentleman who had lived next door to Walt and Maggie since before the summer I came to live with them, he slowly shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the front door of the house. “I’m afraid not, child.”

  He finally turns to me, his ashen skin wrinkling around his graying hair and his matching bushy moustache, and gives me a sad smile.

  “It’s good to have you home, kiddo.” He lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and turns to shuffle on to his own house.

  Swallowing, I gather all my willpower to open the gate. It squeals and creaks its protests in the early morning air. Just as I’m about to take the first steps onto my new property, Mr. Whitman calls out across the lawn, like he’s always done.

  “Those Rattlers ready for our boys in red?” For as long as I’ve known Mr. Whitman and Walt, those two have been die-hard Spartan fans. To know that they would have been cheering against the love of my life in the upcoming season opener brings a smile to my face.

  “Those Rattlers are gonna send your boys in red home cryin’ to their mommas.” I can’t help the jeering.

  Larry feigns shock. “That’s blasphemy, girl. You hear me? Your father’d roll over in his grave to hear you talkin’ like that. ” He turns and starts mumbling to himself. “Talkin’ that way about our beloved Spartans. Our girl’s gone off and betrayed us, Walt ol’ boy.”

  The reference to Walt being my father stings so much that I stop enjoy his jesting.

  Taking a deep breath, I face the walkway and force myself up the steps. The moment I open the door, stale air assaults my nostrils. The early morning sun seeps in through the blinds in the living room, shining like a spotlight on the empty recliner. The mug I had just envisioned is nowhere to be seen, but a few dusty photo albums piled on the coffee table catch my attention.

  Propping my suitcase up against the wall next to the door, I quietly make my way to the couch and lean over to see what could have drawn Walt’s attention. Four snapshots, boxed together on the open page, document my high school graduation. In each of the pictures, the faces are happy and bright, full of perfect smiles and obvious joy. My favorite, one I have a copy of that sits on my nightstand in my apartment, is of the three of us. Maggie in a lovely shade of powder blue, her silvery white hair pulled back in a low bun, and wispy tendrils flying in front of her cobalt blue eyes. Walt, standing at least a good foot taller than what I’d grown accustomed to these last few years, matching in his short-sleeved button up and a plain, navy blue tie. His hair a little fuller and his eyes with enough love to fuel the whole state of California. Younger me stands between them and I remember feeling like I’ve never belonged anywhere else but standing with the two of them.

  They were my cornerstones, the very people I needed to push me and encourage me to make something of myself.

  By the time I’d graduated college and fulfilled Maggie’s dream for me, she was gone.

  And now, so is Walt.

  The fact that I’ll never hear him cheer on his precious Spartans again, never call me “Allie Cat” or “kid,” never feel his frail arms wrap around me and tell me he’s proud of me, floods over me with a crash. And like the tide, I let the loneliness carry me out to sea, nearly drowning in it.

  “Why?” The question hiccups out of me in between the sobs. The endless questions that I’ve been wanting to scream since the moment the hospital called start to burst from my lungs like a geyser of pain. “Why would you give me such wonderful, caring people and then take them both away? Neither of them were ready to meet their Maker, but you took them from me anyway? My time with them was so, so short. It wasn’t enough. I need them. I need them so much. I need Maggie to tell me what to do. I need Walt to tell me what to say. I…I need them.”

  More sobs burst out, drawing the last of the oxygen from my lungs, completely draining me of anything I have left to give.

  “They told me you love me and that you’d never forsake me. But if you did love me, you wouldn’t have done this. You wouldn’t have taken them from me and you wouldn’t have left me here to figure this all out on my own. Again.”

  Why, God? Why?

  ***

  I feel the sharp pain of hard wood on my knuckles when I rap them on the door to Mac’s office. I read somewhere that the other senses for a deaf or blind person are heightened to compensate f
or what their ears or eyes cannot contribute. I’m beginning to believe that when you go numb on the inside, every physical sensation is heightened to compensate for the lack of deeper emotional feeling.

  “Come in,” Mac yells through the closed door. The moment I swing it open and step inside his office, I can tell that the five pounds of makeup I have plastered on isn’t doing its job of hiding the toll my life is taking on my body.

  “Allie? What are you doing here?” Concern shrouds his eyes, but we’ve both known each other long enough to know that if asking me if I’m okay is only going to earn him an “I’m fine.”

  “Turning in the rough draft of the article.”

  “It’s done? Already?”

  “Yep.” The sense of completion and pride I normally feel after an article is turned in is noticeably absent today. Crossing my arms, I brace myself for the blow back I know to expect.

  “You’ve been back less than two days. How on earth did you manage to get that article, plus all the fune—” He clears his throat at the sharp look I send him.

  “We’ve known each other a long time, yeah?” He nods and visibly swallows, nervous anxiety rolling off him. I must be giving off some seriously hostile vibes if he’s afraid I’m going off my rocker. I relax my stance and try to smooth out my voice. “Then you should know by now, I needed the distraction.”

  Pity replaces the concern in his eyes and since I’ve kind of abandoned my normally cheery disposition, that pity makes me want to punch him. But just in the arm, though. Less damage, and I don’t think I’d feel so bad about it later.

  “Allie.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, an exhaustion I haven’t seen in him before peeking through the pity and concern. “What can I help you with?”

  “Nothing.” I shake my head, as I mentally go through the checklist of things I was told I’d need to accomplish for the memorial. “The funeral home and church are taking care of most of everything. I typed up an obituary that ran in the Gazette this morning.”