by Zoë Lane
“Here, Carmencita made hot chocolate.” Lacey raised her head and streaks of mascara framed her cheeks, her pale skin looking ghoulish against the black.
“Thank you,” she said in a croaky whisper. “Why did you have to do that?”
“Do what? Kick a child abuser out of my house? Oh, I don’t know, Lacey, maybe because I can remember the first time he beat you. You had a broken nose, and Mom couldn’t comfort you because he ordered her not to. Recall that?”
I knew that she hadn’t, but if she could give a man like that a second chance, then I had to stick it to her just a little. Nothing like the way Carter used to stick cigarette butts in her arm when she reached for food he didn’t want her to have.
“No, I don’t. I don’t remember a whole lot of him hitting me. I do remember the yelling, and him passing out drunk all the time.”
I reached down and tugged her left arm up, rotating it until her palm faced up. Four small dark burn scars lined her arm below her wrist. “And the cigarettes?”
Her arm shook as she stared at the scars, as if for the first time. Then her arm dropped to her side.
I collapsed beside her against the couch and took a long swig of the drink, ignoring how it burned my tongue and scorched my throat. “You don’t remember a whole lot of hitting because I took most of the beatings so you wouldn’t get hit.”
“I don’t remember hardly any of that either.”
I looked at her in the face. She had a somewhat blank expression, staring off into the distance and calmly drinking her hot chocolate. PTSD, maybe? “Lace, what do you mean you don’t remember?”
She shrugged. “I…I know he was a bad father. He never said he loved me, or took me shopping for a prom dress. My teacher had to tell me all about having a period and how to use a tampon. I…I just don’t remember him doing anything but yelling, and me running out of the house. I mean, I do remember him hitting you when you were older, but…”
I crooked her chin with my finger until she looked at me and not whatever it was in space that was holding her attention. “How far back do you remember?”
She shrugged again. “Landyn, I don’t remember anything really before my tenth birthday. And the only reason I remember that is because I got my period that week and I was scared to death and it happened when I was at school, and later that day I got a cupcake from Misty—my friend, you know?—and that’s because it was my birthday and Dad wouldn’t let us have a party or celebrate.” She inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly. Finally, recognition shimmered in her eyes.
I think I stopped breathing when she said her tenth birthday. By that time I was thirteen and six feet tall—as tall as Carter. I was on the football team in high school and was starting to put on serious muscle weight in order to punch back when I got punched.
Her tenth birthday meant she didn’t remember wetting the bed.
Or hiding in the closet.
Or being kicked down the basement steps when she was seven.
Or getting smacked so hard her loose tooth came out when she was six.
Or when he came stumbling home drunk at seven in the evening and kicked her for not getting out of his way fast enough when she was nine.
Her first real terrifying thought was when she started bleeding.
“I thought I was going to die when I saw the blood,” she continued, like hearing her first period story was something brothers normally wanted to sit through with their sisters.
“Lacey, you gotta be on my side,” I said, changing the subject. “Trust me when I tell you that the things he did to us before you were ten were criminal. He hurt both of us.”
“If that’s true, then how come he’s a free man?”
I had no answer except that the only thing that had occupied my thoughts growing up was keeping her safe. Without him, we wouldn’t have had a home, or food—which wasn’t saying much—or…I didn’t know. Somehow I’d always believed we’d be worse off, and I could take the beatings.
“Do you think he would get married again if he wasn’t better?” she asked.
I laughed harshly at the thought. How many people—men and women—married again after killing their first spouse? How many people continued to have children after sexually assaulting their own? “Being ‘good’”—I said with half an air quote and my cup—“for a few years doesn’t negate everything he did for eighteen-plus years before. He drove our mother away. You gotta hear that!”
“We don’t know that! We’ve never seen or heard from her since. Maybe she left because she wanted to go. Either way, I don’t remember.”
Her not remembering Mother was more gut-wrenching than the possibility that the woman had wanted nothing to do with us. It had crossed my mind, and trusting women had been difficult ever since. But the way Carter had beaten her… how she’d cried when we had gotten hurt… how could she not care about what happened to us?
Lacey’s shoulders drooped and she sighed heavily. “I’m tired of it all, Landyn. Tired of everything.” She stood, quickly moving to the entryway. “I just don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”
I sat there for I didn’t know how long after she’d left. Carmencita had since said goodnight and left for the evening, after giving me a fresh cup of hot chocolate. I’d had about five or six. Lost count.
I spent a lot of time scrolling through my phone for emotional disorders that could apply to Lacey. She had to be blocking memories. It wouldn’t help my case against Carter being in our lives if I was the only one who remembered being abused. If I had to, I’d get a restraining order for the both of us. Tell his new wife what he had done to his first one.
Wait, had he ever really gotten a divorce? He could be a bigamist.
I groaned and dropped my head back against the couch. The day I’d had had been too much. I want Rose. Despite her annoyingly articulate argumentative side—which I respected—she’d listen to me. She’d care.
I opened my messages app and pulled up her name. My thumb hovered over the phone’s keyboard. I slammed my phone into the couch.
This wasn’t her job.
She wasn’t my babysitter, nor my therapist—and I didn’t need either. This wasn’t a crisis she was being paid to handle. It was up to me.
Carter was going to stay the hell away from us, or I’d make him stay away.
Permanently.
CHAPTER TWENTY
COACH HICKS
I took a deep breath and looked at the clock on the wall in Rochelle’s waiting area. I still had a few minutes; plenty of time to review my game plan.
Less than a week until game one. I shook my head. In my gut, I knew we were ready, but convincing Rochelle and the owner was a completely different matter. A lot of powerful people had a lot of money riding on a successful first season, and it all hinged on how we’d do in the first few games.
Landyn’s progress all summer had been stellar—stratospheric, actually. Except for the last couple of practices, he had actually improved his accuracy skills and reading the defense. He loved the game—thrived on it—but I had my doubts about how he’d do under the lights and scrutiny of the nation now that he was in the NFL.
He seemed…distracted.
I glanced at the clock again. Time’s up. I knocked on Rochelle’s door.
I heard her muffled response to enter and proceeded. She didn’t look up from whatever she was reading, sitting with her legs crossed in an overstuffed chair in her sitting area. Her skirt showed off well more than half her thighs, dipping back towards a small waist.
Damn, those legs.
Short and thick. My mind worked against me, conjuring up how they’d feel around my waist. I shook my head and ordered my concentration to increase. My right hand went to my wedding band, and I began twisting it, a habit my wife had said was my obvious nervous tell.
“Please, have a seat, Coach Hicks. I’m just finishing reading Rose’s latest report.”
I didn’t correct her on my name. Best to keep things professional. If she
wasn’t comfortable using my name, then fine. Only she always said “Coach Hicks” with a certain twinge of…disdain? But when she said my first name, there was a soft hesitation in her voice.
She likes me.
“Yeah, I saw a copy of it and I read through it,” I responded after taking a seat across from her, keeping my gaze resolutely on her face. “I’m not worried, though. I think we have time to iron out any kinks and be ready for Thursday.”
Her eyes came up. “That’s your official position?”
I nodded, my mouth watering. Her eyes were like large black holes with a gravitational pull you couldn’t escape from no matter what warp speed your engine could get to.
She glanced down again. “What about Landyn’s performance these last couple of practices? Missing targets and misreading the defense.”
“Nerves, most likely.”
She tossed the folder onto the table between us. “So you think he won’t be able to handle the pressure? That this will be too much for him?”
I already thought this was somewhat much for him—for a young man who had gone from being a collegiate champion to the number one NFL draft pick for the newest team. He had known what to expect at Southwestern, but the NFL was on a different level. And with a billion-dollar franchise he was helming, I didn’t doubt he was experiencing more than a few nerves.
“No,” I said confidently. “I think it will be an adjustment period like anything else.”
“Rose said he stormed out of the press rehearsal.”
I grimaced. Landyn was fast becoming a favorite of mine. He seemed to carry some chip on his shoulder that drove him to be a success. I hadn’t figured out how it got there, but I’d made it my mission to. I admired that in a young man. His level of grit needed guidance though, and I aimed to provide it. Reading that comment had filled me with more disappointment than I cared to admit.
“I can see you hold some regard for him, and it’s probably embarrassing to have to defend him,” Rochelle said sympathetically. “But you know the deal.”
“Yes, I know it,” I muttered.
“Kyle has been steady in practices.”
“But he doesn’t have the same amount of time in as Landyn. We’ve been focusing most of our efforts on our starting QB. Yes, Kyle has talent, and we made a good choice getting him as our backup, but I wouldn’t count Landyn out of the running just yet.”
Rochelle only raised two thick, sharp brows at me and then sighed. “We have to win, Coach. At least the first few games. The owner doesn’t expect us to win them all, or even make it to the playoffs.”
“An unrealistic expectation I’m glad she doesn’t have. We’re a new team, and they’ll be a lot of things we’ll have to work out through the season. We’ve never played any of the other teams, which I recommended we do—”
“Neither I, the owner, nor the investors were confident in playing preseason. If the buzz wasn’t great then…well, then…”
“Then the pressure would be off us for the rest of the season, and the guys could relax.”
“Or they’d feel like they have something to prove.”
That was true, at least. “Well, Kyle feels that way in Landyn’s shadow.”
“What’s the pulse in the locker room? Besides Landyn and Kyle.”
“Good,” I said with a short nod. “The guys work well together, and they’re really becoming a cohesive unit. I’m quite proud of the work we’ve accomplished these last few months.”
Her expression seemed satisfied, but the air between us still held tension I wanted gone. “Look, I’ll have a conversation with Landyn, if it’ll help. I know something of what he’s going through.”
Rochelle’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes, I recall. You too were drafted and expected to play better than your predecessor.”
A Hall of Famer. The pressure had been so intense, I had thrown two interceptions that first game. We’d won, but by the skin of our teeth.
“Right. He’s the one setting the bar, though, so I know most of the stress he’s experiencing is self-inflicted.”
“If you can be a mentor…”
“It’s what I try to do, Rochelle. With every team I’ve coached. Making these guys feel like family, and that they can come to us if they need something. Anything.”
She smiled. “Like we’re their parents.”
I chuckled. “I guess we kind of are. I want them to trust us, if nothing else.”
She looked at me curiously. “Do you have any kids?”
I shook my head. “My wife and I…we weren’t able to have any.”
“Not even adoption?”
“I would’ve been fine with it, but…” The words stuck in my throat. Katie had so wanted to give birth; for us to have our own children. In the end, I couldn’t convince her, and then…it didn’t seem to matter.
“I wasn’t tyring to pry,” she rushed to say. “I don’t have any kids either, but my last team…we were like family, so I know what you mean.”
“And what we have to do.”
Rochelle sighed and stood. “Which is why monitoring Landyn is so important. Tough love.”
I didn’t disagree verbally. In Landyn’s case, something else about him was off. He was more…angry.
“Well, I have a dinner date to get to, Coach Hicks.”
I stood quickly, my stomach dropping in the process. Of course she was dating. Gorgeous, successful, powerful. “Right. Well, if you want, we’re having a team huddle right before next practice. Just have a conversation and see how the guys are. It’ll be informal.”
“You think they’ll want to open up with the GM sitting there?” she asked, her smile wry.
“Eh, maybe not. But, if you made them feel comfortable, they might surprise you.”
Her lips twisted to one side; I hadn’t done a good job convincing her. “We’ll see, but thank you for the invitation.”
“Well…goodnight, Rochelle.” I held her gaze, just wanting to be trapped there for a little while longer.
“Goodnight…Danny.”
Ah, there it is.
I smiled and excused myself, silently wishing that her date would be the worst she’d ever experienced.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LANDYN
“Landyn, you sure you want to be out here? Thought there was a moratorium on you being seen in bars.”
“Cas, why are you talking five-syllable words to me right now?” I accepted a beer from the bartender and swiveled around in my seat. “I just want to drink, find some hot, brainless chick and nail her to the wall.”
I felt Nico’s worried glance as it crossed me and moved to Cas.
“This is your fault, Nico,” Cas said sternly.
I snorted. “This is Carter’s fault,” I corrected Cas.
I had ordered Cas and Nico out after the long team meeting that had followed a really long practice. This was our last weekend before the season started, and I had promised Coach Hicks I’d stay in, but couldn’t do it; I couldn’t keep the frustration and the intensity stored. I had to let it out. Then I’d stay in. Carter showing up broke me down.
“Something you got to tell us?” Nico asked, sipping his malt. “Who’s Carter?”
Why wasn’t he chugging his drink? This was supposed to be our last hurrah.
“No.” I chugged.
“Whoa, slow down, Landyn.” Cas forcefully took the glass out of my hand, spilling some of the beer on my pants.
I snarled at him. “Look at what you did!”
“You don’t plan on having your pants on for long anyway, so you should thank me.”
“You’ll also thank him when we’re hauling your drunk ass outta here in an hour,” Nico added.
I shot Nico an annoyed look. “An hour? Really? I’ll last at least three, and I bet you five hundred I’ll walk out on my own, but with one of these chicks, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Nico said dryly. “Agreed. Five hundred. Now, tell us why we’re really here. Who’s Carter?”
Blonde. Definitely want a blonde.
Long hair, short. Tall and leggy or short and petite. Didn’t much matter—I took that back. I wanted someone I could just hoist up on a wall and finish it; so, petite.
I locked eyes with the third one who stood with a group of other brunettes on the dance floor. Her mouth parted into a seductive grin. She looked familiar, but whatever. If we’d been together before and I’d hated it, then I definitely would’ve remembered her. I kept our gazes locked while I took another gulp.
“We’re here to help him get out a little sexual frustration,” Cas said over my head to Nico.
“What?” I practically shouted over the blaring music. I’d heard him fine, but I wanted him to really hear me.
“Okay, a lot of sexual frustration.”
Could always count on Cas. Great wingman. He had promised not to tell anyone about Carter, and he had kept his word. But bringing up Rose? Yeah, okay so indirectly.
Ignoring my personal space, Nico leaned forward. “Who is she, Cas?”
“Hello, I’m right here. You can ask me,” I said annoyingly.
“Her name is Rose and she’s his fixer.”
“A fixer?”
“Yeah, crisis management. Since he’s been seen too many times falling out of clubs, management wants to make sure his image is pristine by game one.”
I gave him a hard look when he said “pristine” with a really bad fake British accent.
“How’s she cleaning up your image?”
Cas continued. “Have you seen his ’gram lately? No photos of those other girls that were with us the other week that I was telling you about. His entire social media has been scrubbed, like they’re some sort of black agency.”