Buddy Carruthers, Wide Receiver

by Jean C. Joachim

  “I have all your albums.”

  “Thank you so much!” Emmy handed it back to her.

  Carla grinned, plucked a bottle of ketchup from a nearby table, and plunked it down in front of the singer. “Thanks,” she said, pocketing the precious signature and returning to the bar.

  The lovers ate quietly and held hands. Three people recognized Emmy, but Carla discouraged them from interrupting the couple. Giddy one moment, depressed the next, Buddy willed away negative thoughts. I’m going to be happy every minute we’re together.

  When they finished, he paid the bill, leaving Carla a generous tip. He waved goodbye, took Emmy by the hand, and attempted to wrestle the keys from her.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” she said, waving her finger in his face. “One more day. I’m leaving tomorrow. You can drive then.”

  “Afraid I’ll crash?”

  “Not taking any chances. That’s called love, Buddy.”

  He ducked his head to cover his emotion. “You win.” Then, he got in the car without protest.

  They spent a quiet night at home, watching a movie. Emmy read aloud to finish the story they had begun. She packed and called Stash.

  “I’m booked on a ten o’clock flight tomorrow. I’ll be there by eleven, your time.”

  Buddy tried to hear the man’s response, but couldn’t.

  “Yeah? You, too.” She closed her cell. “Asshole,” she muttered.

  “I hate to send you back to him.”

  “He takes care of me, Buddy. Stash works out all the contracts, makes the connections, and hires the crew and the back-up band. He handles all the money.”

  “Not your personal money?”

  “He does.”

  “That’s not wise. Do you trust him?”

  “After five years, sure. I do. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Buddy shifted his weight.

  “Stash has invested all my money in safe stuff. He gives me the cash I need and pays my credit card bills.”

  “Keeps you on a short leash, I’ll bet.”

  “He’s never told me I couldn’t buy something I wanted. But I don’t want much. Most of my money I spend on clothes. Costumes. I don’t need a lot of stuff. No place to put it anyway.”

  “I thought you had a house?”

  “I bought the house where I rented a room. Back in Willow Falls.”

  “Get out there often?”

  “Nope. I travel most of the time. But someday, I will. Then, I’ll have that little farmhouse all to myself. For now, it’s rented.”

  “Come on, it’s our last night together. There’s something much more fun we could be doing.” He took her hand, led her to the bedroom, and shut the door.

  * * * *

  It didn’t take the news media long to sniff out the fact that Emmy was at Buddy’s again. They camped out on his front lawn at dawn. The slamming of car doors woke him early. He prepared eggs while Emmy slept.

  As he was about to call her, she padded into the kitchen, wrapping his robe around her. He looked at her and cocked an eyebrow.

  “I like wearing your stuff. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “You look great in anything, everything…and nothing too.” He wiggled his eyebrows, making her giggle.

  The doorbell rang, but they ignored it, eating their breakfast in silence. When she finished, Emmy picked up her mug.

  “So, that was a marriage proposal, last night?”

  “Yep. Sorry I didn’t get down on one knee or have a ring.”

  She waved his concern away.

  Buddy took her free hand in his. “I meant every word. You know where I stand. I’ll marry you any time, any place. The ball’s in your court.”

  She raised his hand to her lips. “One day at a time, babe.”

  After breakfast, she showered and finished packing.

  “The car will be here at eight,” she said, applying lipstick.

  “Don’t know why you’re doing that. You’re just gonna have to do it again.” He drew her into his embrace, running his hands over her curves as he lowered his mouth to hers. The pain he had been ignoring reared up and seared his heart. “I hate goodbyes,” he murmured, his lips pressed against her shiny, dark hair.

  “Me, too. So, until next time, then.” She smoothed his down and cupped his rough cheek.

  “The hyenas are waiting for you outside.” He held her close.

  “I thought all football players knew how to run interference?” She smiled up at him.

  “Damn right, we do!” He chuckled.

  A car horn grabbed their attention. Buddy went to the window and inched the curtain aside. “Limo’s here.”

  “Okay. You can’t carry those yet.” She pointed to her luggage when he moved to grab it.

  “Damn it. You’re right. Thank you for taking care of me.”

  “I love you, Buddy. Don’t forget that.”

  “Never.” He kissed her hand.

  Emmy pulled the heavy bags on their wheels to the front door.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He threw open the door and exited first. Light bulbs flashed, and mics were thrust into his face. Emmy followed so close she could have been his shadow. He waved his arms, repeated the words “no comment,” and pushed his way through the crush of reporters.

  The limo waited at the end of the driveway. The driver hurried to open the trunk. He lifted Emmy’s suitcases in and opened the back door for her.

  “Let’s give them one great picture,” she whispered to Buddy as she pulled his head down to meet hers.

  He slipped his tongue into her mouth and pressed her breasts into his chest. Lights flashed around them and news hounds buzzed as the couple kissed as if it were the last time.

  With a wave to the journalists, Emerald got into the car. Buddy shut the door and lifted his palm. The driver threw the vehicle into gear and floored it to escape the media chasing them down the street. Buddy made his getaway into the house.

  He sighed and leaned back against the door. His life had been a tornado for the past week. He had proposed to the woman of his dreams and been turned down. But not forever. Someday, she’ll be tired of the traveling, the stress. Then, she’ll come to me.

  Buddy hummed Emmy’s new tune as he cleaned up the kitchen. Time to get back to football. His recovery had progressed, with Emmy’s help. Was he ready to return to the dangers of the gridiron? He thought so. Next task, get back in shape to play again. He decided a run was a good start.

  When he entered the woods doing a comfortable lope, Buddy let out a breath. Escaping the news media camped on his doorstep, ready to pounce with personal questions about his relationship with Emerald, was like escaping a cobra ready to strike. He shook his head. He’d be happy to oblige them if he had any answers. He didn’t know any more than they did. Where were he and Emerald going? Damned if I know.

  The wide receiver cut his loop short and headed back. The sky was turning gray, the sun blocked by clouds. He smelled rain in the air. Too dangerous to run in the rain. Buddy protected his career by being careful in his daily life. One broken ankle could sideline him for months and maybe derail his career.

  As he rounded the last copse of trees, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He stopped to catch his breath, leaning his hands on his knees, perusing the street. All the news trucks and reporters were gone. It was quiet. Too quiet. With one deep inhale, he straightened up and jogged toward home, glancing from side to side to quell the unease in the pit of his stomach.

  He made it inside, closed, and locked the door. Buddy blew out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He popped open a bottle of water and wandered over to the picture window in the living room to keep an eye on the street. Then, he heard them. Pop, pop, pop. Gunshots and the screaming of glass shattering and tinkling down onto the sofa.

  Buddy hit the floor. A few shards rocketed toward him, leaving small cuts on his arm. Blood trickled down in a thin stream.

  A voice hollered
through a megaphone, “I know she’s in there! Send her out. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just want Emerald. I promise not to hurt her. But she’s mine.”

  Buddy picked his head up slowly until his eyes were above the sill. “She’s not here!” he shouted, and then ducked.

  “Liar! I saw the news trucks. I know she’s there. Send her out.”

  Again, Buddy called out, “She left. She’s not here.”

  A spray of bullets flew into the room, over his head. Buddy flattened himself against the wood. He fished his cell out of his pocket and dialed 911. They’d better get here before he comes through the window.

  “Emerald! I’m here. Come on out, baby!”

  Anger seized the footballer. One foot in my house, and I’ll kill him with my bare hands. In the distance, a siren wailed. Inching to the side of the window, Buddy took a chance and peeked out. The lunatic on his front lawn put his rifle on his shoulder and sprinted for his vehicle.

  Fucking bastard is getting away. If he gets away, he’ll hunt her down. Buddy sprang to his feet. He vaulted through the now-glass-less window and across the yard, running at full speed. The man with the gun picked up his pace as the siren’s warning grew louder. But he was no match for the wide receiver. Buddy caught up quickly.

  A police cruiser pulled to a halt. He heard two doors open. The man neared a parked car. Panic seized Buddy. He hurled himself through the air at the fleeing shooter. The tackle was spot on. The wide receiver’s chest connected with the man’s back, quickly forcing him forward into the ground. The cops were shouting, but Buddy couldn’t understand.

  He closed his legs around the perpetrator’s and rose to his knees. His fingers squeezed the man’s neck. The shooter’s hand flailed, searching the grass for the gun. But the rifle had landed just beyond his grasp. He tried to loosen Buddy’s hold, clawing at the footballer’s fingers, ripping the skin. But the grip remained set in concrete. The man choked and sputtered. Buddy’s hands eased off as the man lost consciousness.

  Two officers grabbed his shoulders and yanked him off the madman who was regaining consciousness.

  “On the ground!” one, brandishing a gun, yelled at Buddy, who obeyed.

  “Holy shit. This is Buddy Carruthers, Chuck,” the other said.

  “I don’t care. Stay down.”

  Buddy lay with his face in the grass and his hands behind his back. The one not holding a gun on Buddy put his knee in the stranger’s back when the man stirred.

  “This guy was shooting at me. Shot out my window. That’s his rifle, not mine.” Buddy raised his gaze and watched the two men cuff the shooter, who glared at him.

  “What were you doing, firing that rifle at Mr. Carruthers?” Chuck asked.

  The other cop helped Buddy up. The wide receiver brushed off his clothes and took a step toward the man.

  “No, no, Mr. Carruthers. Let us handle this guy.”

  “What were you doing?” Chuck repeated.

  “He’s got Emerald. I wanted to help her. Free her. Take her with me so no one could hurt her.” The shooter’s voice was hoarse.

  “Do you have this Emerald person?” The officer’s gaze connected with Buddy’s.

  “Hell no. She’s on the road. This guy’s a stalker.” Buddy said, before turning to the shooter. “Did you show up in New York?”

  “Of course. I never miss Emerald’s concerts. That’s what love is all about.”

  “They had to call the police. He threatened her. Jesus Christ, this asshole just shot out my whole picture window. Who knows what other damage he did?”

  “You’ll have to pay for that. Come on, we’re taking you in.” The policeman grabbed the man by the arm.

  “Is he the guy who shot the cop in New York?” Chuck narrowed his eyes.

  “I think so. There’s a warrant out for that guy. Bet it’s him,” Chuck’s partner answered.

  “What’s your name?” Buddy asked.

  “Robert Carson.”

  “Yeah. He’s the stalker. If I ever find you within a hundred miles of her, I’ll rip your throat out.”

  “Is that a threat?” Carson stiffened.

  “Damn right it is.” Buddy headed back inside while the officers stuffed Carson into the backseat of their car and shut the door.

  “Will you come down to the stationhouse and file a report, Mr. Carruthers?”

  “Sure. Soon as I get this glass replaced.”

  “No rush. If he’s the guy from New York, we’ve got plenty on him.”

  “Thanks. Then after practice okay?”

  “No problem,” the officer said.

  Buddy looked at his house. Gert was standing on the doorstep with her key in the lock.

  “I’m gonna need some special help here, Gert,” Buddy said, opening the door for the older woman.

  She looked up at him. “What the hell happened?”

  “Emmy happened.”

  Gert clucked. “This is some big mess.”

  “There’s a bonus in it if you help me clean it up without getting cut.”

  “Look at your arm! Come on. Into the bathroom.”

  Buddy followed along as his housekeeper sat him down, cleaned the cuts, applied antibiotic cream, and bandaged them. Buddy was on the phone with a glass company while she took care of him.

  As she finished, a horn honked. Buddy put his cell away and went outside. Griff was standing next to his car.

  “What the hell happened to you? And your house?”

  “Emmy. Emmy’s stalker.”

  “Practice in fifteen. We gotta go. Tell me in the car.”

  “Are you okay, Gert?”

  “Sure. Never a dull moment around this joint.”

  “The glass man is coming in an hour. He said he’d have a worker clean up the shards, so you don’t have to do it.”

  “I think I need a drink.” Gert shook her head.

  “Have one for me. The bastard’s in jail. But if anyone gives you a hard time, I’ve got a sweet, little pistol in my nightstand. Ever fire a gun?”

  “You bet I have!” She chuckled. “I’ll be okay.”

  Buddy waved goodbye. The two athletes got in the car, and Griff roared away from the curb.

  Chapter Eleven

  In O’ Hare airport in Chicago, Emmy looked for the sign “Miss Meacham.” Stash always used her real name to hide her identity when he sent a limo to pick her up. The driver was a burly man. He tipped his cap and took her baggage checks then escorted her to the car. He opened the door, and she climbed in.

  The minute the plane had taken off, Emmy had missed Buddy. She still got a bit nervous flying so much. Holding Buddy’s hand, listening to him distract her with his silly humor, would have made the ride go fast. She longed for the security she had experienced with him. But she wasn’t exactly alone. There was always Stash. He had taken good care of her for a long time. Or at least, that’s what he said.

  Since she had reconnected with Buddy, a vague dissatisfaction with Stash had surfaced. She found fault with everything he did. Stash argued back. He reminded her of the luxuries she’d have to give up if she packed her career in moth balls and ended up with Buddy. If I give this up, no more limos, no five hundred dollar dinners, no hotel suites, no personal assistants.

  Gert! She smiled. Instead of working with song writers, sound engineers, and producers, she’d be working with Gert. Marry Buddy? She frowned. I’m not leaving at the top of my game. In a few years, when people don’t remember my name, fine. But now… I have to get everything I can while it’s my time. Will Buddy want me when I’m nobody again? Maybe. Maybe not.

  The driver returned. Before he started the engine, he gushed about loving her music and asked for an autograph. She grinned and obliged. Never turn away from a fan. Except maybe Robert Carson. The thought of him brought out worry lines in her forehead. Would he show up in Chicago? Dread filled her.

  The driver put one of her CD’s in the player and turned up the sound. Her voice rang out clear and beautiful. She smile
d. “Stop the car.”

  He pulled off on the shoulder. Emmy scrambled out and knocked on the trunk, so that he would click it open. Then, she rummaged through her suitcase, finally locating a lone CD, and closed the trunk again.

  Back inside the car, she opened the case. She peered at the identifying photo of the driver. “How would you like to hear my newest song, Roger?”

  “Oh my God. That would be fantastic, Miss Emerald.”

  “You got it. It’s a little rough. Recorded it on a computer, not in a sound studio. Here you go.” She handed him the disk. He put it in the player. It was the instrumental version of the song she had written at Buddy’s.

  “I just wrote this one. It’s called ‘Love on the Wing’.” She did some scales to warm up her voice. The sound quality of the recording was uneven and scratchy, but the tune was still good. She sang along.

  Roger pulled back into traffic. He kept their speed steady and stayed in his lane while she performed. The song reminded her of Buddy. She had created it for him. Hearing it, singing it again, brought his presence to her.

  When she was done, it was quiet. Then, Roger cleared his throat. “That was awesome, Miss Emerald. That’s your best one yet.”

  “I think so too, Roger.” She grinned.

  She hummed a few notes of a new song that had been growing inside her. As the limo neared the hotel, Emmy replaced the CD in its case. She dug into her purse and plucked out fifty dollars. Roger pulled to the curb. The concierge was waiting. He opened the door, and Emmy slid across the seat. The man held out his hand, and she pushed to her feet.

  Roger unloaded the trunk. He stopped in front of her and tipped his hat. “It’s been a real pleasure driving for you, Miss Emerald.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Roger.” She stretched out her hand to shake his and slipped the money into his palm.

  “No, no, not necessary. You played your song for me. I was the first to hear it. That’s tip enough.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Take it. You deserve it.”

  She didn’t wait for his reply, but followed the concierge and bellman as he moved the cart holding her luggage through the automatic doors. The familiar “hotel smell” greeted her. When the elevator opened, Stash was waiting in the doorway to their suite. He tipped the staff and put his arm around her waist, ushering her inside. Lani and Paula were stretched out on two sofas, watching a movie and munching on popcorn. Soda bottles littered the room, and there was a food cart with leftovers molding in the sun.