Homestands (Chicago Wind #1)

by Sally Bradley

There. He was ready.

  Curly black hair fell across one of his eyes, and Ben tossed his head until the curl disappeared. Today their relationship moved forward. Or fell apart. He shook his head, that obnoxious curl falling again. He refused to imagine disaster. He wouldn’t be taking this step if he wasn’t sure of Dana’s response. After a year together, he knew her as completely as he ever could.

  He liked that feeling.

  Ben walked up the driveway, between her Cherokee and the dining room’s bay window and into the backyard where, as he’d expected, the kitchen door was propped open in honor of the day’s breezes.

  He stopped beneath the kitchen window. “Dana?”

  Her face appeared, shadowed behind the screen.

  “Come on out,” he called.

  Her forehead pushed the screen. “What is that?”

  “Get out here and see.”

  She disappeared, and Ben walked the length of the back of the house, searching for the perfect spot to plant the rose. The slap of her flip-flops followed the bang of the screen door as she neared, but he didn’t look up until her fingers settled on his shoulders.

  Her smile warmed him. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hi.” With one arm, he pulled her close and kissed her, refusing to stop when she drew back.

  “Hello to you too,” she said when the kiss ended. “Good day?”

  Time would tell. He held the plant between them, tucking the bag behind his back. “This is for you.”

  Gold flickered in her hazel eyes. “What’s this? A rosebush?” She bent to read the tag.

  Ben’s gaze traced the pale streaks in her short, blonde hair, her casual part, the strands tucked behind her little ears—and the sliver of green onion that clung to her cheek. He brushed it away. What was she was cooking?

  “A climbing rose. How pretty.” Dana stretched on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. Where should we put it?”

  The mild reaction wasn’t quite the one he wanted, but that didn’t matter. There was more to come, and if there was anything Ben excelled at, it was getting his desired reaction. He thought of the cop again, this time with a smile. That cop would never have caught him. “I thought it would look nice outside our bedroom window.” He set the plant in place and stepped back, draping his arm over her shoulders. “I can put some lattice around the window, and we’ll have roses peeking in all summer.”

  “I like it.” She flashed him a smile. “Will your landlord care if you build a trellis?”

  “Not if he doesn’t own the house.”

  “You’re buying?”

  “Don’t you think a real estate agent should own his own home?”

  Dana grabbed his arm, eyes shining. “We can remodel the kitchen.”

  Ben let out a laugh. Of course she’d say that, always the chef. As long as her incredible meals kept coming, he’d let her spend as much as she wanted building her dream kitchen. “Whatever you want, Dana.”

  She squealed and clapped her hands, bouncing like a blonde cheerleader. “I’ll start designing tonight.”

  Not if he had anything to say about it. He nodded at the rosebush. “Can we plant this first?”

  “I guess my dream kitchen can wait until after dinner. Where do you think, Ben? This side?” She slid the plant across the ground. “Or this side?”

  “Back this way. There’s more house for the flowers to cover.”

  She dragged the rose back and toyed with it until she was happy with its position.

  “Here.” He held out the Home Depot bag. “Put these gloves on while I get the shovel.”

  He counted his steps toward the garage, heart pounding again. One, two, three, four. Did she have the gloves on? He looked over his shoulder.

  She knelt on the ground beneath the window, one glove already on. She reached for the second.

  Ben held his breath as she put her hand in.

  A frown covered her face, and she tipped the glove. “Something’s in here—”

  The ring spilled onto her gloved palm, the one carat solitaire sparkling in the sunlight.

  She stared openmouthed, and Ben ran to her, falling to his knees beside her. Say yes, he begged silently.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  His jaw locked, as tightly as when he’d seen the cop behind him. He’d been so sure this time. “Dana, listen—”

  “Yes.” The word was half sob, half laugh.

  Ben stared at her until her meaning dawned on him, filling him with relief, then confidence. Yes, this was right. Dana understood him like no one else ever had. They were made for each other, for always. Ben slipped the ring on her finger.

  What a relief that cop hadn’t ruined the day.

  Chapter Three

  He’d lost the stupid card.

  Mike froze on the top step of the Chicago Wind’s dugout, ignored the fans yelling his name, and dug through his back pocket. Empty. He slipped his fingers into the other pocket. Was there a hole big enough for Meg’s business card to slide through?

  Memory returned. His shoulders slumped. After batting practice, he’d tucked the card into a dark corner of his locker so he could forget about it until after the game.

  Lot of good that had done.

  He jogged toward teammates doing last-minute stretches in shallow left field. The card had barely left his hands in the days since Sara had given it to him. He’d played with the top right corner so much that it had worn off a week ago. He’d even entered Meg’s number into his phone.

  Then deleted it.

  The only thing he hadn’t done was drive past her office. He drew the line at that. There was no point in contacting Meg. None at all. She was probably married and had five kids.

  How ironic would that be?

  Slowing to a walk, he glanced around the packed stadium, at the fans wearing short sleeves due to an unusually warm April day. Their hopeful faces told him they actually thought this team might make the playoffs.

  If only he believed it. Better yet, if only he could get another opening day on life. Maybe a rainout with a chance to replay his thirty years rested and prepared after learning from all of his mistakes.

  Another chance to do right by Meg, by himself.

  There was no point, though, in dwelling on the impossible. Hope might spring eternal for this franchise, but for him? He focused on the thick green grass beneath his feet and breathed in the scent of spring on Lake Michigan’s shore—clean, fresh, unspoiled. He scowled. Clean and unspoiled—that hadn’t described him in years.

  So what?

  Mike stopped walking, squared his shoulders.

  So what was right. What was wrong with him? He didn’t need to see Meg to get a fresh start on life. He could make his own opening day right here, right now.

  He nodded to himself. Fine. As of today, Mike Connor—centerfield for the Chicago Wind, Triple Crown winner last season, a man thoroughly confused and disgusted with himself—would live life properly. No mistakes, no regrets, no looking—

  Shouts from the crowd broke into his vow.

  Might as well start with a few autographs. Giving back to the fans and all that. He veered toward a section of the wall packed with people waving pens and baseballs and hats. A little fan love wouldn’t hurt, either. And if everything he signed ended up on ebay, well, today he didn’t care.

  “Mr. Connor!” a child called.

  Someone had manners. He searched the crowd. Had to reward that.

  “Mr. Connor!” A blond kid waved a baseball at him. “Will you sign this please?”

  Please? “Sure.” He took the boy’s ball and pen and scribbled his signature.

  “I’m Terrell,” the kid said. “Mommy says my name means powerful.”

  Well, that was wonderful. Mike handed back the ball and pen. What made someone pick a name like—

  Behind the boy, a woman with honey-gold, wavy hair and green eyes pushed through the crowd and grabbed the kid’s shirt. “Terrell, don’t you run off like that.” Her eyes me
t his. She froze.

  Mike blinked. She had to be a hallucination. That’s all. Just his frustrated conscience morphing her face with…

  She remained real, just feet in front of him.

  He swallowed. “Meg?”

  “That’s my mom,” the kid said.

  She grabbed the arm of a man beside her. Spoke to the guy. “We shouldn’t have—we need to go.”

  Mike couldn’t lose her a second time, not on his own opening day. He lunged forward, his knees banging into the brick wall of the stands. “Meg, wait!”

  She pushed against the people behind her, and she and the boy vanished into the crowd.

  The man she’d spoken to—the man she’d grabbed—hesitated. A sad smile covered his mouth, and his eyes… There was no victorious arrogance in them. No swagger, no puffed-out chest.

  Who was this guy?

  Who was he to Meg?

  The man slipped into the crowd, and the sounds of fans crying for attention rushed into Mike’s ears. Someone waved a baseball card in his face. Blindly he scribbled his name on it, searching the stands above him. Someone shoved a ball at him, and he took it and a Sharpie. Signed his name. Handed them back. Took another ball while he scoured every honeyed head above him.

  After a minute, he gave up.

  Meg had disappeared. Again.

  His teammates walked by, and Mike followed them to the dugout. So much for his personal opening day. Meg was a mother—a mother of a little boy who wore a miniature of his own jersey.

  How ironic that his ex-wife’s son had chosen him as his hero.

  Chapter Four

  Somewhere in the seventh inning, between his second and third strikeout, Mike decided he would go see Meg right after the game.

  The drive to her office took over an hour, thanks to rush-hour traffic. Mike exited the highway for her suburb where condominiums and townhouses gave way to large, older, single-family homes with tall, mature trees lining the road.

  Evidently she worked from home.

  He found her house and parked along the curb in front of her yard.

  For several minutes, he didn’t move. He took in the large brick house, a two-story with five windows across the upper level and two on either side of the wooden door, its front step covered by a small overhang. A chimney extended from each end of the house, and a well-manicured lawn curved up from the street, the bushes that lined her yard flaunting spring colors.

  A small weight lifted. At least she hadn’t been hurting. She must have met that dude right after their divorce, judging by the age of her son.

  What was the kid’s name?

  Her business card sat in his cup holder. Stifling a yawn, he picked it up and ran his fingers over the raised lettering.

  Meghan Connor.

  Whoa—Connor? She still went by his name?

  How had he missed that detail? And what did it mean? Was she dating that guy?

  Then who was the boy’s dad?

  Mike glanced at her house. Maybe he belonged to the man.

  No, the kid had called her his mom.

  Maybe his stepmom?

  He tucked the card safely into the cup holder, remembering her panicked face when her eyes had met his. What had she thought about during the game? Did she wish they could try again? His years with Meg, despite their problems, had been the best of his life, and even though his career had soared after the divorce, he longed to go back to those happy days with her, back to that first year in the majors and even back to the minors.

  He snorted at the thought. “I am tired.”

  Silence answered him.

  It had been two weeks since Sara had left. Two very silent, silent weeks. His parents had asked about her when he’d had lunch with them in Anaheim during last week’s season opening road trip, and he’d told them they’d broken up during spring training. That she’d been gone by the time he got back.

  He hadn’t told his parents about Sara finding Meg, though. His marriage was still a touchy subject. After the divorce, a couple years had passed before he could look them in the eye without feeling like they were fuming.

  No way was he resurrecting that whole issue.

  Because Meg was probably with someone else. He was just here to… say hi. To make sure she was okay because she’d seemed upset, maybe, at the ballpark.

  We shouldn’t have—we need to go.

  What had she meant?

  He looked back at her house. Lights shone on each floor. Someone was home, probably Meg if she worked here.

  What about that man? What if he opened the door?

  “I’m Mike Connor,” he practiced. “Meg’s first husband. And you are?”

  The guy would punch him in the nose if Meg had told him anything.

  So he’d punch him back.

  He climbed out of his Range Rover, slammed the door, and started up the sidewalk. His heart beat faster, and he matched his stride to it until he reached her door.

  What would she do when she saw him?

  He pushed the doorbell and listened to its faint ring. Maybe he’d imagined she looked the same as he’d remembered. Maybe the sparkle in her green eyes had faded and she’d turned gray.

  What did that matter? He needed to see her, if only to say he was sorry and ask for forgiveness. Then he could tell the guilt goodbye and move on with life, wherever that took him.

  He lifted his hand to press the bell again, but the knob rattled. Mike squared his shoulders.

  The door swung open.

  Framed in the doorway Meg—his Meg—froze, her small smile slipping away. She wore jeans and a red sweater that gave color to her pale skin. Her long, wavy hair framed her face in dark gold layers, and her green eyes glazed as she stared at him.

  Despite her less-than-welcoming expression, she looked better then he’d remembered.

  He forced a smile, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Hi.”

  Still she stared.

  “May I come in?”

  She blinked, did not move, did not speak.

  Gently he nudged the door farther open.

  She shifted out of its way.

  He doubted she knew she’d moved, but he’d take it as a yes. He stepped into a foyer, warm light reflecting off dark wood floors and subtle yellow walls. A wide staircase stood on the left, and a doorway on the right led to a living room done in some soothing orange color.

  He smiled. Only Meg could make orange soothing.

  Behind him the door clicked shut, and he turned to find her watching him, her face unreadable.

  “Sorry to drop in,” he said, “but I had to come by.”

  She said nothing, the silence blaring.

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you.” He tried to joke. “You made me play awful.”

  “Oh.” She looked sideways at the stairs and then at his feet.

  He’d have to save the humor for later. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. If your husband or boyfriend is here and you want me to leave, I’ll go.”

  She looked up. “My husband?”

  “You’re not married?” Mike cleared his throat, fought to control his sudden smile. “I saw you with someone, and I assumed—” He rubbed the back of his neck. Why had he said that?

  “Why are you here, Mike?”

  This wasn’t what he’d expected. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, doing fine.” He glanced around the foyer again, noting the side tables, mirrors, and odds and ends that gave the room an expensive, designer look. “Your place is great.”

  “Thank you. I did it myself—my own design business.”

  He opened his mouth to congratulate her, but she cut him off. “If you’ve soothed your conscience making sure I’m fine after all these years—”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Mike looked up as Meg’s little boy appeared.

  The blond kid halted when their eyes met. “Wow! Mr. Connor!” He raced down the rest of the stairs.

  Mike braced for the kid to fling himse
lf at him.

  Instead, the boy skidded to a stop and lifted his hand for a handshake. “Nice to see you again.”

  The manners just kept coming with this kid, didn’t they? Mike raised his eyebrows at Meg as he shook her son’s hand.

  She didn’t seem amused. “Terrell—”

  “Mr. Connor, do you think we could play baseball sometime?”

  Mike couldn’t help his laugh. What would this kid think if he knew his history with his mother? “That’s up to your mom. If she says it’s fine, we’ll do it. How’s that?”

  Terrell nodded. “Can we, Mommy?”

  Her smile was grim. “We’ll see. Right now you need to go to Jill’s.”

  Terrell’s lower lip protruded, but the sideways glance he sent Mike said he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of his baseball hero. “Can’t I stay?”

  “No, Terrell. You need to go. Now.”

  “But I want to tell him something.”

  She relented, as Mike knew she would. “Quickly, Terrell.”

  Terrell beamed at him, a grimace-like grin splitting his face. “We have the same name.”

  Chapter Five

  Mike looked at Meg. “Same name?”

  Meg’s face blanched, and the panic he’d seen at the stadium flashed in her eyes. “Terrell! Go. Now!”

  Terrell ignored her, smiling around Meg’s frantic push deeper into the house. “Connor. Me and you. See you later, Mr. Connor.” He managed a wave before Meg forced him out the back of the foyer with her.

  Mike’s breath left him. Same name. Connor. He sagged against the wall. She hadn’t. She had not—

  The truth rushed in.

  Mike swore and pushed off from the wall. The foyer was empty. Where was she?

  Fury propelled him after the way they’d gone and into Meg’s kitchen, his angry breath coming faster. Meg was shutting her back door and leaned against it as he entered. “Why does he have my name, Meg? What are you pulling?”

  “Me? You’re the one who shows up unannounced.” She shouldered past him.

  Mike stormed after her to the living room.

  She sank onto a couch and buried her face in her hands.

  He squeezed the back of a chair, but his anger boiled. “Terrell is mine?”