Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  You’re going to be late, I sign to him.

  I had to finish some last-minute homework, he replies, then reaches into his baggy jeans’ pocket to pull out … my phone. I glare at him as I reach for it.

  The internet was down again, he says. And since you limit the data on my phone, I had to use yours to look something up.

  All frustration leaves my body. As much as I’d like to think being an attorney at a top-level firm with twelve partners and sixty-five associates (of which I’m one) brings in the big bucks, when accounting for my student loans from law school, the tuition for Jamie’s school, and basic city living expenses—I’m tight. And usually jumping on someone else’s wireless when at home.

  The coffee shop next door closed down, I say to Jamie. And took their internet with them.

  At first, not having wireless at home worked. Jamie was a toddler and had no need for it, and I had full access at work (and when I went back to work after dinner). Now, with his growing demands for streaming devices and his addiction to video games, I’m visualizing a spreadsheet in my head where I’m moving numbers to account for it.

  I’ll have someone come in this week, I say as I not-so-subtly usher him to the front door. And we’ll get internet.

  Jamie spins to face me and he gestures excitedly, We’re finally getting internet?

  Yes, I sign, laughing softly. Work is going well, I’m due to get a bonus at the end of the year, and we’ll put that toward internet. For schoolwork and LIMITED screen time. Understand?

  Yes, yes, Jamie replies, then hops from foot to foot. This is turning into the best day ever!

  You’re still grounded from riding your bike.

  I don’t even care about that anymore, Jamie says.

  I narrow my eyes at him before turning the knob to outside. Why? What else has happened today when it’s not even eight in the morning?

  Nothing much. Jamie gives me his back and strides out to the curb where his school bus is idling.

  I tap his shoulder, hands on my hips, demanding he elaborate.

  He beams at me, pulls me into a hug, then kisses my cheek. I love you, Strong.

  “Strong” is one of the first ASL words Jamie learned as a baby, and he applied it to me as his mother. As he grew up, and I met more people in the deaf community, especially at his school, I learned that individuals are given a personal name sign by a deaf person, and it’s always based on a trait. Jamie raises both fists and flexes his arms, then moves them toward his chest.

  Strong. Mom.

  It makes me emotional every time, and the little bugger knows it, especially since he uses it less and less often as he grows older.

  I collect myself and wave goodbye, blowing him a kiss as he boards his bus.

  But I’m no fool. That kid is up to something.

  The office is chaos.

  Our latest motion to suppress in the Chavez case is denied, and it appears as though we’re actually going to trial for the first time in the ten years we’ve represented him. Astor is one of the lead chairs beside our boss, and it’s obvious she’s beside herself as I watch her through the glass-paneled walls of my office run back and forth on the carpeted hallway, going to and from Yang’s office.

  Conflict is etched in every one of her features, and I’m pretty sure I know why. But I don’t have time to press, since Yang’s taken to harassing me via email to do a bunch of research related to the case.

  Nobody in the Criminal Department is in a good mood, including me.

  I’ve just finished reading an email from Spinner Watson, personal manager to Nocturne Court. Stupidly, which I opened thinking it’d be standard. My duties to Easton have officially ended, but it’s protocol to keep me in the loop, especially to ensure the deal we made goes through. I skimmed the list of six schools, noting that the prosecutor will be pleased with the amount, then stop dead at the last school listed.

  Jamie’s school.

  Jamie’s school for the hearing impaired.

  “Why the hell…?” I ask my office, and peer closer, as if Mr. Watson’s sparse email contains the answer.

  Does Easton know what school Jamie attends? Was it mentioned at the hospital all those weeks ago? How did he … why did he … he wouldn’t.

  I dig for my phone in my purse, my brain doing somersaults while my body completes the basic task. Easton doesn’t seem to be that type of man, to use a son against a person like this.

  But there are at least seven other schools for the deaf in New York City. Why this one? Why is Nocturne Court going to Jamie’s school?

  My finger hovers over Easton’s number, one I’ve kept despite every instinct telling me to delete it.

  Logic stops me from pressing it. Jamie’s almost ten years old and in fifth grade. He’s too young to be at the talk, but I’m sure it’ll be all over school once this is released, and he’ll hear about it.

  Which means I’ll hear about it.

  Why didn’t you tell me Easton Mack was coming to my school, Mom? Why can’t I see him that day? I’ve told all my friends I know him, why can’t I prove it? They’ll call me a liar and a fake. Why did you keep this from me? Why don’t you like him?

  And on and on.

  I flip my phone so it’s lying face-down on my desk. Maybe I’ll keep Jamie home from school that day, call him in sick. Tell him we’ll go on an adventure. There’s no way he’s aware Nocturne Court’s coming to them this week—

  Wait.

  Jamie’s face, alight with excitement, flows into my mind’s eye. And the fact he had my phone this morning.

  That boy, inheriting more traits from me than I’m entirely comfortable with, already knows. He must’ve read the email, then marked it as unread, like any basic ten-year-old can do these days.

  Sighing, I make the call.

  The fucker must be expecting it, after all.

  Easton’s hoarse voice fills the speaker after the fourth ring. “Hey.”

  I don’t waste time. “Do you want to explain this?”

  Thankfully, Easton doesn’t play dumb. “It wasn’t my doing. Our manager is an opportunistic son-of-a-bitch, and he booked the school without asking. And I gotta say, even he doesn’t know Jamie’s there or that I’d have any knowledge of whose kids go there.”

  “But how do you know?” I hate how my voice cracks. “How did you know that was Jamie’s school? Did you meet him and think—”

  “No. No. I did not jump at this. I fought against it as much as I could, Taryn, but without explaining everything, the guys aren’t on my side with this. To them, this is a school that is often ignored by inspirational talks. They don’t care that some of the kids can’t hear, they just want to speak to their fans. And my arguing against that—it doesn’t make sense. I have to go, and I’m sorry. I don’t want to be there any more than you want me there.”

  Of course you don’t want to be there, I can’t stop myself from thinking, but do stop from saying. You’ve done everything you can to get away from us as soon as you found out I had a son. Including jumping an ocean.

  My phone dings with an incoming message, but I ignore it.

  “Fine,” I say instead. “I realize you’re doing this because you’ve been court-ordered. But if I get one whiff that you’ve taken an opportunity out on my son, I’ll—”

  “I haven’t, Taryn. Jamie is an amazing kid. I wouldn’t hurt you, or him, like that.”

  His tone is soothing and honest, and I’m melting into it before I realize, until I straighten my back and remain firm. Then why didn’t you give us a chance?

  But I can’t ask him that. I come with baggage, a lot of it. And a single mom isn’t something many guys want to help carry. I can’t resent Easton for that decision, nor can I fall back on fantasies and the what if he just got to know me better wishes. Easton walked away, and I should be okay with that. Wishes and fantasies have no room to blossom in my life.

  This phone call is to protect my son. Nothing more.

  “I should’ve give
n you the heads up,” Easton says. “But Spinner sent the email before I knew about it.”

  I shake my head and close my eyes. “I’m choosing to believe you, Easton. But please, do everything you can to stay away from Jamie. He’s already confused as to why he only saw you once. I’m not saying that to guilt you, but to remind you he’s just a kid, who doesn’t understand all the intricacies in an adult relationship. And I don’t really want to explain to him…”

  “I see where you’re coming from, and I’ll respect your boundaries.” Easton takes a breath. “Taryn … I’m sorry.”

  I feel the sincerity in his words, and it only makes me heartsick. Instead of saying anything more, I click off.

  Holding the phone against my chin, I can’t help but rewind that night with him and where it all went wrong. How something could be so perfect and sweet, then crumble to the ground.

  I still listen to Easton every night. Not by choice, but through my sweet, innocent son, one of Nocturne Court’s biggest fans, and I have to remember—if they cross paths again, Easton will treat Jamie like he deserves. Like a fan. And it will make Jamie’s day. That’s what matters.

  My phone dings with another message, and my head falls back against my chair as I sigh, figuring Yang’s changed his mind for the trillionth time.

  With a grimace, I check the texts. But they’re not from my boss.

  * * *

  I’m going to be in New York.

  * * *

  Then:

  * * *

  And I want to see my son.

  16

  Easton

  I gotta be convinced I’m doing some good.

  We approach the back entrance of New York City’s School of ASL and Hearing Impaired in lower Manhattan, Battery Park’s greenery glittering from the sun’s cast on the East River beside it.

  A river I nearly cracked my spine in half on.

  I gnaw on the inside of my cheek as I straighten my leather jacket and shake my hair out of my face, flanked by Wyn and Rex. Mason brings up the rear, since he was the one discussing the G-Rated acoustic show and speeches to be made by us with our tour manager back at the van.

  Since becoming legit, there are so many damn managers I have to meet and memorize. Technical, tour, road, business, personal, production … all with different jobs to go with their different names.

  And not all of them have ridiculous, yet easy-to-remember monikers like Spinner.

  This is our last stop on my dubbed Apology Tour. The other schools welcomed us with open arms and screeches, and after my public speech on being an idiot who should never drink and drive, we played a few acoustic songs with each school’s theater equipment, and while the talk was serious, the songs were fuckin’ fun. Teaching lessons and exposing kids to music. What could be better? I was having a great time paying my dues.

  Until we hit Jamie’s school.

  “You’re still looking like I forced you to chew on a lemon,” Rex says as he side-eyes me. “Which is something my toddler likes to do, by the way.”

  “Enough,” I growl, and shove my hands in my pockets as I watch my drum kit be steadily brought in through the side door to the main gymnasium by our crew. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Forget Spinner for a second, okay? This is actually us making kids happy. You’re going to see their smiles, and it’ll be all right. Spin may have ulterior motives, but we don’t. We’re here for the kids, hearing or no hearing. End of story.”

  Rex has steadfastly pick-axed my barriers since we arrived back on U.S. soil two weeks ago. While I can’t shake the natural desire to stay away from this school, I’m looking forward to playing for more hormonal teenagers. I was fourteen when I’d first noticed music sheets, fifteen when I tackled the guitar. It’s an impressionable age, and if I forget Taryn for a sec and stop worrying what she thinks, if I can get out of my head for a minute and ignore my personal demons, maybe…

  I’m doing some good here.

  Taryn and I haven’t spoken since she called questioning my motives for speaking at Jamie’s school. I’d forgotten how soft her voice could be, yet dart into a rattlesnake the instant she senses weakness. Her body is constantly on my mind and the fleeting moment I was given to touch her. That night, I remember thinking—the clothes needed to stop shielding her beauty. I wanted to stroke her skin until it was thin enough to showcase her soul.

  Fuck, I wanted her. I want her still.

  Wyn smacks me on the back. “C’mon. Kids are assembled in the assembly.”

  I follow the band through to one of the hallways. Spinner hovers nearby, and a woman with her phone records the action beside him. I’m assuming she’s some sort of press, and there’ll be more inside.

  My upper lip lifts in a subtle sneer as I pass him. There was nothing in my agreement that indicated I had to make any of my speeches public, but Spinner has lived up to his name and made these into bonus charity stops with the whole band—since nothing is more appealing to our female fanbase than us teaching impressionable kids.

  You’re the one who involved the whole band to impress a chick, my stupid logic reminds me, and I shove it down where it belongs.

  As soon as we enter the deserted hallway, the muffled, tunneled sounds of a hundred teens herded into one area and talking at once hits us. There may not be anyone loitering in the halls, and we’re in a school that’s so much more than scholastic education, but I’m immediately surrounded by the ghosts of my past, their spirits blurring past me, shutting their notebooks, sliding on their backpacks, slamming lockers.

  I’m back in high school. It even smells like it used to—Sulphur mixed with plenty of disinfectant and the rubber of skidding Nike’s on dotted, laminate flooring.

  “Hi, there.” A man in a suit comes out of one of the side hallways, hand out for a shake. He’s tall and thin with a beak of a nose and silver-rimmed spectacles. I say “spectacles,” because they’re way too small to be glasses.

  My former teen angst tingles at his approach. Has to be the principal.

  “I’m Dr. Hans, the principal here at ASL-HI. It’s a pleasure to meet you men.”

  Rex takes the lead. “And you as well. You ready for us?”

  “Absolutely. I’d just like to reiterate, there will be interpreters throughout the auditorium so our deaf students can understand the lyrics. So, if you don’t mind, please keep swearing and cursing to an absolute zero.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mason pipes in, immediately back to his scrawny, respectful ways.

  “Our songs don’t contain a lot of cursing,” Rex adds. “Usually it’s during our breaks in the set, when we call out How you doin’ fuckin New Yoooork! or whatever city we’re in.”

  Dr. Hans doesn’t flinch at Rex’s shout, echoing down the halls. Nor does he smile. A few throats clear behind us.

  “Anyway.” Rex shifts on his feet. “We won’t do that.”

  “Do any of you have any experience with the hearing impaired?” Dr. Hans asks.

  Everyone shakes their heads. I hesitate.

  My old principal could see right through me. I wonder if this one can, too.

  “You don’t have to do anything differently,” Dr. Hans says. “They’re just regular kids who maybe would like you to enunciate more.”

  We all nod, and I’m feeling the zings from my bandmates. We’re approaching a stage, and our natural reaction is to have adrenaline start coursing and feed off each other’s energy. Doesn’t matter if we’re playing to a crowd of thousands or a handful—we’re itching to go.

  I just have to give a serious talk first, with electricity flowing through my veins. The irony isn’t lost on me. This is exactly how I felt before I flipped off a bridge.

  “Follow me,” Dr. Hans says.

  Our footsteps become less obvious the closer we get to the noise of the auditorium and resultant shushes from adults.

  As we approach the double doors to the gym, I notice a few small loiterers nearby, and my gut sinks.

  Dr. Hans, w
ho’s leading the front, stiffens.

  “Boys!” he says and raises his arms to sign.

  One kid flips around first, and the other two follow suit. When they see us, their grins light up the dim hallway more than sunlight ever could. They completely ignore their principal’s determined stride toward them.

  “Oh hey, little fans,” Wyn says.

  “Hi!” one boy says, jumping on his heels. He gestures to his friends. “I’m Evan, this is Paulie and Jamie.”

  “Jamie, hey buddy.” I plaster a smile on my face, impressed by Jamie’s gumption but knowing full well I’m breaking Taryn’s rules.

  His pale green eyes are wide as he signs to his friends.

  See … told you … know him … liar.

  “Evan, you and your friends better get to class before I give additional detention to the ones you’ve already received by trying to camp out in the gym this morning,” Dr. Hans says.

  I blink away my attention from Jamie’s hands.

  “It’s okay, sir, we can say a quick hello,” Mason tries.

  “You certainly cannot. These boys are breaking the rules.” Dr. Hans signs at the same time he speaks. He pulls out his phone. “I’m texting their TA to escort them away this instant.”

  Jamie, sensing he has time before the police come, runs up to me and wraps his arms around my waist. He pushes back at the same time I grunt in surprise and signs rapidly.

  Cool … you’re here … wish … live music.

  “Uh.” I look away from his hands again, and into his eyes. Those shining, eager eyes, with so much less jade than his mother’s. “I can’t understand you, buddy.”

  “He’s saying it’s so cool you’re here and that he can prove to us he knows you. Does he know you?” Evan asks.

  This piques the interest of my bandmates, and they’re eerily silent at the exchange. “Kinda. His mom worked for me for a bit.”

  “Oh, okay,” Evan replies. I guess it wasn’t nearly as interesting a story as he hoped. “Jamie also says he wishes he could see you play live.”