Return by Sea (Glacier Adventure Series Book 3)

by Tracey Jerald

  “Fun? When did your sadistic side come out?”

  “I think after child number four.” She purses her lips. “Definitely before number six. You have to be creative as a mom, Maris. Might as well start early.”

  “Why me?” I ask jokingly.

  “Exactly. Why you? Are you ready for the never-ending questions? The help they need? The love they have to give?” Even as I’m pondering that, she wedges the ice cream in an overstocked freezer that looks like it’s going to explode any moment. “There. Now, while we have a few minutes, let me give you the lowdown on who’s who around here and we can prep dinner.”

  I catch sight of the clock. “You know it’s only four, right?”

  She nods. “It takes a while to prep for nine.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m used to running a restaurant.”

  After dinner, dessert, washing of faces, brushing of teeth, and lots of thank-yous, Sarah, Hung, and I are relaxing in their family room. “So, what do you think, Maris? Now that you’ve spent some time with our brood, is fostering something you’re interested in?” Hung asks.

  I shake my head. Both of their faces fall. “But adopting is. I’m ready. I want this, the kind of unequivocal love you all have here.”

  “There’s nothing else like it in the world,” Sarah agrees.

  “What do I have to do to get started?” I ask.

  For a long time, we talk about what to do next. And I gratefully accept the invitation to spend time with the Li family to understand more about the fostering process. “Who knows, Maris? You might be able to give me tips on things like paperwork that will be huge time-savers.”

  “I’d be happy to.” And I would.

  Suddenly, the clock strikes ten times. “I can’t believe I’ve been here for so long,” I exclaim, standing. “You both must be ready for bed.”

  Sarah and Hung stand as well. “It’s been a huge pleasure.”

  At the door, I turn and hug them both. “For me as well. Please let me know when we can do it again.”

  “Any Sunday. Just let me know,” Sarah throws out as I shrug into my coat.

  “I’ll take you up on it.” I wave as I step out the door. Heading down the flagstone path, I don’t know what makes me glance up. But when I do, I freeze.

  David’s sitting in the window. And on the frosty pane, he draws a tiny cross. Not a star, not a circle. A cross. Then he blows air onto the pane to fog it up and draws it again.

  And again.

  I finally move my legs and make my way into the car. Turning it on, I blast the heat, not moving for a few moments.

  Then I ask aloud what’s been tickling my mind me all day. “Jed, is that you?”

  Of course, I don’t get an answer. With a large amount of regret, I back out of the driveway and head home.

  Nicholas

  August

  Slap.

  Slap.

  Slap.

  My feet hit the pavement over and over again, demonstrating to the young kids moaning behind me that I—an “old man”—still have the stamina, the reserve in the tank, that pushed me over the top to win the belt. Right now, it’s just running a mile, but for this group, that’s a long distance.

  The Champ has an image to uphold, after all.

  For years, I lauded it publicly—even to my best friends—as the greatest night of my life. What it was is a colossal fuckup I can’t fathom how to repair. It’s always in the back of my head. That one moment of self-loathing spawned years of contempt and revulsion.

  And in the end, there’s nothing I can do to get her to talk to me. Even on the worst day when we should have been bonded together. I wince as I’m running as pain floods through my pores.

  “You okay, Mr. Cain?” A boy, no older than nine who’s missing a few teeth, grins up at me.

  “You betcha, Richie.” I reach down and ruffle the kid’s unruly mop of hair. If the little speed demon dressed a little more flamboyantly and was a lot less polite, I’d think he was Jed zapped into a tiny form. Without a break in stride, I call out, “Let’s pick up the pace,” to a cacophony of groans.

  This is my favorite group to train each week. The one group that no matter what, I try to make it back from my travels to work with. Because these are the kids and teens who come in not believing someone gives a shit. Kind of the way I felt the first time I met Jed Smith at a grocery store and then later at the Great Alaskan Lumberjack Show.

  “Crazy bastard,” I mutter fondly under my breath, feeling the gold cross he left me when he died bouncing against my sweat-slickened chest.

  Even though the anniversary of his actual death has passed, the date the guys and I were notified of the wreck that took Jed and his husband’s life just came and went. I recall opening that letter all alone in my office and swearing I was having a heart attack. All the blood stopped pumping to my brain. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. And I swore I was moving through a tunnel chanting two names.

  Jed.

  Maris.

  I’d fainted on the floor of my office, clutching the letter to my chest. My assistant found me that way a short time later and was debating with my number two, Oliver, whether or not to call an ambulance. I threatened them with, “If you contact anyone other than Jennings to get me on a flight to Ketchikan, I swear to God, I’m firing you both.”

  They both hurried out.

  Later that night, I received a call from the woman I was…dating. “Nick, baby. I went by your office. So, you want me to go with you, or what?” God knows the reason I was with her was because she was the exact opposite of Maris Smith; hell, all the women I’d had in my life to that point were. Anything to keep the memories of Maris out of my mind. But the idea of bringing someone with me to Jed’s funeral—which might or might not hurt the woman I’d loved forever—made me violently ill. I hung up without saying a word before I threw up the better part of the bourbon I’d made a decent dent in before she rang.

  After that night, all I wanted to do was give up, but damn Jed. He made it so I couldn’t by forcing me to look for the one thing that I swore didn’t exist: faith. How could something like that exist when it took from me, from us, the greatest man put on this planet? How could Jed expect me to believe in something so nebulous without guidance?

  Turns out he was right. Asshole, I think fondly. I couldn’t do it when he was alive. But why did he have to die for my days of gluttonous indulgence to end? My unresolved anger over Jed’s loss lengthens my stride, making me pull away from the clustered group slightly. Dominica and Raj encourage the kids from the back. “Go get Mr. Nick, kids. You got this!” And just as quickly, I’m thrown back into the octagon.

  “Don’t give up! You’ve got this, buddy.”

  I can hear all their voices—Jennings, Kody, and Brad— yelling something similar, but it’s Jed’s voice yelling at me the loudest. I hear him above my coach, above my trainer. There’s no one in my corner I hear above Jed. His voice once broke through the open-air fandom in an arena in Ketchikan, and it’s berated me for daring to think of touching his precious sister if I was going to fuck everything from there to Juneau along the way. It’s his voice that overrode them all in the sea of fans when I land a wild haymaker.

  And it’s his face I search out when my hand is raised in the air as the blood trickles from my face.

  Only it’s no longer there.

  Neither is hers.

  I won and, to the two people who mattered most, I became the biggest loser. Instead of becoming the Champ and showing them the man I could be, I ruined it all. But would anything have been different if I’d lost? No, I admit to myself wearily. I’d have been the guy who lost the belt that fucked in order to get a prize. Talk about a real champ.

  As we turn to head the final stretch back to the gym, I conclude nothing’s been real for me in three years since Jed died. Despite the hellacious recruiting schedule, working with the kids training, I have a massive hole in my head and my heart. I rub away drops of sweat that drip
down the side of my face, ruefully acknowledging Jed would have frowned upon my behavior right after he died.

  “Would be worried about me. Too much work. Better than the other shit,” I gasp. But it’s been a long while since I indulged in any sort of vice, years since I’ve been involved with a woman in any capacity and large amounts of booze. Both came to a halt the night Jennings texted me to tell me Kody was gone.

  I remember blindly reaching for my phone and trying to call him, the same way I did Jed. After I was sent to voicemail, I called Jennings and ripped him a new one for daring to tell me Kody died in a text.

  Confused, Jennings replied, “He’s not dead, Nick.”

  I slurred, “Then why are you calling? Had a good buzz going on.”

  Jennings’s disgusted “I’m not sure either, asshole” before he slammed down the phone only made me laugh. Until I sobered up the next morning wondering if any of it was real.

  Unfortunately, phone logs don’t lie.

  Not long after we managed to get Kody back in our lives, I took a long look at myself. It’s amazing how that happens when the only woman you’ve ever loved dismisses you as a joke.

  Maris Ione Smith holds my soul, and I dare not tell her. After all, I’m just a waste of people’s hopes and dreams.

  Isn’t that what my mother implied by leaving when she left me in Alaska all those years ago and drove away?

  “No,” I call out. “If you hold your fist like that, you’re going to snap your thumb off in a heartbeat the minute you connect with your opponent’s body.” Glancing around, I find the perfect person to help the young boy. I let out a piercing whistle, and all activity in the gym ceases. “Tatum, get your ass over here and help Scott for a few. You need a break anyway.”

  Tatum spits his mouth guard into his taped hand before shooting me a grin that reminds me a little too much of Jennings. “You got it, Nick.” He bounds barefoot off the elevated ring after exchanging a quick handshake with the guy he was sparring with. “Thanks for working with me.”

  “No problem, Tatum.” The trainer turns to another member of the elite team.

  Tatum makes his way over to where we are, and I do my damnedest to suppress my lips from twitching when I recall Kody’s almost desperate call to keep him away from his baby sister, Sandra. Despite the beating he took early on that kept him out of training for a few months, the kid’s on a fast track to become one of the best. Stepping back, I observe his training techniques with Scott. The few finer points I acknowledge in myself are evident in the young fighter as well as so many more. I look forward to being a part of his team in the future.

  Soon, he’s done patiently explaining the reasons for certain hand positions. Clapping both of them on the shoulders, I inform them, “Another ten, then Scott, hit the bag for kicks,” before I move over to help another struggling teen.

  My heart clenches when I approach Darin. He’s sporting a massive black eye I damn well know he didn’t earn here. Like any after-school and summer programs, I report every injury. The idea of teaching kids mixed martial arts is to instill discipline they may not receive at home, not to get them hurt. But accidents happen just the same.

  God, so many of them are like me after that last summer in Alaska. Lost. Willing to do anything to believe that dreams exist. In all the glory, I never forgot where I came from. And one night, I picked up the phone, reaching out to someone I trusted. I asked him if it was crazy to bring the kids in to seek a healthy outlet while there’s so much chaos in their lives. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year at that point. It’s empty, Jed. The win. But I drive to the center to train, and there’s clusters of these kids who I think would die if I invited them in. Most of them will never be champions, but what does that matter? God, life feels so fucking empty lately.

  Maybe because there’s more to life than a fight or a fuck? There’s the people who would lay down their lives for you if you’d just open your eyes? Jed’s voice, silent for so long, came through the text loud and clear.

  Yeah. There’s that.

  Welcome back, brother. And I think it’s a shitload of work, but you’re the perfect guy to take it on.

  I made Jed swear not to say anything. To the casual observer, Razor is just a training academy for the most elite MMA fighters. But inside its walls, it’s much more. It’s a safe place where the walls come down. Laughter rings out on a frequent basis. Warm meals are served. Hell, I have a swear jar on the level where the kids train. And above all, trust is built and never broken.

  It’s the most sacred of vows.

  “Excuse me, Nick?” my assistant, Charmaine, calls from the gym doors. She waves her arm back and forth.

  I jog over. “What’s up?”

  “You wanted me to let you know when the new recruitment files came in. Everyone’s sent everything over.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I offer her a smile complete with dimples and flutter my eyelashes.

  She reaches up and pinches my ear. “Don’t you dare ask me to watch those videos that Oliver, Evan, Veronika, and Royce sent for you. Harold had to take me out for margaritas the last time. Why your recruiters have to cause blood to fly, I’ll never know.” Charmaine, a spry sixty-two, has been dating her man friend since I hired her ten years earlier.

  I disengage her fingers from my ear before wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “To make certain their resumes aren’t fluffed up,” I remind her.

  She huffs but doesn’t protest. “Oh, I forgot. Ollie’s on the phone.”

  I stop in my tracks. “Now?” A tingle of awareness shoots down my spine.

  “Yes. I’d have just left the videos, but then he called and said this was important.”

  The tingle turns into a chill. “Can you bring me something when you come back from lunch?” I normally wouldn’t make the request as it’s nowhere in Charmaine’s responsibilities to feed me, but I have a feeling I’m going to miss my chance to get away from my desk

  “Sure. Do you think everything’s okay?”

  “No.” Then I press a kiss to the top of her silvery-white head. “I think it’s going to knock me on my ass.”

  “Nicholas. Language!” she snaps. “We’re on the children’s floor.”

  I pat my workout clothes for my pockets. “Sorry, Charmaine. Add it to what I owe you for lunch.”

  “Don’t think I won’t, you heartbreaking menace,” she warns.

  Knowing damn good and well she’ll hold me to it, I head off in the direction of my office, curious about what Oliver has found.

  Nicholas

  “Did you say Juneau?” I repeat into the phone. Leaning back into my chair, my eyes roam the watermelon-tinted peaks I can make out in the distance. But in my mind it’s not the beauty of the Sandia Peaks, nor the excitement of adding a new elite fighter to Razor Academy.

  It’s her—the idea of possibly seeing her.

  Maris Ione Smith.

  I listen with half an ear to my scout as he extols the attributes of this guy who decided to try professional fighting. “What does he do?”

  “Well, he worked for a while for this touristy thing called the Great Alaskan Lumberjack Show. I think you’ve heard of it.”

  No freaking way. Immediately, I pull up the website of the show where day after day for four summers, my best friends and I owned the crowds and demand, “Which one is he again?”

  “Reece London.”

  Oliver keeps talking while I scan the guy’s bio. “I’m telling you, Nick. I think the guy could heave both of us over his shoulder before submitting us,” Oliver concludes.

  “What’s his fighting specialty?” I close out of the website to scan the very different profile Oliver compiled of Reece London that arrived in my inbox before answering the call.

  Oliver laughs. “What’s not? He’s a black belt in karate and jiujitsu. His boxing skills are strong, but I see room for improvement. Same with his submissions. Guy did some wrestling back in high school but never really took to it. But…”

/>   I pick up where Oliver left off. “Put it all together and you have one hell of a package to start with. How did Reece get to be so well trained? We’ve had military pass through Razor before; it doesn’t always garner your attention.” In order for me to be able to spend time working with both the professional-level athletes and the kids, I cultivated a team of scouts to travel around the world based on query letters and word of mouth to seek out new talent. And Oliver Torrence is the best there is.

  “In this case it’s personal,” he admits. “We knew each other growing up in Hawaii.”

  “Ah.” I press Play as I watch Oliver spar with the larger man on video. It doesn’t take but a few minutes for Oliver to wind up on his ass. I grin as Oliver rolls to his feet, only to be thrown back down like an annoying gnat. Reece balances before sweeping out, and the two begin to grapple. They roll over and over. I wince as Oliver takes an elbow to the eye socket. “How’s your eye?” My eyes narrow as Oliver mounts him and gets a few hard hits in.

  “Bled like a bitch, but his ribs will hurt more.”

  “Hmm. And you think I should take him on because?”

  “Reece is already a champ.”

  Startled, I hit Pause, just as the champ takes a fist to his face. “What makes you say that?” I demand. My eyes drift over to where my prize belt sits protected.

  As many times as people refer to that night, I refuse to let my mind go there willingly. Not when I had the chance to have it all and I ruined it.

  Again.

  “Because his work ethic rivals ours, he trains in every moment of his spare time, and there’s no one from his past holding him back,” Oliver concludes.

  The laugh I let out is a rough, bitter sound. “There’s always someone, Ollie. He just may not realize it. Get me more film and I’ll consider it.”

  “On it, boss.” Oliver disconnects the call.

  Leaning back in my chair, I stare up at my title belt, which winks smugly down at me. What I said was no less than the truth. I made a promise a long time ago, and I’ve kept my end of it.