by K. Bromberg
“That guy you were asking about? The baseball player? The one who pitches?”
“Ryan Camden? Yes. What about him?” She immediately has my interest. After a fruitless day yesterday asking around about him and getting nowhere, I’ll take any news I can get about his whereabouts.
Yesterday was frustrating to say the least. First, no real leads on Ryan, and then fighting my own staunch determination last night not to head to the bar—or check my phone for the hundredth time to see if Gunner had called or texted.
The worst—or my sisters might call amusing—part was that my usual chant of it’s just sex or he’s not that big of a deal, fell on my own deaf ears.
I wanted to go to the bar.
I wanted to see him again.
Because I know whatever happened to us the other night was more than sex. There was chemistry there, and I don’t have time for fucking chemistry. I have time to find Ryan, to see what happened to him and, in loose terms, take advantage of the situation for KSM’s benefit . . . and then move on.
And yet, I was surly and grumpy and even annoyed myself with it because I wanted to see him. His smile, his—
And that’s why I didn’t go.
That’s why I had to prove to myself that I didn’t need to see him. That my hours spent trying to figure out what mentorship program he worked for was simply because I needed a break in the work monotony.
I glance at the clerk’s name tag, Sara, and offer a huge smile as I wait for her to answer.
“I’m not sure what the guy’s name was, but I was driving home late last night from my mom’s house when I noticed there were lights on at the baseball field. The baby was kind of restless, kicking up a storm, and I knew if I went right home that I wouldn’t get much sleep anyway, so I figured I’d go investigate for you.”
“Wow. Okay,” I say and smile. I’m grateful for her help, but know I’m not going to haphazardly find Ryan pitching somewhere.
“I tell you, it was hard to see from where I was parked in the lot, but there was a guy out there pitching. Over and over and from what it looked like, he was throwing real fast.”
“Really?” I play along, not wanting to hurt her feelings and more than aware that real fast could mean a lot of things depending on a person’s knowledge of the game and distance from the field. “What time was this?”
“Like one or two in the morning or something crazy like that.”
“That late?” I ask. Definitely drunks out trying to relive their high school careers. And then I realize Sara’s looking at me as if she just solved the mystery for me, so I ask a question to make her think she’s helped me. “What field was this?”
“The one down off Hawley Road,” she says and points to the right of her.
“I really appreciate you telling me. Maybe it’s time I take a few late-night, early morning drives and see if I can find him for myself.”
“Fingers crossed you find him.”
“Me too.” I hold my crossed fingers up to show her.
“After you told me that you’re trying to find the man who wrote you a letter, I keep having all of these daydreams about how you’re going to find him, and it’ll be love at first sight. Like it was all meant to be. I hope it comes true, for your sake.”
I smile and nod as I say goodbye and step away. She’s a sweetheart no doubt, but I don’t live in her reality. Not that hers is a bad one, but marriage and kids at her young age? I shudder thinking of myself that young and so shackled.
It’s definitely not for me.
My no-strings-attached lifestyle suits me more than well. I can work however long I want without worrying about others. I can go wherever I want without answering to anyone.
Some may call me selfish.
I call it knowing what I want and being okay with it.
Maybe someday I’ll want what my sisters want—the white picket fence and the family that goes with it—but not now.
Not at this stage in my life.
When I emerge from the hotel lobby, I contemplate where to spend my time today. Yesterday was spent taking a small nap—great sex is tiring—and low-key queries about Ryan Camden. I even left messages for the baseball coach of a local state college a few towns over to see if he knew of any Ryan Camden but have yet to hear back.
Today definitely has to be devoted more to contract review, social media planning, and client calls.
And that’s what I do for the next four or five hours. I get lost in my work. In the anticipated, in the unexpected, and in the new and noteworthy. I win over a new client, review a proposal from a PR firm I contacted yesterday, and talk to a few social media analysts to see what each offers.
It’s mid-afternoon when I emerge from the folksy tunes and dark walls of the Grind Me Coffeehouse. It’s cozy and quaint and has served as my office for most of the day, but the need to stretch my legs and feel the sun on my face has won over my need to cross more things off both my daily and my monthly checklist goals.
I search in my bag for my sunglasses and just as I’m about to put them on, I look up and meet Gunner’s eyes. He’s across the street, and he freezes momentarily at the sight of me before jogging across to me.
“Hi,” he says and I swear to God, if going all warm and fuzzy were a thing, I would vouch that it just happened to me.
But that isn’t me and it’s definitely not Sara’s, the hotel desk clerk’s, world.
He smiles—or rather he was already smiling and it just grew wider—and the sight of it and the warmth in his eyes already has my body singing.
“Hi,” I say back to him in that awkward, I want to kiss him, but maybe I shouldn’t, because I don’t know if we were just a one-night stand type of awkward. “You didn’t call.”
And if we were a one-night stand, now he’s going to think I’m crazy.
He angles his head and his expression softens. “I didn’t want to seem too—”
“I get it. I didn’t mean to say that.” I give a quick shake of my head and busy my fingers with playing with the strap of my purse. “I just wanted to make sure the date wasn’t FUBAR so to speak.”
Gunner laughs. We stare at each other on the sidewalk, and then without preamble, he steps up, puts his hands on either side of my cheeks, and full on kisses me.
And it’s not a brush on the lips, I’m going to placate you, kiss. This is the kind of kiss that makes me forget I’m holding my bag or that I’m on the sidewalk of downtown.
It’s equal parts heart and heat. Like a drug I didn’t know I was addicted to until I had it again.
“What was that for?” I ask, a little breathless, a lot enamored, when the kiss breaks. He leaves his hands framing my face so he can run his thumb over my lips.
“I figured that might clear up some of the awkwardness.” His smile is shy as he shrugs. “There was never any before and there sure as hell shouldn’t be any now.”
“Well, okay then.” I laugh.
“Second—”
“Second? I didn’t even know there was a first,” I say.
And again, I find his lips on mine and my body aching.
“That was the first,” he says, the warmth of his breath feathering over my lips. “You forgot about it way too soon, so I needed to remind you of it.”
“Remind away,” I murmur and then snap myself out of sounding like an idiot. “But then again, maybe second was even better?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Second, can we just agree that I wanted to see you again and that you wanted to see me again?”
“I think that kiss pretty much sealed that shit up.”
We laugh. I hate admitting to myself that I love the feel of his hands on my face. The way his smile warms me. How much I didn’t realize that I was looking forward to seeing him again.
“That’s settled, then,” he says with a definitive nod. “So when can I see you again?”
“Gunner.” My smile is shy and my want is real. “I have to be completely honest with you.”
&nb
sp; “Why does that not sound good?” he jokes, his hands running down my arms and linking fingers with mine.
“It’s not bad . . . it’s just . . . my being here in Destiny Falls is a temporary thing. The last thing I want to do is give you a false sense that I plan on staying here. I mean—”
His lips close over mine again. Just a simple brush of lips but so very potent in how it makes me feel.
“What was that for?” I reach out and put a hand on his cheek.
“You’re talking too much about shit that doesn’t matter, Chase. I learned that living in the moment is so much better.” He lifts our linked hands up to his lips and kisses the backs of mine. “So let’s start living in the moment, shall we?”
It’s the best idea I’ve heard in forever. “I quite like that idea.”
“You do, huh?”
I nod, and my smile is constant as we start walking down the sidewalk aimlessly. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Well—”
“Coach Gunner?” a voice to the left of us calls, and I turn to see the cutest little boy waving at Gunner from where he stands in the open doorway to the Central Nail Stop.
“Trey? What are you doing out here?” Gunner says, his entire demeanor transforming at the sight of him. He reaches out and does some elaborate handshake with the tiny cutie. “Shouldn’t you be in school flirting with all those cute girls?”
“Yuck,” the boy says with a dramatic flair. “And it’s after school already.”
“Your momma getting her nails done?” Gunner asks.
“Yep,” he says with a roll of his eyes before turning his attention to me.
“Hi there,” I say. I’m guessing he’s about seven or eight years old. His eyes are a light gray, his skin tone is a light brown, and he has the most gorgeous head of hair. He’s definitely going to be a heartbreaker when he grows up.
“Trey, this is Chase,” Gunner says.
“She your lady?” he deadpans with a lift of his chin that has both Gunner and me fighting back smiles.
“I’m working on it,” Gunner says and winks as I stand there trying not to laugh.
Trey eyes me again and nods. “Try harder.”
“Trey?” a woman’s voice calls from inside the salon. “Who are you—oh, Gunner. Hi.” A woman with the exact same coloring as Trey steps forward and presses a kiss to Gunner’s cheek. “I was going to ask how you were doing, but it seems to me you’re doing just fine,” she says, eyeing me much like her son and then cackles at her own joke.
Gunner introduces the two of us moments before she’s called back into the salon.
“You better be ready to win tomorrow,” Gunner says to Trey.
“When have I ever lost?” he says with a devilish grin and a lift of his hands before he turns and heads back into the salon.
Gunner shakes his head and just laughs.
“He’s adorable, funny, and going to cause his momma a lot of trouble someday when he realizes how good-looking he is,” I say as we start walking again.
“He already knows it.”
“He called you Coach?”
“Yeah. We call ourselves coaches at The Center instead of counselors or mentors. That way the kids don’t really feel like we’re trying to pick their brain apart. They have base psychologists that do that. To them, I’m just a goofy coach who makes them laugh, get some fresh air, and hopefully help them forget for a little bit.”
I nod, reminded once again of his selflessness.
“That was Trey. Eight years old from Tennessee. Father died—killed by a roadside bomb in Kandahar. For the most part, he’s doing okay now, but we had a rough patch last year that took a while to work through.”
I simply stare at him.
“What?” he asks, embarrassed under my scrutiny.
“Why do you do it?” I ask. “I mean I know why . . . but still, why?”
He shrugs. “Short story? Because it makes me feel good. Long story?” He blows out a long exhale and shoves his hands in his pockets as he looks straight ahead instead of me. “Because I have a lot of guilt over those I couldn’t save. The ones who left behind little boys who’ll never see them again. Little boys who’ll struggle to know what it means to be a man. So I help teach them a bit of that as an apology that I couldn’t, in fact, save them.”
I blink away the tears he can’t see as he falls quiet. There’s nothing I can say to give anywhere near enough praise for what he’s doing.
“Gunner. I don’t even know—”
“I have an idea,” he says, knocking all words of praise from my lips when he faces me with a big grin and his huge brown eyes.
“What?”
“You said you’re researching military life, right?”
Shit. “Yes. I am,” I lie and don’t feel good about doing it at all.
“Are you looking for work? Do you know anything about sports? We could use help if you want to give it.” His questions come out rapid-fire.
“I’m nowhere near following you right now.”
“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I don’t mean to imply that you need work or a handout or—”
“What do you need help with?” I ask.
“It’s not that. I mean sure, we need help—we always need help since we’re strictly volunteer based—but if you’re looking to write about military life—real military life—then you need to make sure to talk about the kids. The military brats and what they’re struggling through and those organizations that try to help them.”
I stare at Gunner with the oddest sense of resolution. The same sense I get when I want a client and know I’m going to win them over.
Maybe you need to find a cause.
Lennox’s words ghost through my mind as I stare at a man, who’s not only a hero—according to Nix—but who continues to be one even after he was discharged from service.
“Do you know anything about sports?” he asks, and I stare at him doe-eyed, trying to not laugh at the irony of the question.
“Sports?”
“Bats. Balls. Goals. Baskets. Mismatched uniforms. That kind of thing,” he teases.
I swat at him. “Of course, I know sports. Who doesn’t?”
“I know this sounds crazy, but . . . we need some help at The Center. It’s the beginning of our rec league’s baseball season and so we need help organizing teams and sign-ups. It’s just for a couple of weeks. All simple. It’s a way to earn some extra cash while you’re researching your thesis. And, it would be a chance for you to get some great insight into military life. On the emotional toll these kids experience. The ups and downs of it.”
I immediately feel like an ass. For him thinking I’m here for my thesis. For him assuming I’m a broke graduate student who needs to earn extra cash.
For all of it.
And I know I need to tell him the truth but . . .
“C’mon. Can I entice you by saying you’ll get to see me more, too?” Those eyes of his are beguiling.
“You’re so cute when you beg,” I say and step up and give him a kiss to rival the kisses he’s won me over with. “But there’s no need to beg. I’d love to help out. To volunteer.” And I’m serious. It’s not until the words pass over my lips that I realize how much I do in fact want to do this. I’ve been a kid who lost a parent. I’ve been lost, grieving, and lashing out. Something about this is just too right for me. “Besides, you can repay me in other ways.” I wink.
“I don’t think I’ll be too hard-pressed to figure out how to do that.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chase
If someone were to ask me how this happened—how I, Chase Ava Kincade, ended up sitting at a front desk of a rec center telling seven-year-old Guillermo that a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie is not an acceptable form of bribery to get a girl, me, to go on a date with him—I’d tell them they were crazy.
That I’d never be in this situation.
I am the furthest thing from the nurturing, playful type when it co
mes to kids, and yet here I am.
The Center is an old YMCA property. It has a gymnasium in desperate need of some work along with some cracked asphalt courts outside and a baseball diamond on the far side.
The facility is worn and aged, but what it lacks in curb appeal, it definitely makes up for with the laughter echoing around and love emanating through its space.
“So the gist is this,” Ellie, Gunner’s counterpart, explains. “We run and facilitate sports programs for all kids on base to help us offer more to those kids who have lost their mom or dad.”
“And what do you think—” My words halt as Gunner runs by the window. He has one little boy hitching a ride piggy-back style and another chasing after them while Trey shouts at them from farther away. But it’s not the kids or the actions that catch my attention, it’s the expression on Gunner’s face. Pure freaking joy. And in all honesty, I’m not one hundred percent sure why it hits me so hard, but it does. He’s . . . beautiful. Selfless.
“Yeah, he’s kind of amazing,” Ellie says, breaking through my fog. I startle and look at her.
“What?” I ask, flustered.
“You were mid-sentence when he ran by and then forgot to finish what you were saying.” She shrugs and gives me a knowing smile. “So I figured I’d finish your thought for you.”
I clear my throat and force myself not to look out the window again, where it seems there’s an epic invisible battle of some sort taking place. “Yes. He is. Uh—where were we?”
“You mean before or after you were admiring him?”
I give her my best Dekker-glare but she just laughs. “Before.”
“Oh, right.” Another smirk. “I was explaining how we use managing the rec league to help pay for these kids.” She points to the six boys currently pretend-attacking Gunner. “Any child who has lost a parent in combat receives any and all that we offer at no cost.”
“Why?” It’s a simple word but it can ask so many questions.
“To help their remaining parent out. To give the kids some of what they are now missing. A father or a mother figure. We try to help ease the grief associated with losing a parent in a way where the kids don’t feel like they’re making the parent they have sadder.”