Hard to Lose (The Play Hard Series Book 4)

by K. Bromberg

  “We’re enjoying each other’s company. That’s it,” I say. Another lie.

  “And that’s allowed,” Dekker says before we all fall silent.

  “What if I don’t tell him at all?” I finally say.

  “And give up all your grand plans about using him as a publicity grab for KSM?” Brexton asks.

  The idea feels dirty to me now. Of using a soldier and his service as a means to promote KSM’s name.

  “In the entire time I’ve been here with him, not a single second has been spent talking about baseball or pitching or that he even played in the past. In fact, the only sports we’ve talked about has been about what is being played by the kids at The Center.” I twist my lips as they allow me to cycle through my thoughts. “So even if I tell him who I am, would it matter? It’s not like he plays anymore.”

  “Are you telling us this or are you telling yourself this to justify perpetuating this lie?” Dekker asks in the most well-intentioned way.

  “Both. Me. I don’t know.” I shrug with indifference when I’m anything but indifferent. “We did this trivia thing on our date the last night. I’ll spare you the details, but it was a fun outside-of-the-box type of date. Anyway, one of the questions we had to answer each other was what one thing was a deal-breaker for him in a relationship. His answer was deception and being deceived.” I swallow over the words. “Does that paint a clearer picture for you?”

  “When has it ever mattered to you if someone thought you were something other than who you are?” Brexton asks. “You’ve played the femme-fatale, the ball-busting bitch, and the patient, unassuming good girl, all in the name of playing to the athlete—or man—you’re wanting to get.”

  “Because it matters,” I say.

  This matters.

  He matters.

  “Why? I mean it’s just sex, right?” Dekker says.

  Brexton laughs and the sarcasm edging it grates on my nerves. “We’ve been there before, Chase. We’ve maybe even made the same excuse. Let’s face it, this is more than sex.”

  “I said we’re enjoying each other’s company,” I explain.

  “Fine. Sure. You’re simply enjoying each other’s company. If that’s the case, I don’t get what the big deal is. You’ve broken many men’s hearts before,” Dekker says. “Unless . . .”

  “No. I haven’t fallen for him,” I say.

  “Who said anything about falling for anyone?” she asks, her tone coy and gloating.

  “No one. You forget, I’m not like you two,” I assert, trying to keep perspective in this conversation. The last thing I need is to give them something to gloat about.

  “That’s what we’ve all said until it was our turn,” Brexton says, and of course, she’s the last of us to fall prey to the whole relationship, happily-ever-after thing.

  “I know I said it,” Dekker chimes in.

  “Look. He’s a good guy. I don’t want to hurt him, but is it so wrong to want to enjoy the rest of the time I have with him? He makes me laugh. He makes me feel good. I actually want to spend time with him—”

  “Whoa. You feeling okay?” Brexton asks, and I realize how unlike me that comment sounds.

  “Funny. I’m being serious,” I say.

  “Let her finish what she was saying,” Dekker says.

  “Is it so wrong that I simply want to enjoy the time I have left with him in whatever parameter this is—wrong or not?” I ask. “Besides, I made promises at The Center. That I’d volunteer through the end of the month. I can’t let the kids down.”

  “And just like that, you’d walk away when it’s time to come home? You actually think after all of this ‘fun’ you two are having that it will be that easy? What about him? Put yourself in his shoes. How would you feel if someone was doing the same to you?”

  I’d be crushed. Pissed. Confused.

  I don’t answer out loud because they already know the answer. They know how much I value morals and honesty, and here I am being a total, fucking hypocrite.

  “Maybe I just need to figure out why this guy, his letter, and everything about this situation has taken hold of me since day one and never let go,” I murmur.

  “Here’s the advice I’m going to give you,” Dekker says as she shifts to mom-big sister mode. “I understand what you’re saying and your line of thinking, but you need to be honest with yourself. The reason you’re willing to compromise your integrity and the woman we all know is because there’s something more between the two of you. Is it fast? Perhaps, but sometimes when you know, you know. You need to admit to yourself that you’re doing this because you more than like him. And you need to understand that it’s not going to be as easy as you think to walk away from him in the end.”

  Her words make me feel like my throat is closing up on me. “That’s ridic—”

  “Hear me out,” she says. “I’m not—we’re not going to judge you regardless of what decision you make. But we also know you and know you feel guilty if you even think you’ve hurt one of our feelings. So the question you need to ask yourself is how are you going to spend all this time with him, soak him up and cram months into weeks with him, and not let the guilt eat you alive while doing so? Because if that’s the case, then you’re going to be so preoccupied with it, your time won’t be of any quality.”

  “I don’t know,” I mumble, more to myself than to them.

  “Well, you have to know,” Brexton interjects. “If you’re going to be there and enjoy your time, you can’t be feeling guilty every damn second of it.”

  And she’s right. I can’t. “Have any advice on how to do that?”

  “There’s no easy answer,” Dekker says.

  “Maybe you have to look at it like this,” Brexton adds. “If he’s not yours to begin with, then he won’t be that hard to lose when all is said and done.”

  And I’m starting to realize that that’s what I’m afraid of.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Chase

  I’m not sure why I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Gunner’s name on my cell, but I do.

  Somehow, I’d concocted in my mind that he found out who I was. Whether it be by osmosis or telepathy—or that he merely googled my name—and that he no longer wanted anything to do with me.

  That’s what happens when guilt owns your every thought as you decide what you should do.

  Or rather, when you know what the right thing to do is and you’re choosing to do the opposite.

  I take a deep breath and answer it. “Hey, you.”

  “Hi.” Chills chase over my skin at the sound of his voice.

  “You working?” I ask. There’s the muted hum of music and talking in the background.

  “Of course, I am. Just like I’m sure you are, researching your little heart out.”

  “Aren’t we quite the pair?” I state.

  “We are.” He falls silent, and I hate that I wait for the other shoe to drop.

  “Gunner?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed upset yesterday and I hate that I had to run to work without making sure everything was good. Then I got busy with inventory issues before heading to coach the games at The Center, so I wasn’t able to get back to you so . . . I don’t know, I was calling to check-in.”

  That familiar ache is back beneath my breastbone.

  “That’s sweet of you. I’m fine. I promise.” I emit a self-deprecating chuckle and acknowledge the fact that with anyone else, I’d feel smothered by such thoughtful attention. But with Gunner, it makes me feel like someone cares for me. And I’m not sure if that’s worse or better given the circumstances. “Truth be told, I felt kind of stupid that I rushed over to tell you about it when nothing had even happened yet. Add to that I’m being an overly emotional female since I’m not feeling too great.”

  “Are you coming down with something?” he asks, concern flooding his voice.

  “That’ll teach me to dance in the rain, huh?” I say, a soft smile on my lips at a memor
y that feels like yesterday and forever ago all at the same time.

  “Seriously, you’re okay?”

  “I think it’s just a cold. Sniffles. Headache. Nothing major,” I explain.

  “Can I bring you anything? Do you want to stay at my place? What do you need?”

  “No. Thank you. I’m fine. I just need to sleep. Lots of sleep and I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning for the registration drive tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got the kids handled tomorrow. Stay there and rest.”

  “No. It’s fine—”

  “It’s fine from a woman is a surefire indication that everything is not fine.” His chuckle rumbles across the line. “So stop saying it, get some rest, and think of me.”

  “Now that, I can do. Goodnight, Gunner.”

  “Goodnight, Chase.”

  I close my eyes, a smile on my lips that no one can see but that I can feel.

  Why does it seem as though the sound of his voice can make me feel like everything is better?

  How do I do this? How do I perpetrate a lie so that I can be with him?

  Because the deal-breaker is if he’s in a relationship with someone. A long-term relationship. And that isn’t what we have.

  I don’t have a choice really. He knows I’ll be leaving for home at some point, so I’m going to enjoy the time I have with him, and then, fingers crossed, be able to walk away with some pride still intact.

  I pull my laptop into bed with me and open up Kelly’s email. Gunner is staring back at me before I begin scrolling to find a lone article about him. I skim the subtitles, but note that it covers his heroics, the bar he opened in memory of his fallen soldiers, and the incredible work he’s doing at The Center. Why couldn’t I find this online when I first looked him up?

  But I can’t bring myself to read it. It feels dirty. Like I’m cheating when I’m already cheating enough.

  I’d rather learn this information from him. I’d rather ask him.

  I’d rather get to know him with his warm smile, caring eyes, and genuine sense of humor.

  I want to get to know him that way.

  I close my laptop, push it away, and snuggle beneath the covers, decided.

  I’m going to enjoy the time we have, soaking him in every chance I get.

  Because I know that when I walk away, I’ll probably never meet another man like him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Gunner

  “To the lost but not forgotten. To the brave and the missed. To Dickman, because he was a dick, man.” My smile is bittersweet as cheers go up around me. “So let’s raise our glass and wish Sarge a happy birthday. Sarge.”

  And in complete contradiction to what I say—but as is our tradition—we all tap our drinks on the bar top in front of us before saying, “Happy Birthday, Dick-man,” and tossing back our drinks.

  FU-Bar erupts in a round of applause. A Band-Aid for a celebration on what is now a lifetime of pain for his widow over his life lost.

  Over a life I couldn’t save.

  “Gunner?”

  I look toward the corner of the bar where Jenny stands. There’s a smile on her lips but sadness in her eyes.

  “Hey. I didn’t see you slip in here. We waited for a while because I didn’t want you to miss the toast but—”

  “I was here. Just near the back,” she says with a lift of her chin in the direction she was. “Thank you for doing this. For having this.” She motions to the packed house of veterans and soldiers alike. “It’s nice to know that his memory is still alive.”

  I nod. “I wish I could do more.” I’m staring at her, but it’s his cries of agony filling my ears. I’m seeing the tears swim in her eyes, but it’s the desperate look in his as he grabbed my shirt and begged me for help, as he told me he didn’t want to die, as I promised him I’d take care of Jenny. That’s what I hear over and over.

  “You always do too much. Feel too much.” She reaches out and puts a hand on the side of my cheek. “You’re too hard on yourself, Gunner.”

  I smile. It’s what I feel I need to do, but inside I ache and rage and regret that I couldn’t have done more. That I didn’t react quicker. That I didn’t know the IED was there. That I wasn’t able to fucking save him. All I can do is nod. “I sent you a check last week. Did you get it?”

  “Yes, but like I told you before, you really need to stop sending them.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” I mumble, catching Aubrey’s eye to pull the tap and fill orders herself for a minute while I’m with Jenny.

  “No, I’m serious.” She reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. “I tore up the check.”

  It’s then I see it. The shiny diamond solitaire on her ring finger. The one that’s different than the silver wedding band that Dickman had given her.

  “Jenny?” When I look up to meet her eyes, she’s fighting tears through her smile and that’s exactly how I feel. I’m happy for her but sad for Dickman, and I honestly don’t know how it makes me feel. “Is that what I think it is?”

  She nods and sniffs away the emotion. “I needed to tell you but was afraid as well. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Tell me he makes you happy. That’s all I need to hear. That he treats you well and that you’re happy.”

  “I am. I truly am when I never thought I could feel this way again, so thank you for everything, but you really need to stop sending me checks. I know it helps you cope, helps you deal with the survivor’s guilt, but you don’t owe anyone anything. You were the one holding their hands, trying to save them, and for all of us, that’s all we need to know. That their best friend was there with them since we couldn’t be.”

  “Yes. Okay.” It’s the best I can do with words, as the emotions overwhelm and battle their way through the goddamn steel walls I hide them behind. “Thanks. I need to uh”—I motion to the backroom—“get some stuff done.” And with a quick hug and her lips on my cheek, I charge for its privacy. For its peace. For a place where I can let the fucking emotions overwhelm me.

  One life dies.

  Another life moves on.

  It’s the cycle, but it’s so fucking hard to accept. To know that she has to move on, to be happy—hell, he’d want her to be happy—but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept that three years later she’s found someone. Someone who isn’t Dickman.

  I toast when the crowd toasts, sipping my water instead of the shots being shoved in front of me.

  Because I can’t drown this one out. I can’t bury it under alcohol. It will still be there. It will still hurt.

  I know from experience.

  “Hey, man? You okay?”

  I glance over to Nix and nod. “I think for my own sanity, I need to cut out early tonight.”

  “Not in the mood for celebrating?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.

  “Nah. But you guys go ahead. Aubs is going to take the helm for me. She’ll get better tips that way anyway, and I know she’s saving up for a new car.” I wipe my hands on the towel, ball it up, and toss it in the basket behind the bar.

  “It’s okay to say celebrating this, seeing Jenny, fucks you up. It does me too. We don’t want to forget, but it sure as hell hurts to remember.”

  “Thanks for getting me, Nix.”

  “Aye.” He nods and takes a sip of his beer. “Tell Grainger my apologies to his hand.”

  * * *

  “Christ, Gunny,” Grainger says as he shakes his gloved hand. “That fucking hurt.”

  I don’t speak, just lift my gloved hand out to indicate that another fastball is coming. And then another. And another.

  Grainger is wise not to speak. The catcher from the community college a few towns over always welcomes the chance to get more time in behind the plate—and luckily, he doesn’t mind doing it at all hours of the night.

  What he doesn’t understand is that what is extra practice for him, is therapy for me.

  It’s how I work through the shit in my head. The hurt in my heart. The g
uilt that still weighs heavy in my soul.

  It has been since the day I kissed the sport I loved with all my heart goodbye only to realize it provided me with so much more than I thought.

  Pitching, getting lost in the motions and the mechanics, had become my therapy. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but it’s what I turned to when my dad came home beneath a flag-draped coffin. It’s what I lost myself in when Sal was drunk and his fists were itching to fly. Staying at the field a few extra hours was so much easier than going home to deal with him.

  When I was on deployment, it’s how I managed the fear and boredom. The guys would take turns catching for me, guessing where I’d pitch it next. We’d make a game of it. Anything for a piece of normalcy in that godforsaken place.

  And now, it’s how I cope with the horrors of war, and the guilt over the ones I failed.

  Fucking Dickman.

  I shake my head and lob an off-speed pitch at Grainger. He falls forward on his knees as he anticipates the fastball, but is caught off guard when it’s twenty miles per hour slower.

  “That was wicked,” he laughs out. “Tell me again why you never played in the majors.”

  “I wasn’t good enough.”

  “Bullshit. If you’re this good after all this time, you must have been nasty when you were my age.”

  I chuckle before flopping my glove to tell him another one’s coming.

  Because I was good.

  I had the control and the speed and the size. Every damn thing the MLB scouts wanted, and yet I was sold out. Agents promised me they’d call. They told me they wanted me. And when they did call—from what I learned later—they were assured that my lack of respect for those in authority would only ever be a severe handicap and risk. Oh, and had they seen Marcus, my stepbrother’s stats? Asshole.

  Stepping off the mound, I roll my shoulders to clear it. I can’t think about shit like that right now. I let that dream go over five years ago and made as much peace with it as I could.