A Heart Revealed (7 page)

Bobby nodded with a sigh and lumbered toward the bench.

Sean’s heart buckled. “Bobby . . .”

The boy turned, a hangdog expression on his face while Sean approached.

“This is between you and me, bud,” Sean murmured, squatting to slip his Snickers candy bar into the boy’s pocket. “You played a good game.”

A grin curled on the boy’s lips. “Gee, thanks, Coach.” He turned and jogged to the bench where teammates rallied around with sympathetic slaps on the back.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sean rose to his feet and exhaled, remembering all the times his father had been there for him, dusting him off when he’d struck out or been clobbered by a ball. He may not have kids of his own—nor did he ever intend to—but there was no denying he enjoyed being part of these boys’ lives here and now, even if it was only as a volunteer coach. Especially someone as needy as Bobby.

Sean huffed out another weary sigh. And
especially
tonight, when he needed to get his mind off one of the worst days he’d had in a long, long while. First with Mr. Kelly’s threat of layoffs that morning and then later when he’d lost his temper and bloodied some poor unfortunate slob at Kearney’s Café. A groan trapped in his throat. At his own sister’s wedding no less, and in front of one of the people he respected most in the world—Emma Malloy. The memory soured both his stomach and the smile on his face. Their easy and comfortable friendship had been damaged today, he’d seen it in her eyes, and for some reason he couldn’t ascertain, the realization throbbed inside like an open wound. A wound that had bled when he’d returned to the store and then followed him all the way to the game tonight.

But as always, boys’ laughter and parents’ cheers had lifted his mood considerably, and once again, he was grateful for his love of sports. It’d been his savior over the years, a normal and acceptable outlet for all the roiling emotions he kept hidden beneath the surface. And tonight’s game, win or lose, had taken his mind off the awful look on Emma’s face. All he needed now was to vent his frustration in a late-night basketball game with Pete and the guys, and he’d be back to normal.

Almost.

“Hey, O’Connor, you still want an early warm-up before the Monday night game?” Pete Murphy looked up from his clipboard, brown eyes squinted in question.

Sean retrieved the discarded bat and ambled over to the bench, giving his assistant coach and best friend a one-sided smile. “It’s St. Joe’s, Murph, what do you think?”

“Hey, Coach, we’ll cream ’em, just like last time,” one of the boys hollered, and the others hooted in agreement while they poked and wrestled each other on the bench.

Sean grinned and slipped several bats and balls into the equipment bag, then walked over to shake the other coach’s hand. When he returned, the wrestling match had moved to the dirt in a free-for-all of grimy legs, arms, and dust. Sean put his fingers to his teeth and let loose with an ear-splitting whistle. All motion froze as sweaty faces caked with dirt stared back, along with a handful of parents who stood chatting by the wooden bleachers. Several toddlers and mothers sitting on blankets glanced up with curiosity as Sean flashed a smile. “Okay, guys, listen up—you played a stellar game out there today, despite the loss, so you should be proud of yourselves. But if we’re going to protect our lead in the parish league, we’ll have to step it up a notch because St. Joe is breathing down our neck.” He cocked a hip, arms loose and thumbs latched in the pockets of dusty gray trousers. “The Monday night game’s at six-thirty, but I want you here no later than five-thirty so we can get in a little extra practice and warm-up, okay?”

“You got it, Coach. We’ll make ’em wish they’d never been born,” Cliff Mullen said.

“Yeah, we’ll annihilate them,” Bobby Dalton agreed.

Sean stifled a smile with a fold of his arms. “Winning isn’t everything, guys, but playing well is. Which means you go to bed early Sunday night and show up here on time on Monday, got it? See you then.” He ruffled the sweaty heads of several of his boys while they shuffled off, muttering their goodbyes.

Pete tossed the clipboard to Sean with a hike of a thick, black brow. “Winning isn’t everything?” he repeated slowly, sarcasm coating every word. His lips kinked to the right as he hefted the burlap bag of equipment over a brawny shoulder. “Either you’re in dire need of a confessional right now, O’Connor, or you’re not the guy who goes for the throat every time he trounces me in a game of basketball.”

A slow grin creased Sean’s lips as he swiped a hand through his own disheveled hair. “Winning in sports isn’t everything, Murph, which should be a relief to you since you seldom do.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm and fell into stride beside Pete as the two headed for the street. “Trust me, I know. Seems I can whip almost anybody with a ball in my hand, but give me a chessboard, and suddenly I look like you on the court.” He slapped his friend on the back. “Downright pathetic.”

“Mr. O’Connor?”

Sean spun on his heel, clipboard dangling in his hand. A pretty woman stood before him with a tentative smile, slender hands resting on the shoulders of none other than Bobby Dalton.

“Hi, Coach, this is my mother—she wanted to meet both you and Mr. Murphy.”

Sean extended a hand with a warm smile. “It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Dalton,” he said, his gaze shifting from her to Bobby and back. “Both Pete and I think Bobby’s a real bright spot on the team. The other guys love him, and he’s got a pretty mean swing with the bat.”

“Most of the time,” Bobby muttered with a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, most of the time.” Sean tousled Bobby’s dark hair.

“It’s good to meet you too, Mr. O’Connor,” Mrs. Dalton said. “Bobby can’t seem to talk about anything else but how much fun he’s having and what a great team you have. He told me you’re—” A faint blush stole into her cheeks as she shot a quick glance at Pete. “Well, both of you, actually—are wonderful coaches.”

“Number one in the parish league,” Pete said with a proud roll of his heels. He offered his hand, and Mrs. Dalton shook it. “I’m Sean’s assistant, Pete Murphy.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Murphy. I can assure you, Bobby speaks highly of both of you.” Her eyes returned to Sean, appreciation glinting in their depths. “Especially you, Mr. O’ Connor, because of all the extra help you’ve given him with his batting. His father passed away two years ago, you see, but he loved working with Bobby on his swing, so you’ve definitely helped to fill that void.”

Heat lined the collar of Sean’s rolled-up shirt at the compliment, but he just smiled, fingering the clipboard in his hand. “Well, he’s a natural, Mrs. Dalton, and a great kid. You’ve done a wonderful job.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Connor,” she said with a shy smile.

“Call me Sean, please.”

She nodded and patted her son on the shoulders, her smile suddenly warmer than the summer night. “Sean,” she said softly, as if tasting the sound of his name on her tongue.

His stomach tightened at the sudden tilt of her head and the faint blush in her cheeks.

“Yes, and call me Barbara, please . . .
Sean
. Well, we’ve kept you far too long, I think. But we’ll see you on Monday at five-thirty sharp. Goodbye.”

“See ya, Coach,” Bobby said as she steered him away, both mother and son shooting friendly smiles over their shoulders.

Pete let loose with a low chuckle.

“What?” Sean asked, turning away with a thin press of his lips. He slapped the clipboard under his arm and kept walking, irritated at the insinuation in Pete’s tone.

“
What?
” Pete mimicked. He laughed outright, matching Sean’s long-legged stride down a sidewalk emblazoned with chalk hopscotch squares. “Are you blind? Anybody can see that the widow’s interested.” He shifted the bag on his shoulder and grinned. “You may ride roughshod over me in sports, O’Connor, but when it comes to steering clear of potential matrimony, you can’t seem to win to save your soul.”

A rare scowl invaded Sean’s face. He sidestepped a kid on a bike and gave Murph a sideways glance. “What are ya talking about? The woman was interested in meeting the guys who coach her son, nothing more.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go along with that, but something tells me you have another sticky situation looming on your horizon, my boy. Just like with Howie Devlin’s older sister and then Ricky Klaus’s unmarried aunt and then Fred Langston’s maiden cousin, twice removed—all women who sniffed you out till you ignored them to death—”

Sean halted and turned. He folded his arms with a tight smile. “So, what’s your point?”

Pete grinned and dropped the bag to the sidewalk with a grunt. “My point is, you may say you’re a confirmed bachelor, but nothing’s more irresistible to unmarried females than a nice single guy who plays hard to get.”

A noisy exhale puffed from Sean’s lips and he shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re really something, you know that, Pete? I am not playing hard to get—I
am
hard to get, period. I’m a nice guy who has no intention whatsoever of getting involved with a woman.” He flicked a clod of dirt off Pete’s shoulder. “Because unlike you and the guys, my friend, I’m strong enough to resist.”

“Nope. ‘Strong’ is what me, Harv, and Adam are—guys who have no intention of tying the knot while we revel in the wealth of women who cross our paths. That takes true dedication to avoid being snared. You? You’re nothing but a chicken who avoids women like the plague, and all because you’re scared spitless one of ’em’s gonna rein you in.” Pete paused to hike the bag over his shoulder, halting Sean with a cocky grin and a hand to his arm. “Now you tell me—who’s ‘stronger’ and has more guts?” He jiggled his brows. “Not to mention fun?”

Sean started walking again, and Pete strode alongside. “Face it, Sean, you’re a good-looking guy, but what a waste. If me and the guys had as many gals after us as you do, we’d be in bachelor heaven. But you—you’re so busy avoiding ’em, you miss out on the best part of being single—the affections of women.”

Sean shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled, stomach rumbling at the smell of grilled burgers at the pub they just passed. “I enjoy my life just fine, Murph.”

Pete gave him a sideways glance. “Yeah? When’s the last time you really kissed a gal?”

Heat steamed his cheeks as he picked up the pace. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Plenty. I tell ya, you’re missing out, O’Connor, and I for one think you’re crazy. Why don’t you just be a man about it and get out there and mingle a little?” He eyed him with a taunting grin. “Who knows? It might help avoid another nasty mood like this afternoon. Or are you afraid some sweet little thing is gonna pitch a fast one that’ll leave you tied to home plate?”

Challenge rose up in Sean as they passed Tucker’s Bakery, as palpable as the smell of fresh bread that watered his mouth. “A woman hasn’t been born who can tie me to home plate, Murph.”

Pete laughed and slapped him on the back, then shifted the bag to his other shoulder with another grunt. “Oh, she’s been born, my friend, and you can bet on that.” He cocked his head. “If you’re brave enough to get in the game, that is.” He hesitated, his grin raising the bar. “Unless you’re afraid of losing? You know, a knuckle ball that throws you a curve? I’ll bet you wouldn’t even see it coming.”

A wide grin slid across Sean’s face as he wrested the bag from Pete’s shoulder and tossed it over his own. “Oh, I’d see it coming, all right, and I’ll knock it out of the park, make no mistake. And you and the boys can set your watches by that.”

Pete laughed. “Maybe.” He slapped Sean on the shoulder as they parted ways at the corner. “If some little gal doesn’t fix your clock first. Either way,” he said with a grin that was more of a dare, “gotta feeling that one of these days soon, you’re gonna run out of time.”

Home, sweet home.
Emma turned the key in the lock and eased her apartment door open, quite certain she had never been this tired. Between a grueling week at work, evenings helping Marcy and her girls prepare for the wedding, and a wonderfully full but exhausting day, Emma was spent. She closed the door and flipped the bolt, slipping her pink Mary Jane pumps off her feet with one hand while she clutched Katie’s bouquet with the other. The shoes dropped against the claw foot of her Victorian desk with a thump, and Emma felt a niggle of guilt. They splayed haphazardly across the polished mahogany floor, the only sign of disarray in her otherwise meticulous apartment.

Too tired to care, she breathed in the calming scent of Katie’s roses and flipped the switch on her electric fan before perching on the edge of her curved mahogany sofa to shed her silk stockings. Blessed relief feathered her face as she put her feet up and sank into the plush velvet upholstery, its rich color the exact shade of claret. She tucked a pretty paisley pillow behind her head and burrowed in to stretch her aching limbs, soaking in the vibrancy of her colorful parlor. Awash in sunlight that only deepened its vivid hues, it almost seemed alive with energy, helping to chase her fatigue away.

Contentment seeped into her bones as she scanned the room for her kitties. A backward peek confirmed their favorite nooks in the tall, cherrywood bookcase were empty, leaving a conspicuous hole among shelves brimming with rich, leather-bound books. Her gaze roamed past twin striped wingback chairs that flanked two towering windows, each affording a pretty view of Mrs. Peep’s front yard. White sheers fluttered against a massive fern atop a walnut piecrust table, providing the perfect jungle cover for a nine-year-old tabby who fancied himself a tiger stalking moths on the screen. But empty marble sills framed by burgundy swag curtains meant that Lancelot and Guinevere were most likely still napping on Emma’s bed, as tired as she.