Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (7 page)

“Oh, Mike.”

“Yeah.” His voice shook at the memory of his sister lying unconscious on her kitchen floor, bruised, bleeding, looking as if she were dead already.

“Is she okay?”

“Other than permanent back problems, I think so.” He forced fisted hands beneath the picnic table. “I wanted to pound the guy. If he’d been there—” Mike breathed deeply. Closed his eyes. Later he’d been shaken by the insanity of what he’d longed to do.

Sometimes that still shook him.

Meg lowered her eyes to her yogurt and pushed it around with her spoon. Sorrow covered her features.

He gave her a minute. The news was a downer, but he’d had time to deal with it, time to celebrate Doug’s prison sentence, time to make sure his sister was back on her feet. Betsy was stronger than anyone had expected.

“Please tell me you have better news about Linda.”

“I do. She’s in San Diego, and she and Chris are grandparents. My niece Heather had a baby girl in January, so I’m a great uncle. And at such a young age.” He pointed his spoon at her, willing her to smile. “My new purpose in life is to live long enough to be a great-great-great uncle.”

“I thought it was grand uncle. Great-great grand uncle.”

“Whatever. It’s a goal.”

Meg smiled into her yogurt.

Score one for him.

When she lifted her head, he looked away at Terrell, who swung from the monkey bars. Strong kid. “I haven’t told my parents about Terrell yet.”

Meg went still.

Evidently she’d not thought about his parents’ reaction to a birth announcement six years late.

Her voice trembled. “When will you tell them?”

“I don’t know. When we’re ready to face them.” What would his parents say? Finding out about Terrell would revive all their anger over his affair and divorce.

What would they say to Meg?

“I’m sorry, Mike. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

No joke. “It’s in the past, Meg.”

She stared beyond him.

He shifted in his seat. He’d been gracious there. Super gracious—which she did
not
deserve. Had she heard him? Was she listening? “You ever think about us getting back together?”

Her gaze shifted to his.

Guess she was listening. He inhaled before taking the plunge. “I was serious when I said I’ve missed you.”

“I take it there’s no one else in the picture—no, wait, that wouldn’t follow the pattern, would it?”

Her words smacked him in the chest.

She sighed and plopped her cup onto the table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s fine.” Not really, but…

She withdrew again, her gaze lingering on the street as if some deep thought were revealed there.

She needed to listen.

“The girl—Brooke—you know, the one I was with…” He waved his hand in the air, filling in the ugly blanks. At least he hadn’t been a wife beater. “We weren’t together long—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Meg, I’m trying to—”

“Mike. Like you said, it’s in the past.”

Head lowered, she attacked her yogurt, stabbing and slicing. A small glob flew from her cup and landed on his wrist. “Sorry,” she said again.

He shrugged and wiped it off. What would make her listen—and consider his words? He whacked his plastic spoon against the table top, the spoon making a thwacking noise.

Meg looked pointedly at him.

He quit, and she returned to her yogurt.

“I’ve been doing well,” she told the pink slush. “I’ve got my own business. I work my own hours. I’m not rolling in money, but I make a good living. And I’m happy.”

That last one sounded like an afterthought. Mike reached for her hand, his fingertips skimming her nails as she pulled away. “Are you?”

Her hand fluttered to her hair, pulling strands over her shoulder in a familiar gesture he’d forgotten. “It’s late,” she said. “Terrell needs a bath.” She fumbled for her purse, knocking it beneath the picnic table.

Mike snagged it before she could. “We were good together, Meg. Now we’ve got Terrell. We can’t just quit.”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I didn’t quit.”

“Let’s go out then, you and me.”

She leaned for her purse, but he pulled it out of reach. She huffed at him, hands fisted. “Why would I do that, Mike?”

Never had words hurt so much. “Have you forgotten how much fun we had?”

“No,
you
had that problem.”

He ground his teeth into a closed-mouth smile. In case she’d forgotten… “Neither one of us was perfect.”

Her eyes flashed. “
I
wasn’t the one who had an affair!”

“So it’s all my fault we got divorced?”

Meg picked up her cup, half-full of strawberry yogurt, and hurled it at him.

Her yogurt landed with a slosh on his chest. Mike leaped from the table, stunned by the sudden cold.

The cup fell to the ground but not before most of the yogurt, a freezing mush, spilled across his shirt and soaked through the cotton fabric and T-shirt underneath. He bent at the waist, trying to shake off the cold mess sliding down his skin.

“Say goodbye to your father, Terrell.”

Where was she going? Mike straightened to see Meg tugging a forlorn Terrell toward the sidewalk. The icy cloth burned his skin again, and he jerked the shirt from his stomach. “Meg!”

They disappeared past a house.

Her yogurt cup lay upside down on the grass. Gritting his teeth, Mike smashed it with his foot and ground it into the dirt.

Pink squirted up around the sides of his shoes.

“Perfect,” he snarled. He snatched the flattened paper cup and hurled it into a trash can. The remainder of his sundae joined it.

Nice of Meg to throw the blame on him. Literally. He swiped a layer of pink off his shirt. So much for tonight. He shook his hand until most of the yogurt fell to the ground, then flexed his fingers, the yogurt sticky on his skin.

He stormed for his Range Rover, then backtracked to wipe his hands in a thick patch of grass. His jeans would have to do for the rest. He yanked his front pocket linings inside out and rubbed them between his fingers until his skin felt cleaner.

What now? He jerked open the driver’s door and climbed in.

No way was he going home yet. He drummed his fingers—his cleanish fingers—on the steering wheel. If he could get her to laugh, she’d thaw a little.

Thaw.
Nice choice of words. He started his car, his mind racing.

By the time Mike parked in her driveway, night had chased the last bits of dusk away. Warmth had vanished, as well. At Meg’s front door, he hunched his shoulders, only to feel the sticky, half-frozen yogurt cling to his chest.

Remember
, he reminded himself,
humor. Smile. Make her laugh
. He pushed the doorbell and rested his hand high on the door frame while he waited for her to answer.

The foyer window remained dark. He tilted his head to listen for footsteps, but none sounded. He pushed the doorbell again. Waited some more. No sound. No light. Nothing—

Lights flicked on.

Mike plastered on a smile.

The door opened, and Meg stood silent, welcoming light reflecting off the wood and walls behind her. He waited for her to say something—hello would be fine—but she didn’t.

He raised his eyebrows. “That was cold, Meg.”

She’d never been able to stay hurt. One joke, and a smile, however faint, would force its way onto her face. He watched for that hint of amusement, for anything that would tell him he was forgiven.

Instead she remained unmoved, her face empty.

Not good. Tears would have been better than this.

“Where’s Terrell?” he asked.

“In the tub. Do you need something?”

“A washcloth, perhaps?” He motioned to his shirt.

She stared him down, arms crossed.

“You’re right,” he said. “We need to talk. May I come in?”

“No. But you can leave.”

“How about you talk, and I’ll listen. You can get things off your chest while I get this stuff off mine.”

“I have nothing to say.”

She moved to close the door, but Mike caught the edge and held it open. “It’s a good thing I didn’t take you out for coffee,” he joked.

“Go away, Mike.”

Go away?
He dropped his hand from the door.

“I’m tired,” she said, “and I don’t—I don’t want to argue. Can we just—” She looked away. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

She moved the door, and, numbed by her words, he let it go.

The door clicked shut and the locks turned. The foyer window darkened.

Go away.

Had she just told him to get lost? He stared at the carved door shut in his face. She’d better not if she wanted to keep Terrell. He raised a fist, ready to order her to open up, but Terrell’s face, marred by fear, stopped him. He lowered his hand. He couldn’t do that to Terrell. He’d already done enough.

Tonight, just tonight, he’d leave.

He glanced at her house before climbing into his Range Rover.

The Meg he remembered had not been home tonight. But if he was patient, maybe in time she’d make an appearance. Then he’d get that elusive second chance that haunted him.

Mike backed out of her driveway, spirits rising. She’d have a couple weeks to cool off before he returned. And when he did, he’d have a plan.

Next time everything would be different.

“What are you watching?”

Ben stiffened at Dana’s soft voice hovering above the recliner. Her arms circled his neck, and he held himself still instead of pushing her away. “Baseball reruns,” he said.

“I thought it looked old.” She slid onto the arm of the chair, blocking the light. “Do people really watch these games?”

“There’s a whole channel for it.” He should tell her to go away. The last thing he wanted was her asking lots of questions—and then feeling sorry for him.

“Who’s playing?”

“Boston, Oakland.” The teams had gone into the final game of the year tied for the last playoff spot. The winner of the game had moved on to the post season. The loser had gone home.

“What’s the score?”

It was right there in the corner, for Pete’s sake. “Four to three, Boston.” He added more to keep her quiet. “Two on, no outs, bottom of the ninth, Oakland’s batting.”

If she couldn’t find the score, maybe she wouldn’t notice who was pitching.

“Is that
you
?”

Ben closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you played in the major leagues?”

“Watch,” he growled.

Dana’s body turned rigid, but at least she was silent.

Ben covered his mouth with a fist, watching himself—eleven years younger and thirty pounds lighter—nod at Reddick’s pitch choice. What had it been, a fastball?

The Oakland batter swung late.

Yep, fastball.

His best pitch. On rare days, almost a hundred miles an hour.

The picture changed to Reddick signaling slider.

That call still made no sense. Ben’s slider had been unreliable that last month. The whole pitching staff knew it, Reddick included.

Shake him off.

Instead Ben watched himself check the runners on first and third. He started his windup, the runner on first going a moment before the ball left Ben’s hand for home plate.

“Miss,” he hissed into his fist.

But the Oakland batter connected with Ben’s pitch, the ball zipping by the first baseman. The runner on third trotted home.

Tie game.

Dana sucked in a breath.

The third base coach waved the oncoming runner home. The camera flipped to the right fielder scooping up the ball.

The television picture faded, and Ben watched the play from where he’d backed up Reddick behind home plate. He saw umpire Edwin Byrd move into position, felt the cool air swirling around him, followed the ball sailing in from the outfield as the thunder grew from the Oakland crowd, all standing, all watching the ball in flight. And then the ball disappeared into Reddick’s glove. The slide, the tag, the dust—all at once. So close—

Byrd’s arms stretched horizontally, and Reddick, already on his knees, fell backward, glove over his face. Oakland players streamed from the dugout, and in the corner of the TV, behind the mad pile of men celebrating their success, Ben watched himself, the losing pitcher, lunge at Byrd.

“Oh, Ben—”

He slammed his fist against the armrest. He should have shook Reddick off. The idiot couldn’t call a decent game. And Byrd?

Ben shot out of the chair and down the hall, ignoring Dana’s voice. He kept going until the hallway ended, then, at a loss, veered into his office and slammed the door behind him. An autographed Greg Maddux photo fell to the carpet, but tonight he didn’t care. He dropped into his desk chair and stared at the blackness of his computer screen.

This was where he’d ended up, eleven years later. A has-been.

No, a never-was. One of those pitchers that drove a team’s fans mad.

He turned on his computer, forcing open his clenched fist. What now?

Margo.

Ben rolled his eyes. Not again. He yanked open a file drawer and pulled out the green binder. He spread it open on the desk, but tonight the contents did not console him. Instead the longer he sat there, his failure consuming him, the more appealing calling Margo seemed. Forget the risk.

Maybe Margo could help him forget his last pitch in the majors.

Mike’s words disturbed Meg’s sleep.

I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.

Do you wonder if we were too quick?

I’ve spent years wishing—

She kicked the comforter to the foot of her bed. Her clock read 1:30, and she glared at it. “He’s too late,” she told it. “Years too late.”

Why couldn’t he have said those things when they mattered?

Like after that eleven-day road trip?

Meg flopped onto her back and tried to sleep, but her eyes refused to close. She stared at the ceiling, reliving those lonely days after Mike dropped the Brooke bomb and left to play baseball.

On the night he was to return, Meg had gone to bed early, knowing that when she woke sometime in the day’s first hours Mike would be there, back from Kansas City. She needed to be rested and alert in case he was ready to talk.