Lost (Captive Heart #1) (6 page)

N
othing like football to
make a player feel the biggest and best high you could ever imagine.

When I step out onto that field I feel invincible. The world is my oyster, my playground and every other metaphor you could use.

There is nothing that makes a man feel like a God more than forty thousand people chanting your name.

This is it, my last home game at UConn. The last time I’ll walk onto this field with my brothers, my teammates. The last time this game will be played for pure fun and love of the game. In a couple of months, I’ll be off to the NFL, hopefully drafted in the first round. ESPN’s been predicting I go first or second … they say I’m one of the best wide receivers this game has ever seen.

Damn right I am.

Heisman finalist, NCAA record shatterer and two-time conference champion. I’ve led the entire Division I league in receiving yards this year and scored the most touchdowns of any UConn player in a single season in the history of the school.

Today is just a consolation game, a wrap-up to the season since we didn’t make any bowl games this year. I don’t mind though, go out on an easy finale, pick up and train hard for the combine and the draft.

We’re already ten minutes into the first quarter and I’ve scored one touchdown. Let’s see if I can’t tack on a few more to solidify my record.

My quarterback waves me over, yells a route in my face, and then the huddle breaks. I take my spot on the right side of the field, my runners stance ready and waiting for the QB’s call like it’s a gun shooting off at the beginning of a race.

Once I hear the count-off and call, I book it. I skirt my defender easily; this guy is a total amateur. Above me, the crowd starts screaming louder, chanting, “Lynch, Lynch, Lynch!”

The turf beneath my cleats feels more familiar than my own feet do. The day is overcast, so there is no sun in my eyes or shadows on the field. Perfect. This day, this game, the end of this season. All perfect.

I cut left and turn my head, looking over my shoulder to see where I need to be to catch the ball.

But then I hear a crack and a loud snap, and all of a sudden I’m tumbling to the ground, rolling over and over myself until I land face first with a mouthful of rubber pellets.

I’m disoriented and confused. I’ve never fallen like that before. I’ve been tackled or pulled down, but to trip over my own highly-coordinated two feet? That’s just embarrassing.

I shift to stand up, shake it off … and it’s then that the blinding hot pain shoots out from my knee and spreads throughout my entire body.

“AHHHH!” I can’t help the tortured scream that rips from my throat.

I bend my knee and grab it, which only makes everything worse. The pain is so bad that I can’t take a deep breath, my lungs and heart have stopped working there is so much agony going on in my left leg.

The team trainer stops short when he reaches me. “Lynch … what is it?”

“My … knee.” I can barely form words. It feels like someone is both burning and gutting me at the same time.

The trainer touches my kneecap, and I can hear the bones break apart and shift when his fingers probe them.

“FUCK! Stop!”

He can’t touch me again. I think I might pass out. The pain is growing larger by the second.

I turn my head to see my teammates kneeling just yards away, tears coming out of some of their eyes. Are they crying? For me?

The last thing I see before the pain takes over and the world fades to black is my father, running towards me, a mix of fear and anger clouding his features.

He’s going to hate me for this.

“
A
career ending injury
. Do you know that’s what the doctors actually called it?”

Char hasn’t taken her eyes off of me since I started talking. I don’t even think she’s blinked. Not that I can tell what she’s thinking. I never could. Now that I think of it, it’s probably not fair that she’s always had that upper hand on me.

“Unrepairable. They could get me back to the point where my knee could function and walk properly, but my range of motion fell below seventy percent. Imagine that, huh? Waking up from surgery to be told that you’ll never be able to run normally again. That the dream you’ve had since you were nine-years-old is over. That your future is done.”

I pound my fist into the wood of the bunk I’m sitting on. “Never a major injury. Not one. Sure I had pulls and the occasional broken finger, but nothing I couldn’t play through. And then BAM. One misstep and I lost my entire career.”

I bite down the bile and anger threatening to explode from within me.

“Why the drugs?” She won’t let this question go.

I sigh, feeling some sort of cursed relief at actually talking to someone about this. “At first it was the pain meds. My broken knee and ACL tear were pure agony. I popped Vicodin like it was candy. That went on for about six months before the doctors stopped prescribing them. So I turned to regular old weed for a month, but that wasn’t helping at all. An ex-teammate found a way for me to score cocaine. But that left me too hyped up and anxious. I wanted to feel depressed and numb. So, I had a dealer at the time who suggested heroin.”

I don’t tell her that the first time I decided to inject myself, my hands shook the entire time. That I was so far down the rabbit hole of depression that I couldn’t see the light anymore. That that first high felt better than anything had in my entire life.

Char is looking down at her hands, and I know for once she can’t think of the right thing to say.

“Do you know why I really did it? Because of him.”

Her head snaps up, and her chocolaty eyes lock onto mine. “Your father.”

I nod. “He didn’t speak to me for months after the injury. Blamed it on me. Told me, through mom of course, that I was a failure and he’d never thought I was a good enough player to make it anyway.”

I shake my head, lost in my own thoughts. “I worked like a racehorse for that man. I bled and fought. Nothing ever made him happy.”

I look up to see the beautiful woman across from me with pity in her eyes. That snaps me out of story time.

“You know what … never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

I leave before she can say anything else. I leave before I let someone in further than I already have.

* * *

I
could ransom her
.

The thought comes to my mind and cements itself there as I look out the window of my cabin, over in the direction of hers.

Her parents would pay for her safe return, wouldn’t they?

I see a flicker of movement from her cabin, and I know she must be pacing the same way I am. I could ransom her, ask for money and a clean getaway somehow and then leave her here, unharmed. The Morsey’s aren’t stupid people, if I said no cops, they probably wouldn’t get them involved.

I could ask for thousands of dollars. I know they have it. And Char would be free to go, leave me the car and I could get out of here, escape to Canada or Mexico or something.

But how would I do it? Even with a blocked number, they’d trace any call made right back to Camp Marsh. Mail would take too long and God, who communicated like that anymore? It’s not like we had cellphones anymore, and I couldn’t just go out and buy a pre-paid burner. There were surely people out looking for us now.

But it was a plan, at least. One that could get us both out of this situation.

I stomped over to her cabin.

“Your parents … would they pay a ransom?”

I didn’t mean to storm over here and blurt it all out, but my detoxing brain doesn’t let me have a say in the matter.

Char laughs. Like
really
laughs. Genuine, rolling belly laughs.

“Oh God, Tucker. Are you serious? There is no way that will work!”

I feel defensive and furious now, with her sitting there laughing at me.

“Shut up!” I slam my fist into the side of one of the bunks and Char goes quiet as a church mouse. Now I’ve got her attention.

“They’re not going to give you anything.” She talks to the hands folded in her lap.

“I know it’s not the best plan, but it gets us both out of this. So why the hell not?”

Char looks at me, her brown eyes holding back tears. “I haven’t spoken to my parents in more than a year. So they’re not riding in to save me from a deranged lunatic. They probably will think it’s all a big joke. You couldn’t pull it off anyway.”

Huh? I mean, I knew Char’s home life wasn’t amazing, but it seems strange that she hasn’t talked to her parents in over a year. But she’s right, this idea is stupid at best. Fucking tragic fail at worst. It was bound to end up with me dead or imprisoned at the end of it.

I abandon the notion and go back to my cabin, not caring if she’s quietly weeping into her hands.

T
he first week
passes and no one comes to get me. And then another passes, and still, no one comes. It’s just me and Tucker, out in the woods. Alone.

We haven’t said much since that night he talked about his injury. A passing statement, a check-in, an invitation to take part in whatever meal the other was making.

I find more clothing, not any that fits me but some that will do so I don’t have to try and wash them every single day. I found the laundry room though, which is nice so we won’t have to be dirty as criminals on the run, which technically is only one of us.

The toughest part of being “trapped” here, besides the awkward past with Tucker I am trying not to fake, is showering. Each cabin has a shower, which is nice enough not to have to go to a main bathhouse like the camp used to have back in the day. The problem is, old Pocono Mountain pipes in October don’t carry scalding hot water. They don’t even carry lukewarm water.

I remember the first day I stepped in the shower, intent on washing all of the dirt and sadness off of my body, and screamed like a hyena. Tucker had come running in, yelling my name, and had almost opened up the bathroom door before I stopped him.

“It’s just the water temperature,” I’d said, “I’m really fine!”

He’d probably thought I was being murdered instead of having liquid ice pelted at my naked skin by the way I’d screamed.

I keep my distance and Tucker doesn’t seem all that interested in approaching me. There is still no plan, and I still have no real desire to escape. It sounds crazy, fucking nuts, but I simply have nothing to get back
to
. The only person I’ve ever truly loved is here, and while I know it is under the most dire of circumstances, and that I would never allow him close to me again … I can’t help it. I am a moth drawn to the flame.

The moonlight filters in through the window of cabin three and I hear a wolf or another creature howl somewhere far in the distance. I’ve taken to sleeping on the floor, on top of a stack of the flimsy, thin mattresses with my sleeping bag thrown over me. It’s not half-bad.

And like all nights, I lie awake wondering what Tucker is doing over there. What he’s feeling, what he’s thinking.

I remember the day he got hurt. I was watching on TV, just like I always did, while I studied in my dorm room at Bryn Mawr. It’s not like I had anywhere else to be on a Saturday afternoon. My stigma had followed me to college. Aside from my serious boyfriend, whom I’d met sophomore year, I had no real friends. Clark and my academics, those were my world. And Saturdays with Tucker. Not that Clark knew anything about that.

I remember when he went down, the way it looked so horrible on television. I remember biting my lip so hard when I screamed that it bled for ten minutes. I remember sitting directly in front of the screen, crying for him. Because even I could tell it was all over. I remember cancelling plans with Clark that night, too depressed to go anywhere and paste a smile on. I’d told him I had a virus.

It was such a shame. That he’d felt that his whole life was over at that moment.

He’d tried to kiss my forehead the other day. No he
had
kissed it. Why the hell did he have to do that?

I don’t even think he knew the power he had over me. Back in the day, he could have looked at me and motioned with this finger and I would have come crawling. I did do that. Over and over again. So desperate for him to love me back.

* * *

F
ootsteps on gravel
have me jarring awake, my surroundings confusing me for the first second until I remember where I am. I move to the window of the cabin, catching the motion of a person as they run by.

Wait. Not a person. The only person. Tucker.

And he’s … running.

Over the last two weeks, although we haven’t really spoken to each other, I have noticed his complexion getting better. His cheeks filling out as he wolfs down more and more food. His body getting stronger. Yeah, I’ve definitely noticed that.

But this is the first time I’ve seen him do any kind of physical activity. As I watch him wind his way through the paths around Camp Marsh, his wild brown curls jumping and swaying with each movement, it’s clear that this is also
his
first time getting back into any kind of physical activity.

He looks disjointed; the athlete I once knew has all but left his body. Sure, he still has the stature and the muscle definition, but he doesn’t cut through the air anymore, he doesn’t move with beautiful but strong grace. His body isn’t cooperating, his arms moving out of sync with his legs.

And his knee. I can tell its lagging behind, that left leg dragging just a little too long on each stride.

But at least Tucker is trying. My chest swells with emotion, as I’m sure this is the first time he’s tried at anything in years.

I shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t even go outside, but of course my stupid, proud heart doesn’t listen to a damn thing my head is screaming at it.

I venture out onto the porch of the cabin, standing and squinting at the bright morning rays reflecting off the lake. Tucker is just rounding the path back towards the mess hall, and I know he can see me now.

“You look great!” I wave like an incessant child. Jesus, I’m already embarrassing myself.

Tucker stops short, the sweats he found fitting his body in all of the right places. Way better than the ones I found look on me. His midnight-black eyes are sparkling, there is a glow to his olive skin. I can make out the brawny, built muscles coming back to his figure. It’s a wonder I don’t melt into a puddle of idiotic goop on the porch.

“I feel great. A little slow, but good. How did you … uh, sleep?”

I think he’s doing that trying thing again. “Great, actually. It’s so quiet out here. Not that it’s not quiet in Lancaster but you know—“

The sound of an engine cuts through all of that silence I was just blabbing on about.

In less than a second, Tucker is on me, his hand covering my mouth so tight I can barely breathe as he backs us up into cabin three. He maneuvers my body, shoving me hard against the back wall while his hand stays clamped on my mouth.

“Make a sound and I will knock you out.”

His voice is deadly and my heart plummets to my feet. Not only does he not trust me, but this just cements into my head why I’m actually here with him.

He’s taken me against my will. He’s not flirting, he’s not pursing anything with me. I am a victim. He is the bad guy.

I can feel my blood pressure rising, feel the fury creep its way up my throat.

After the sounds of the boat die down, Tucker waits an extra five minutes to finally remove his hand from over my lips.

“Jesus fuck, I am such a goddamn idiot!” I stomp across the cabin, furious at myself for reverting back to the way I acted when I was seventeen years old.

Tucker looks confused. “What the hell?”

“Here I am, falling into the same old traps. Tucker Traps. That should be your invention or something because God, you’re so good at it. You get everyone to play into your little charades. You’ve got me practically supporting and encouraging you, eating out of your goddamn hand just like I used to. But that was before you FUCKING KIDNAPPED ME!”

“Hey, now come on, I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.”

“I don’t care if your head was in outer space, you took me from my job at gunpoint, threatened to kill me, and are now holding me hostage. And silly little Charlotte, here she is acting like she’s on vacation! You probably think you’ve got me right where you want me, huh? Not this time!”

I stomp out of the cabin, or at least I try to. Tucker grabs my arm, swinging me back around to face him again before he pins me to another wall.

“I haven’t said it yet, but I’m saying it now. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I dragged you into this mess, Charlotte. It’s eating me up inside that it was you in that bank. That I could have gone so far as to hurt you. You know me, you know the real me, the sane me, would have never done that.”

I don’t look him in the face, instead turning my head like some insolent child. He doesn’t try to make me look into his eyes, just keeps going.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about with this whole manipulation business. The only thing I’ve asked is that you don’t leave, and you know why you can’t. I haven’t made you do or say anything besides that. I’ve never trapped you or played you, or whatever you’re going on about.”

I can’t stand to listen to him downplay it any longer. “Oh no? You don’t remember why we stopped talking all those years ago?”

Tucker’s face looks completely blank for a moment, and then his cheeks redden and he has the decency to look ashamed. “Char, I—”

“Yeah. So don’t fucking lie to me and say you never played me.”