Over the Middle: A Sports Romance (21 page)

Mom, who sips at her iced tea, hums. "A family? That would be nice some day. I've sometimes thought about little grandchildren running around that I can dote on."

"Actually Mom, it's going to be sooner than you think," I say. “We didn’t want to throw everything at you at once. We wanted to save this for a time when you could absorb it, and maybe celebrate, but I'm . . . well, we're going to have a baby."

Dad drops his bottle of Dos Equis, which explodes on the tile floor of the restaurant. The waiter rushes over with a towel and offers to get him a new drink, but he waves him off. "Tea, please. I—I think I've had enough alcohol."

The waiter leaves, and Dad turns to Duncan, his eyes burning with intensity. "One question. Did you know about this
before
you asked Carrie to marry you?"

Duncan and I exchange looks, and he chuckles. "In a remarkable coincidence, Mr. Mittel, I bought the ring and was taking Carrie to dinner to propose when she told me."

Dad considers it, then nods. "Vince. Duncan, my name is Vince."

Dad stands up and comes around the table next to me. I stand, and moments later, we're hugging, before Mom and Duncan join us for a group hug. I'm in the middle of the three people whom I love the most in the world, and it's the best feeling in the world.

"
H
appy anniversary
, bro."

"Thanks," I say, clinking glasses of tea with Troy. "Thanks for having me and Carrie over for the barbecue."

Troy laughs as we sit on the back porch of his house. The late spring sun is low in the horizon, and we're both relaxing after a good day of off-season conditioning. The humidity is tough on me. Carrie and I have only been back in Jacksonville a week since her graduation, and after the California dryness, it takes a while. "Duncan, you live two blocks away. You, me and Carrie carpooled to work half the time last season. I think having you over the day after your first wedding anniversary is hardly out of the question."

"Still," I say, leaning back. "It was nice of you and Whit to cut your time in Silver Lake Falls short in order to come back here."

"Well, after Patricia's news, this summer's going to be pretty hectic. I thought you and I might just get our heads in the right zone before everything goes nuts. I mean, we've already had Carrie's graduation and your anniversary. Then what, you two go off on your honeymoon, and Cory and Patricia's wedding—all of this before training camp, by the way."

I smile and nod, sipping the tea. It's good, and Troy insists on the best quality. He doesn't knock me for the occasional beer, but since he's dry as a bone, I don't drink at all around him. It just isn't right to treat your friend that way. "Yeah, that's gotta be a brain buster, your new father-in-law being your high school teammate. We'll all be busy, though. But you stayed in good shape up there in Washington. At least, Carrie said so."

"Your wife is a taskmaster in the weight room." Troy laughs. "It's weird to be intimidated by a woman who's pushing you to work harder when she just had a baby six months ago. By the way, Whit's a bit jealous at how quickly Carrie bounced back to her pre-baby weight."

I snort. "Oh, like she has anything to worry about. I see the way you look at her. You need to be careful, or else you're going to be having child number three soon enough."

"That'd be nice," Troy says, and he means it, I can tell. "One kid for each bedroom . . . it'd be nice. Kind of completes the house.”

"It would, wouldn't it?"

We sit for a few more minutes, thinking our own thoughts. Carrie and Whitney are out. Whitney's got a line on some new artist she wants to work with, and Carrie's taking our daughter, Cammy, in for a checkup, giving Troy and I some guy time before we start the grill. Even Laurie and Travis are gone, off with their mother for a little while.

"So are you looking forward to next season?"

"Aren't you?" Troy asks with a grin. "We made the conference championship this year. I want to get back at Denver for that last-minute field goal. I missed the block by—man, I saw the tape a hundred times. I missed tipping that ball by less than an inch."

"I know. I keep going over that missed catch I had that led to the final punt. You know, the Pro Bowl and taking third in Rookie of the Year were nice, but I'd have liked that conference champion's ring, and of course, the Super Bowl.”

"It sounds strange to say it, but I think it'll happen," Troy says. "I mean, I know that every player says that, but with what we've got going here, the chances are good."

We hear two cars pull up out front, and Troy and I quickly finish our teas and get up, Troy opening up the grill and starting to scrub the grate while I go inside and get the steaks out of the fridge. The front door flies open, and Laurie comes tearing in, her little brother trying to keep up, but his soon to be two-year-old legs can't keep up with his sister, and Travis lags behind. "Hi, Duncan!" Laurie calls out as she streaks past, looking for her target. "Daddy!"

Troy puts down his grill brush and sweeps his daughter up and into a hug. She might be eight, but missing those five years, she still loves getting hugs and playing with her father, and Troy's a good one. Travis comes by, his little toddler legs working hard, and Troy sets Laurie down long enough to give his son a hug before going back to his work while they go off to play in the back yard.

The front door closes, and Whitney and Carrie come in, Cammy on Carrie's back in her sling and something between them. "What in the world did you get?"

"It's a landscape," Whitney says matter-of-factly, patting the huge brown paper-wrapped package. "The artist had it available, and I bought it for you guys."

"Whitney, you didn't need to," I say honestly. "I mean, you've got a great eye, and that piece in our living room is great, but . . . that thing's huge!"

"Oh, we'll find room for it after we get back from the Bahamas," Carrie says, coming over and giving me a kiss. "How are you doing?"

"I could use a rub-down," I tease, kissing her lips. "Even Troy was whining about what you put us through."

"Hey, thank Coach T. He helped me on the design. But we'll see what we can do, especially if you return the favor."

Carrie turns, and I see that Cammy's fallen asleep on her mother's back, a content little smile on her face. I kiss my daughter's mostly still-bald head, and whisper in her ear, "Daddy loves you, my angel."

"So how was her doctor's appointment?"

"We're both doing fine," Carrie says, exchanging looks with Whitney, who chuckles and nods. "In fact, Whitney and I have some news for both of you. Troy?"

Troy, who's started the gas grill, closes the lid and comes to the door while Laurie and Travis play outside in their play area. "Yes, Carrie?"

Whitney looks at Carrie again, and I can see they've been planning something, sharing a secret. "Well, we wanted to tell you together. The visit to Dr. Lee's—we kind of both asked her to check us out as well."

"Is everything okay?" Troy asks, and Whitney nods. She goes over and puts her arms around Troy's neck, standing on her tiptoes to give him a kiss.

"It's perfect. Actually, Troy, our summer just got a bit busier. Congratulations, Daddy. You have a third child on the way."

"No fu— no way!" I say, grinning. "You dog! Weren't we just talking about that?”

"Oh, don't celebrate too early," Carrie says, pulling me into a kiss. "Because Whitney's not the only one pregnant again."

Carrie's words hit my mind, and our kiss deepens, my heart swelling at her news. Troy coughs politely, and I realize that I'm cupping my wife's breast in the middle of his kitchen. "Sorry. Got carried away."

"Well, it's not like there's a problem with that." Whitney laughs. "Carrie and I both admitted we were feeling a bit strange while we were out, and so on a whim, we asked Dr. Lee to give us the tests."

I look at Troy, and he's just as happy as I am. "You know what this means, right, EC?"

EC is my personal nickname for Troy, since he keeps going on and on about
emotional content
. He's even got a t-shirt that he wears under his shoulder pads with that printed on it.

Troy looks back and nods. "Damn right. We're going to have to go all the way this year. Super Bowl champs."

I take Carrie's hand and kiss her knuckles. "With the right team around us, how can we fail?"

* * *

“
H
ey honey
, you wanna party with an APE?”

I rolled my eyes at the idiot standing in front of me, a young guy who looked like he was maybe nineteen and wearing a fraternity t-shirt. He was obviously approaching me as part of some sort of frat thing, although at least he had some taste. After all, he did have his choice of women to choose from—I don't go to a tiny school. “Are you doing this as a rush or something?”

The idiot's eyes wavered for a moment. He'd probably seen my paint-streaked clothes and mussed hair and correctly pegged me for an art student. Sadly enough, art students at my school have a bit of a reputation for being easy lays, and I guess he'd picked me out as an easy target. It took him a moment before he reassumed his false bravado.

“Come on, baby, you know APE's got the best parties and the best time for your weekend! Besides, you look like you could use a real APE, if you know what I mean.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at him, raising an eyebrow. This idiot certainly didn't know who I was, nor what I'd been through these past six months. Still, his grin didn't waver, and I pulled out an old nugget I'd picked up somewhere when I first came to campus. “You do realize that the average male gorilla has a penis size of only one and a half inches, right? Trust me, if I needed some dick, an APE's the last place I'd go looking. Run along, monkey boy.”

The frat pledge, looking defeated, turned and walked away, quickly reassuming his cocky persona to hit on the next girl who came by and caught his eye. Laughing a much needed laugh under my breath, I readjusted my bag over my shoulder and kept walking, leaving the campus library and heading toward my apartment. As I walked, I kept my eyes open for Vincent, hoping he'd gotten the message. After months of harassment, which had left me frazzled and at the end of my wits, I'd taken out a restraining order against him the week prior. I hoped it would end the creepiness I'd been through for most of the past five months, even if my family thought otherwise. Uncle Carlo wanted to send a message
his
way, but I'd convinced him to let the legal authorities take care of my former sculpture teacher.

Uncle Carlo is old school Italian. Sicilian, in fact, and yes, that means exactly what you think it means. Carlo was in the family business, the Mafia, and worked his way up the ladder to become the Godfather of the Seattle-Tacoma area for the past fifteen years. After taking over for his murdered brother—my father—he'd quickly consolidated power, ruthlessly crushing his opposition and enacting revenge for his fallen sibling. Bloodthirsty, and certainly not a man to be trifled with. That was Uncle Carlo.

At the same time, he was a kind and generous family man who'd taken my mother and me into his house as soon as he could, caring for us like we were his own wife and daughter. Cancer had taken his wife when I was in sixth grade, so for most of my life, Uncle Carlo had been the male authority figure and his sons had practically been my brothers. He and Mom were in no way romantic. In fact, she filled an important role in his organization as one of his prime lieutenants.

Still, if anyone could talk Uncle Carlo out of a course of action, it was me, and he let me try it my way at first.

I went to the cops after Vincent started harassing me, getting a restraining order and having it delivered to the school as well, which removed me from the class next door to his in order to conduct an 'internal investigation'. That hadn't stopped his communication issues, though, and I'd gotten tired of his constant text messages, emails, and phone calls. Unfortunately, he knew my campus email, and that was one address I couldn't get changed.

To say it was a bit disheartening was an understatement. You would think that a restraining order and evidence of sexual harassment would have done something more than just a change of classrooms and an 'internal investigation'.

I was wondering what to do about it when I got back to my off-campus apartment that I shared with Angela. Angela—never Angie—had been roomies with me for two years, after she'd passed Uncle Carlo's discreet but thorough background check. Short, Asian, and alternatively perky and serious, she was the total opposite of me as a math major. However, for some reason, the two of us gelled, and for two years, we'd been the best of roommates.

The first threads of worry started to work their way through me when I saw the open window to our apartment. Angela had terrible allergies and insisted on keeping the windows of our apartment shut, even in the dead of summer. With ionic air filters and other anti-allergen devices running almost constantly, we racked up quite an electricity bill on a monthly basis, but thankfully, Uncle Carlo had no problems with footing that cost, and the nearly sterile air did mean that when I painted at the apartment, I never had to worry about some stray cat hair or something screwing up a canvas. For Angela to leave the window open was just not possible.

Hurrying to our door, I quickly unlocked the deadbolt, pushing the door open. “Angela? You home?”

Leaden, oppressive silence greeted my words, and I waved my hand in front of my face. The apartment was hot, and a sour, metallic smell was coming from Angela's bedroom. Setting my bag down, I walked carefully toward the room, calling out the whole time. “Angela? Hey, Anj? You here? You would have laughed your ass off. I ran into a pledge from Alpha Rho—”

The words dried in my throat as I entered Angela's bedroom and saw the carnage in front of me. Angela, dressed in her normal early semester apartment wear of a tank top and a pair of Seahawks shorts, was lying facedown on her bed, the back of her shirt ripped and torn, her shorts pulled down to expose her ass to the air. More important to me, though, was the spreading red pool underneath her and the drip of the blood from her bed and off her outflung arm. The wall next to her was splattered, red raindrops against the eggshell white drywall.

I don't remember much of the next hour or so. Everything was a bit of a haze. I must have screamed, or perhaps I'd maintained enough presence of mind to call 9-1-1. I do know that there were bright lights, and eventually a cop, who led me into the living room, handing me tissue after tissue as I cried my eyes out. Later on, the same cop—I think—led me to an ambulance, but I wasn't sure why, except that they wanted me to go to the hospital.

It wasn't until I was at the hospital and got an injection from the doctor that I started to calm down—but in that detached, sort of loopy way that comes with some really decent drugs. I didn't really start to come to until that night, and I noticed that I was now in a room in the hospital. Everything was painted that sort of vomit-inducing color that looks like baby blue and mint green were mixed, and I was laying on one of those reclining beds. “Wha . . . What happened?”

“It's okay, Bella,” Uncle Carlo said from my left, his voice soft and concerned.
Bella
was a nickname he often called me. I looked at him and took a deep breath. Carlo was wearing his dark blue suit, one of his suits that I associated with him and work. He must have come straight from the office, where he worked in his day job as owner of Bertoli's Pizza, the largest independent pizza delivery company in the state of Washington. Carlo had even once gotten on television with Guy Fieri, if you can dig that. He had other businesses, including Bertoli Trucking, Sicily Dry Cleaning, and a few others he was a minority investor in, but his day job was at the pizza company.

“Uncle . . . oh, it was so horrible!” I said, my voice still sounding slightly separated from my body. I felt like a little girl again, telling him about the monster under my bed or something. “There was so much blood!”

“I know,” he replied, taking my hand in his. “I saw a little of the crime scene. The police didn’t tell me they had brought you here until after I arrived. Tell me exactly what you saw.”

I recounted my memory, starting with the APE and ending with my seeing Angela's body. It didn't take long. After all, until seeing the open window, everything had been a boring yet normal late summer day. I had just taken the last of my first sessions for the semester and had been looking forward to a good year. The only dark mark was Vincent Drake in the background, but I hadn't seen or heard from him at all that day.

I finished my recollection, waiting while Uncle Carlo sat back, nodding to himself. It’s one of the things that makes him good at what he does, in my opinion. Regardless of how much of a storm he might be feeling emotionally, when it came time to make a decision, he forced himself to step back, setting his feelings aside for the moment.

“There were things you didn’t see,” he finally said, sitting forward. “The police haven’t told me much, only what I was able to quickly see when I came to take you to the hospital, but I did overhear some things. Those fools never could keep their damn mouths shut.”

“What did I miss?” I asked, starting to tremble. “Was it bad?”

He nodded. “The killer is most likely Vincent Drake. Tell me what you know about him.”

I sighed, regretting limiting my actions to just a restraining order. Uncle Carlo had been right the first time. “I took Drake's class last fall semester. He was teaching Conceptual Sculpting. He always wore these cheap suits, the kind that you'd get at a Goodwill or something, and they always looked like they were about ten years out of date on his frame. I swear he bought himself a six pack of discount suits when he was thirty, and twenty years later, he was still working his way through them, waiting for the seams to give out or something.”

Uncle Carlo chuckled at my description. “That’s one of the things I love about you, Adriana. You’ve always been a born artist, with such great descriptions of people and things. Tell me about your relationship with him.”

“What relationship? The guy was a loser from day one. I hated the course,” I protested, a bit of my natural temper flaring up. I come from Sicilian and Scottish roots, so me not having a temper would have been a miracle. When he gave me a look, I sighed and fell back into my recollections. “For the first few classes, things were normal. He was creepy, but nothing I haven't had to handle before. It wasn't until the midterm project that he started to really focus on me. The sculpture I did wasn't the best, in my opinion, but it was special to me because I tried to carve Dad as if he'd survived all the years to now. I'd poured my heart into it and planned on giving it to Mom for her birthday before all this started and ruined it for me. For some reason, Vincent really took to it, and he started obsessing over me.”

“Eventually, I filed a sexual harassment complaint against him with the school, but they did nothing, saying it wasn't enough to do anything against a tenured professor. They just warned him and told me to stay away.”

“Adriana, why did you put so much trust in these incompetent fools? Have I not shown you how useless they are?”

“You have, and I don't know why,” I said. “I guess . . . I guess because I know what you would’ve done. He has a family, after all—a wife and supposedly, a daughter.”

“Had a family . . .” he said. “It was on the news while you were out. He killed his wife before coming to your apartment. Another stabbing. There’s talk of some sort of letter or manifesto, but no details have been released. I have men working on it now. Good men.”

I shivered again, finally realizing just how insane Vincent Drake was. “So what am I to do?”

He smiled, then patted my hand and stood up. “You’re young and you’re idealistic, my Bella. Part of that is my fault, part your mother's. Your artistic streak has made you fiercely independent, and we agreed to give you some free reign to try things your way. But now it’s time to do things my way.”

I gulped and nodded as he continued.

“You will stay the night here. I’ll have a man posted outside your room, and then, starting tomorrow, Daniel will become your driver and your bodyguard.”

“Daniel?” I asked, trying not to sound too excited or surprised. “Daniel Neiman?”

He nodded, but still caught the tone of my voice. “Be careful, Adriana. Daniel’s a good man, and is as loyal a Soldier as any of my men, but he does have a weakness for pretty young women, as I’m sure you know. I won’t tolerate anything going on between you two. Do you understand, Adriana? I’ve seen the way you look at him, and if it were anyone but you, I’d just assign someone else, but Daniel is the best at what he does.”

I nodded, swallowing my objections. While Daniel was charming and there was a certain magnetism about him, he could also be a first-class bastard. My physical attraction stopped there. “I understand. You have nothing to worry about, trust me.”

After Uncle Carlo left, I lay back, my mind whirling. As if I didn’t already have enough on my mind, now I’d have to deal with Daniel around the clock. He was easy on the eyes. I’d have my hands full keeping myself from jumping his bones. He’s got this Germanic or Nordic look about him, with piercing, amazing blue eyes to go along with blond hair, a square jaw and a chiseled physique.

He came to Uncle Carlo's house when his parents were murdered by a mobster who'd mistaken his family for someone else. I didn't even know his real name. Carlo had gotten him a fake identity in order to keep him safe from the Russians, who undoubtedly would’ve tried to hunt him down in order to eliminate all evidence of their screw-up. I’m not sure why Uncle felt it was his responsibility, but despite being the boss, he did have a heart. Daniel was raised in Uncle Carlo's house, and when I came, he was like one of the staff's children.

Now, at twenty-five, he looked like an Adonis, like someone who should have been making movies or causing housewives to have hot flashes on television rather than as a member of Uncle Carlo's organization. He'd gone to work for Carlo almost immediately after junior high school, starting as an errand boy before working his way up, not through brown nosing or anything, but through hard work and a level of dedication that was both frightening and inspiring.

Still, Daniel had his drawbacks, namely his cockiness. While most of the time it came across as good humor and banter, it annoyed the hell out of me. He knew he was hot, and he wasn’t ashamed to flaunt it. He was God’s gift to women, and I admit I’d fantasized about him more than once, which was probably why he sometimes got on my nerves.