Читать книгу It Started with a Crush... - Melissa McClone, Melissa Mcclone - Страница 7

EVERY day for the past four weeks, Connor’s school bus had arrived at the corner across the street no later than three-thirty Every day, except today. Lucy Martin glanced at the clock hanging on the living-room wall.

3:47 p.m.

Anxiety knotted her stomach making her feel jittery. Her nephew should be home by now.

Was it time to call the school to find out where the bus might be or was she overreacting? This parenting—okay, surrogate parenting—thing was too new to know for certain.

She stared out the window, hoping the bus would appear. The street corner remained empty. That wasn’t surprising. Only residents drove through this neighborhood on the outskirts of town.

What to do? She tapped her foot.

Most contingencies and emergencies had been listed in the three-ring binder Lucy called the survival guide. Her sister-in-law, Dana, had put it together before she left. But a late school bus hadn’t been one of the scenarios. Lucy had checked. Twice.

No need to panic. Wicksburg was surrounded by farmland, a small town with a low crime rate and zero excitement except for harvests in the summer, Friday-night football games in the fall and basketball games in the winter. A number of things could have delayed the bus. A traffic jam due to slow-moving farm equipment, road construction, a car accident …

A chill shivered down Lucy’s spine.

Don’t freak out. Okay, she wasn’t used to taking care of anyone but herself. This overwhelming need to see her nephew right this moment was brand-new to her. But she’d better get used to it. For the next year she wasn’t only Connor’s aunt, she was also his guardian while his parents, both army reservists, were deployed overseas. Her older brother, Aaron, was counting on Lucy to take care of his only child. If something happened to Connor on her watch …

Her muscles tensed.

“Meow.”

The family’s cat, an overweight Maine Coon with a tail that looked more like a raccoon’s than a feline’s, rubbed against the front door. His green-eyed gaze met Lucy’s.

“I know, Manny.” The cat’s concern matched her own. “I want Connor home, too.”

Something caught the corner of her eye. Something yellow. She stared out the window once again.

The school bus idled at the corner. Red lights flashed.

Relief flowed through her. “Thank goodness.”

Lucy took a step toward the front door then stopped. Connor had asked her not to meet him at the bus stop. She understood the need to be independent and wanted to make him happy. But not even following his request these past two and a half weeks had erased the sadness from his eyes. She knew better than to take it personally. Smiles had become rare commodities around here since his parents deployed.

Peering through the slit in the curtains gave her a clear view of the bus and the short walk to the house. Connor could assert his independence while she made sure he was safe.

Lucy hated seeing him moping around like a lost puppy, but she understood. He missed his parents. She’d tried to make him feel better. Nothing, not even his favorite desserts, fast-food restaurants or video games, had made a difference. Now that his spring soccer team was without a coach, things had gone from bad to worse.

The door of the bus opened. The Bowman twins exited. The seven-year-old girls wore matching pink polka-dot dresses, white shoes and purple backpacks.

Connor stood on the bus’s bottom step with a huge smile on his face. He leaped to the ground and skipped away.

Her heart swelled with excitement. Something good must have happened at school.

As her nephew approached the house, Lucy stepped away from the window. She wanted to make sure his smile remained. No matter what it took.

Manny rubbed against her leg. Birdlike chirping sounds came from his mouth. Strange, but not unexpected from a cat that barked when annoyed.

“Don’t worry, Manny.” She touched the cat’s back. “Connor will be home in three … two … one …”

The front door flung open. Manny dashed for the outside, but Connor closed the door to stop his escape.

“Aunt Lucy.” His blue eyes twinkled. So much like Aaron. Same eyes, same hair color, same freckles. “I found someone who can coach the Defeeters.”

She should have known Connor’s change of attitude had to do with soccer. Her nephew loved the sport. Aaron had coached his son’s team, the Defeeters, since Connor started playing organized soccer when he was five. A dad had offered to coach in Aaron’s place, but then had to back out after his work schedule changed. No other parent could do it for a variety of reasons. That left the team without a coach. Well, unless you counted her, which was pretty much like being coachless.

The thought of asking her ex-husband to help entered her mind for about a nanosecond before she banished it into the far recesses of her brain where really bad ideas belonged. Being back in the same town as Jeff was hard enough with all the not-so-pleasant memories resurfacing. Lucy hadn’t seen him yet nor did she want to.

“Fantastic,” she said. “Who is it?”

Connor’s grin widened, making him look as if he’d found a million-dollar bill or calorie-free chocolate. He shrugged off his backpack. “Ryland James.”

Her heart plummeted to her feet. Splat! “The Ryland James?”

Connor nodded enthusiastically. “He’s not only best player in the MLS, but my favorite. He’ll be the perfect coach. He played on the same team with my dad. They won district and a bunch of tournaments. Ryland’s a nice guy. My dad said so.”

She had to tread carefully here. For Connor’s sake.

Ryland had been a nice guy and one of her brother’s closest friends. But she hadn’t seen him since he left high school to attend the U.S. Soccer Residency Program in Florida. According to Aaron, Ryland had done well, playing overseas and now for the Phoenix Fuego, a Major League Soccer (MLS) team in the U.S. Coaching a recreational soccer team comprised of nine-year-olds probably wasn’t on his bucket list.

Lucy bit the inside of her cheek, hoping to think of something—anything—that wouldn’t make this blow up in her face and turn Connor’s smile upside down.

“Wow,” she said finally. “Ryland James would be an amazing coach, but don’t you think he’s getting ready to start training for his season?”

“MLS teams have been working out in Florida and Arizona since January. The season opener isn’t until April.” Connor spoke as if this was common knowledge she should know. Given soccer had always been “the sport” in the Martin household, she probably should. “But Ryland James got hurt playing with the U.S. Men’s Team in a friendly against Mexico. He’s out for a while.”

Friendly meant an exhibition game. Lucy knew that much. But the news surprised her. Aaron usually kept her up-to-date on Ryland. Her brother would never let Lucy forget her schoolgirl crush on the boy from the wrong side of town who was now a famous soccer star. “Hurt as in injured?”

“He had surgery and can’t play for a couple of months. He’s staying with his parents while he recovers.” Connor’s eyes brightened more. “Isn’t that great?”

“I wouldn’t call having surgery and being injured great.”

“Not him being hurt, but his being in town and able to coach us.” Connor made it sound like this was a done deal. “I bet Ryland James will be almost as good a coach as my dad.”

“Did someone ask Ryland if he would coach the Defeeters?”

“No,” Connor admitted, undaunted. “I came up with the idea during recess after Luke told me Ryland James was at the fire station’s spaghetti feed signing autographs. But the whole team thinks it’s a good idea. If I’d been there last night …”

The annual Wicksburg Fire Department Spaghetti Feed was one of the biggest events in town. She and Connor had decided not to go to the fundraiser because Dana was calling home. “Don’t forget, you got to talk to your mom.”

“I know,” Connor said. “But I’d like Ryland James’s autograph. If he coaches us, he can sign my ball.”

Signing a few balls, mugging for the camera and smiling at soccer moms didn’t come close to the time it would take to coach a team of boys. The spring season was shorter and more casual than fall league, but still …

She didn’t want Connor to be disappointed. “It’s a great idea, but Ryland might not have time.”

“Will you ask him if he’ll coach us, Aunt Lucy? He might just say yes.”

The sound of Connor’s voice, full of excitement and anticipation, tugged at her heart. “Might” likely equaled “yes” in his young mind. She’d do anything for her nephew. She’d returned to the same town where her ex, now married to her former best friend, lived in order to care for Connor but going to see Ryland …

She blew out a puff of air. “He could say no.”

The last time Lucy had seen him had been before her liver transplant. She’d been in eighth grade, jaundiced and bloated, carrying close to a hundred pounds of extra water weight. Not to mention totally exhausted and head over heels in love with the high-school soccer star. She’d spent much of her time alone in her room due to liver failure. Ryland James had fueled her adolescent fantasies. She’d dreamed about him letting her wear his jersey, asking her out to see a movie at the Liberty Theater and inviting her to be his date at prom.

Of course, none of those things had ever happened. She’d hated being known as the sick girl. She’d rarely been able to get up the nerve to say a word to Ryland. And then …

The high-school soccer team had put on two fundraisers—a summer camp for kids and a goal-a-thon—to help with Lucy’s medical expenses. She remembered when Ryland handed her the large cardboard check. She’d tried to push her embarrassment and awkwardness aside by smiling at him and meeting his gaze. He’d surprised her by smiling back and sending her heart rate into overdrive. She’d never forgot his kindness or the flash of pity in his eyes. She’d been devastated.

Lucy’s stomach churned at the memory. She wasn’t that same girl. Still, she didn’t want to see him again.

“Ryland is older than me.” No one could ever imagine what she’d gone through and how she’d felt being so sick and tired all the time. Or how badly she’d wanted to be normal and healthy. “He was your dad’s friend, not mine. I really didn’t know him.”

“But you’ve met him.”

“He used to come to our house, but the chances of him remembering me …”

“Please, Aunt Lucy.” Connor’s eyes implored her. “We’ll never know unless you ask.”

Darn. He sounded like Aaron. Never willing to give up no matter what the odds. Her brother wouldn’t let her give up, either. Not when she would have died without a liver transplant or when Jeff had trampled upon her heart.

Lucy’s chest tightened. She should do this for Aaron as much as Connor. But she had no idea how she could get close enough to someone as rich and famous as Ryland James.

Connor stared up at her with big, round eyes.

A lump formed in her throat. Whether she wanted to see Ryland James or could see him didn’t matter. This wasn’t about her. “Okay. I’ll ask him.”

Connor wrapped his arms around her. “I knew I could count on you.”

Lucy hugged him tight. “You can always count on me, kiddo.”

Even if she knew going into this things wouldn’t work out the way her nephew wanted. But she could keep him smiling a little while longer. At least until Ryland said no.

Connor squirmed out of her arms. “Let’s go see him now.”

“Not so fast. This is something I’m doing on my own.” She didn’t want her nephew’s image of his favorite soccer player destroyed in case Ryland was no longer a nice guy. Fame or fortune could change people. “And I can’t show up empty-handed.”

But what could she give to a man who could afford whatever he wanted? Flowers might be appropriate given his injury, but maybe a little too feminine. Chocolate, perhaps? Hershey Kisses might give him the wrong idea. Not that he’d ever known about her crush.

“Cookies,” Connor suggested. “Everyone likes cookies.”

“Yes, they do.” Though Lucy doubted anything would convince Ryland to accept the coaching position. But what was the worst he could say besides no? “Does chocolate chip sound good?”

“Those are my favorite.” Connor’s smile faltered. “It’s too bad my mom isn’t here. She makes the best chocolate-chip cookies.”

Lucy mussed his hair to keep him from getting too caught up in missing his mom. “It is too bad, but remember she’s doing important stuff right now. Like your dad.”

Connor nodded.

“How about we use your mom’s recipe?” Lucy asked. “You can show me how she makes them.”

His smile returned. “Okay.”

Lucy wanted to believe everything would turn out okay, but she knew better. As with marriage, the chance of a happy ending here was extremely low. Best to prepare accordingly. She would make a double batch of cookies—one to give to Ryland and one for them to keep. She and Connor were going to need something to make them feel better after Ryland James said no.

The dog’s whimpering almost drowned out the pulse-pounding rock music playing in his parents’ home gym.

Ryland didn’t glance at Cupcake. The dog could wait. He needed to finish his workout.

Lying on the weight machine’s bench, he raised the bar overhead, doing the number of reps recommended by the team’s trainer. He used free weights when he trained in Phoenix, but his parents wanted him using the machine when he worked out alone.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. He’d ditched his T-shirt twenty minutes ago. His bare back stuck to the vinyl.

Ryland tightened his grip on the handles.

He wanted to return to the team in top form, to show them he still deserved the captaincy as well as their respect. He’d already lost one major endorsement deal due to his bad-boy behavior. For all he knew, he might not even have a spot on the Fuego roster come opening day. And that … sucked.

On the final rep, his muscles ached and his arms trembled. He clenched his jaw, pushing the weight overhead one last time.

“Yes!”

He’d increased the amount of weight this morning. His trainer would be pleased with the improvements in upper-body strength. That and his core were the only things he could work on.

Ryland sat up, breathing hard. Not good. He needed to keep up his endurance while he healed from the surgery.

Damn foot. He stared at his right leg encased in a black walking-cast boot.

His fault. Each of Ryland’s muscles tensed in frustration. He should have known better than to be showboating during the friendly with Mexico. Now he was sidelined, unable to run or kick.

The media had accused him of being hungover or drunk when he hurt himself. They’d been wrong. Again. But dealing with the press was as much a part of his job as what happened for ninety minutes out on the pitch.

He’d appeared on camera, admitted the reason for his injury—goofing off for the fans and the cameras—and apologized to both fans and teammates. But the truth had made him look more like a bad boy than ever given his red cards during matches the last couple of seasons, the trouble he’d gotten into off the field and the endless “reports” on his dating habits.

The dog whined louder.

From soccer superstar to dog sitter. Ryland half laughed.

Cupcake barked, as if tired of being put off any longer.

“Come here,” Ryland said.

His parents’ small dog pranced across the padded gym floor, acting more like a pedigreed champion show dog than a full-blooded mutt. Ryland had wanted to buy his mom and dad a purebred, but they adopted a dog from the local animal shelter, instead.

Cupcake stared up at him with sad, pitiful brown eyes. She had mangy gray fur, short legs and a long, bushy tail. Only his parents could love an animal this ugly and pathetic.

“Come on, girl.” Ryland scooped her up into his arms. “I know you miss Mom and Dad. I do, too. But you need to stop crying. They deserve a vacation without having to worry about you or me.”

He’d given his parents a cruise for their thirty-second wedding anniversary. Even though he’d bought them this mansion on the opposite side of town, far away from the two-bedroom apartment where he’d grown up, and deposited money into a checking account for them each month, both continued to work in the same low-paying jobs they’d had for as long as their marriage. They also drove the same old vehicles even though newer ones, Christmas presents from him, were parked in the four-car garage.

His parents’ sole indulgence was Cupcake. They spoiled the dog rotten. They hadn’t wanted to leave her in a kennel or in the care of a stranger while away so after his injury they asked Ryland if he would dog sit. His parents never asked him for anything so he’d jumped at the opportunity to do this.

Ryland hated being back in Wicksburg. There were too many bad memories from when he was a kid. Even small towns had bullies and not-so-nice cliques.

He missed the fun and excitement of a big city, but he needed time to get away to repair the damage he’d done to his foot and his reputation. No one was happy with him at the moment, especially himself. Until getting hurt, he hadn’t realized he’d been so restless, unfocused, careless.

Cupcake pawed at his hands. Her sign she wanted rubs.

“Mom and Dad will be home before you know it.” Ryland petted the top of her head. “Okay?”

The dog licked him.

He placed her on the floor then stood. “I’m getting some water. Then it’s shower time. If I don’t shave, I’m going to start looking mangy like you.”

Cupcake barked.

His cell phone, sitting on the countertop next to his water bottle, rang. He read the name on the screen. Blake Cochrane. His agent.

Ryland glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock here meant seven o’clock in Los Angeles. “An early morning for you.”

“I’m here by six to beat the traffic,” Blake said. “According to Twitter, you made a public appearance the other night. I thought we agreed you were going to lay low.”

“I was hungry. The fire station was having their annual spaghetti feed so I thought I could eat and support a good cause. They asked if I’d sign autographs and pose for pictures. I couldn’t say no.”

“Any press?”

“The local weekly paper.” With the phone in one hand and a water bottle in the other, Ryland walked to the living room with Cupcake tagging alongside him. He tried hard not to favor his right foot. He’d only been off crutches a few days. “But I told them no interview because I wanted the focus to be on the event. The photographer took a few pictures of the crowd so I might be in one.”

“Let’s hope whatever is published is positive,” Blake said.

“I was talking with people I grew up with.” Some of the same people who’d treated him like garbage until he’d joined a soccer team. Most accepted him after he became a starter on the high-school varsity team as a freshman. He’d shown them all by becoming a professional athlete. “I was surrounded by a bunch of happy kids.”

“That sounds safe enough,” Blake admitted. “But be careful. Another endorsement deal fell through. They’re nervous about your injury. The concerns over your image didn’t help.”

Ryland dragged his hand through his hair. “Let me guess. They want a clean-cut American, not a bad boy who thinks red cards are better than goals.”

“You got it,” Blake said. “I haven’t heard anything official, but rumors are swirling that Mr. McElroy wants to loan you out to a Premier League team.”

McElroy was the new owner of the Phoenix Fuego, who took more interest in players and team than any other head honcho in the MLS. He’d fired the coach/manager who’d wanted to run things his way and hired a new coach, Elliot Fritz, who didn’t mind the owner being so hands-on. “Seriously?”

“I’ve heard it from more than one source.”

Damn. As two teams were mentioned, Ryland plopped into his dad’s easy chair. Cupcake jumped onto his lap.

“I took my eye off the ball,” he said. “I made some mistakes. I apologized. I’m recovering and keeping my name out of the news. I don’t see why we all can’t move on.”

“It’s not that easy. You’re one of the best soccer players in the world. Before your foot surgery, you were a first-team player who could have started for any team here or abroad. Not many American footballers can say that,” Blake said. “But McElroy believes your bad-boy image isn’t a draw in the stands or with the kids. Merchandising is important these days.”

“Yeah, I know. Being injured and getting older isn’t helping my cause.” As if twenty-nine made Ryland an old man. He remembered what the team owner had said in an interview. “McElroy called me an overpaid liability. But if that’s the case, why would an overseas team want to take me on?”

“The transfer period doesn’t start until June. None have said they want the loan yet.”

Ouch. Ryland knew he had only himself to blame for the mess he found himself in.

“The good news is the MLS doesn’t want to lose a homegrown player as talented as you. McElroy’s feathers got ruffled,” Blake continued. “He’s asserting his authority and reminding you that he controls your contract.”

“You mean, my future.”

“That’s how billionaires are.”

“I’ll stick to being a millionaire, then.”

Blake sighed.

“Look, I get why McElroy’s upset. Coach Fritz, too. I haven’t done a good job handling stuff,” Ryland admitted. “I’ll be the first to admit I’ve never been an angel. But I’m not the devil, either. There’s no way I could do everything the press says I do. The media exaggerates everything.”

“True, but people’s concerns are real. This time at your parents’ house is critical. Watch yourself.”

“I’m going to fix this. I want to play in the MLS.” Ryland had already done an eleven-year stint in the U.K. “My folks are doing fine, but they’re not getting any younger. I don’t want to be an ocean away from them. If McElroy doesn’t want me, see if the Indianapolis Rage or another club does.”

“McElroy isn’t going to let a franchise player like you go to another MLS team,” Blake said matter-of-factly. “If you want to play stateside, it’ll be with Fuego.”

Ryland petted Cupcake. “Then I’ll have to keep laying low and polishing my image so it shines.”

“Blind me, Ry.”

“Will do.” Everyone always wanted something from him. This was no different. But it sucked he had to prove himself all over again with Mr. McElroy and the Phoenix fans. “At least I can’t get into trouble dog sitting. Wicksburg is the definition of boring.”

“Women—”

“Not here,” Ryland interrupted. “I know what’s expected of me. I also know it’s hard on my mom to read the gossip about me on the internet. She doesn’t need to hear it firsthand from women in town.”

“You should bring your mom back with you to Phoenix.”

“Dude. Keeping it quiet and on the down low is fine while I’m here, but let’s not go crazy,” Ryland said. “In spite of the reports of me hooking up with every starlet in Hollywood, I’ve been more than discreet and discriminate with whom I see. But beautiful women coming on to me are one of the perks of the sport.”

Blake sighed. “I remember when you were this scrappy, young kid who cared about nothing but soccer. It used to be all about the game for you.”

“It’s still about the game.” Ryland was the small-town kid from the Midwest who hit the big-time overseas, playing with the best in the world. Football, as they called it everywhere but in the U.S., meant everything to him. Without it … “Soccer is my life. That’s why I’m trying to get back on track.”

A beat passed and another. “Just remember, actions speak louder than words.”

After a quick goodbye, Blake disconnected from the call.

Ryland stared at his phone. He’d signed with Blake when he was eighteen. The older Ryland got, the smarter his agent’s advice sounded.

Actions speak louder than words.

Lately his actions hadn’t been any more effective than his words. He looked at Cupcake. “I’ve put myself in the doghouse. Now I’ve got to get myself out of it.”

The doorbell rang.

Cupcake jumped off his lap and ran to the front door barking ferociously, as if she weighed ninety pounds, not nineteen.

Who could that be? He wasn’t expecting anyone.

The dog kept barking. He remained seated.

Let Cupcake deal with whomever was at the door. If he ignored them, maybe they would go away. The last thing Ryland wanted right now was company.