You tell yourself you never cared.
But every kiss makes you miss me
And every touch leaves you scared.
Now your heart, your soul, your bed is empty
And you know, you see, there’s no replacing me.
But, baby, all I can say is: it’s your loss.
Oh, baby, baby, baby, it’s your loss.
His phone buzzed as he was parking. A message from Aunt Mo. He’s not himself, Brock. They had to restrain him for his own safety. His discharge has been delayed. You don’t have to come.
He sat in his truck, clearing his mind of Emmy Lou and Vanessa and Ricky and the pile of underwear he had in the back seat of his car. Aunt Mo meant well, but he did have to be there. When he hit rock bottom, it had been his father who had helped drag him back. Even struggling with the beginning stages of this horrible disease, his father had taken care of him—showed him how to fight, took him to meetings and doctor’s appointments, never gave up on his son or stopped reminding Brock what was worth fighting for. His father might not remember any of that now. But Brock would never forget.
Chapter 10
“Wave,” Emmy said, pointing at the image on one of the jumbotron screens.
All eleven kids waved, some made silly faces, others had shy, little smiles—one little boy burst into tears and hid behind Shalene. They sat, each in their Houston Roughnecks T-shirt, on a bench along the sideline while the players warmed up.
“Who’s your favorite?” Emmy asked the quiet little girl sitting beside her. Anna was adorable, with a lopsided ponytail and massive tortoiseshell glasses that covered most of her face.
Anna shrugged. “I don’t know. My daddy likes Gene Byrd so I guess I do, too.”
“My daddy does, too.” Emmy nodded. “He’s a good player.”
Shalene had called her this morning, frantic, after one of their ambassadors canceled. So here she was, playing guide to eleven lucky elementary students who’d all signed a Drug Free Like Me Agreement. It was halftime, and the kids were on the field and ready to play catch with the teams when they showed up…
Bear—Emmy always thought of him as the triangle player—had taken a bad hit at the end of the second quarter. While there’d been no official statement on his condition, Emmy suspected he wouldn’t be joining them after all. Hopefully, he was okay.
“Is Bear dead?” one of the little boys asked, his teeth and lips dyed purple from his frozen slushie.
“No,” Emmy assured him. “He’ll be just fine.”
“He looked dead,” another little boy agreed. “He fell over.” The little boy stood up and fell on the ground, flat. “Boom. Just like that.”
For the next five minutes, all eleven kids did their own imitation of Bear’s fall. Emmy wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or not. But when one of the boys shared a story about his goldfish dying and how it did not fall over—it floated upside down—before proceeding to demonstrate how it looked, fish face and all, Emmy had to laugh.
That was why she didn’t notice Brock until he was kneeling by Anna saying, “Don’t let Emmy Lou throw the ball.”
“Why?” Anna asked.
“Trust me.” Brock shook his head, looking serious. “She needs to work on her aim.” But he was looking at her ankle brace.
“Maybe she needs lessons?” Anna said, pushing her glasses up. “My daddy says lessons make you better.”
“Maybe that’s it.” He nodded, looking up at Emmy. “You want some lessons?”
“Only if RJ has time.” Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Her gaze bounced his way.
Brock’s blue eyes locked with hers a second longer before he turned to Anna. What did that look mean? I don’t care. Why would she care about someone who thought she’d use a hospital visit for promotion? I don’t.
The two of them, side by side, were quite a picture. He was a mountain. Next to him, Anna looked like a tiny doll.
“Go easy on me, okay, Anna?” He stood, hands on his hips, staring down at the little girl.