You Rock My World (The Blackwells of Crystal Lake 3)

The sky was overcast, and big fat drops of rain splashed against his windshield. Not many, but it was a promise of what was to come. The wind had picked up, and a storm was definitely moving in, brought on by the billowing dark clouds overhead. He scowled as he accelerated down the road. It was as if the universe was throwing down a big fuck you.

“Right back atcha,” he muttered. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the driveway of the house he’d grown up in. Wyatt’s Range Rover was there, so he parked beside it and hopped out. No sense in putting this off. He’d say his goodbyes and be in his condo by nightfall.

He strode inside the house and spied Darlene at the kitchen table, leopard-print reading glasses on her nose as she perused the weekly flyers. Dressed in a pale pink velvet track suit, silver hair perfectly coiffed, she looked like any other rich suburban housewife in Crystal Lake.

She didn’t seem surprised to see him, and Travis was going to guess Wyatt had spilled the beans.

“Your father is in the boathouse with Wyatt. I think they’re organizing the fishing gear,” she said, setting her glasses down with a smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, and he saw the disappointment. Another reason to feel like a shit.

“I came to say goodbye.”

“I heard.” Darlene got to her feet. She barely reached the top of his shoulders. Her arms wrapped around him, and Travis hugged her back fiercely. He’d not always been good to this woman. Lord knows she’d put up with a lot of attitude from him when he was younger. But she was the closest thing to a mother he had, and her genuine love for the Blackwell boys had never been questioned.

Slowly, she stood back. “I wish you would stay a bit longer. At least until Labor Day. You know how your father loves that weekend.”

“I know. But I have a thing in the city. For the foundation…” He sighed. “And I need to get my head screwed on right before training camp. I’m not getting any younger, and I’ve got a hot rookie nipping at my heels.”

“Bah,” Darlene said. “Your goals against average is the best in the league. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.” Her eyes softened at the look of surprise on his face. “Just because we don’t go to the games doesn’t mean your father and I don’t watch every single game here at home. It’s why he bought that massive flat screen.” She paused. “It’s hard for him to admit to his mistakes. His pride is unparalleled. Something I think you boys shar

e with him.”

Pride? Hell, Travis seemed to have lost his over the last several weeks. “We’ll see what this season brings.”

“We will,” she said, stepping back, her eyes serious as she studied him. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I know.”

“I wish…” She paused and then shook her head. “Never mind what I wish. I’m just a silly old woman with romantic ideals.” She reached up onto her tiptoes and cupped his face between her hands. “You will be happy one day, Travis. It takes time is all.” She kissed his cheek and let him go.

He headed for the boathouse and glanced up at the sky. The rain was still holding off, the skies teasing an occasional drop. He smiled to himself as the familiar strains of Hank Williams rolled across the deck. His father was sitting just inside the boathouse, his old fishing hat askew, dark socks pulled up to his knees, and a cigar dangling from his mouth. Wyatt sat on a toolbox, sporting a near identical look—save for the socks.

“Darlene thinks you boys are organizing your tackle boxes.” Travis leaned against the doorframe and looked around. The tackle boxes were nowhere in sight.

“We could be,” his father said with a chuckle. He held up his hand and pointed to the cigar. “You have time for one?”

“Nah. I’ve got to take off.”

John slowly nodded. “Darlene and I might try to get up to the city depending on how good this old heart of mine is in the fall. Do you think you could get us some tickets to a game?”

Travis couldn’t remember the last time his father had come to watch him play. There was always some excuse in the early days, and after a while, he’d stopped asking.

“Jesus, Dad. He’s the starting goalie for the Red Wings. I think the man can get tickets whenever he wants.”

Travis shrugged. “It won’t be a problem. Just let me know when you’re up to it.”

John blew out a long plume of smoke. He sat back in his chair, unfazed by the loud creaking the movement created, and stared up at his son.

“That girl is going to regret letting you go a second time.”

“Dad, I don’t want to talk about it.”

John Blackwell struggled to his feet, and in that moment, Travis was shocked at how small he appeared. He’d lost inches in height, and his longtime illness had left him frail. His collarbone looked sharp, his cheeks gaunt, and his eyes weren’t nearly as bright as they used to be.

Travis held out his hand, but his father drew him into an embrace. It was short and abrupt in the way it was for some men, and his father’s voice was thick as he sat back down.

“It was good to see you, son.”

“You too, Dad.”