He scoffs. “You think I’m going to forgive you for all of this.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t?” he steps toward me, the small step up into the house gives him a height advantage. “First, you steal my girlfriend and then you steal my career, and now you’re trying to steal the program I built from bottom up right out from under me.”
“I didn’t steal Annie, you tossed her aside. As for your career, I didn’t force you to punch a wall which resulted in you shattering your hand. As for the program . . . you play favorites, Brett. That’s not what youth sports is about. Everyone should get a chance to be on a team and you exclude kids to be spiteful. If you hadn’t done that, then I wouldn’t have to coach.”
“The only reason you’re coaching is because you want to get into Bellamy’s pants. Well let me tell you something, it’s not worth it.”
After he says that, I do the one thing I shouldn’t. I punch him. With my right hand. The jarring of my fist hitting his face radiates up my arm and causes my arm to go dead. “You’re not worth my energy,” I tell him as he clutches his nose.
“I’m going to sue you,” he mumbles as I walk away. I flip him the bird and climb into my truck, pulling out my cell phone and calling my manager to tell him what happened. The next call I make has my stomach in knots.
“Ryan Stone,” he says into the phone.
“Mr. Stone, it’s Hawk Sinclair. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Twenty-Two
Bellamy
I find myself pacing, walking back and forth in front of my large picture window, waiting for the glare of headlights to shine into my living room. Every few seconds, I pause because I think I hear a door slam or the screech of tires, but it’s my mind playing tricks on me. After Hawk dropped me off, I filled my mother in on everything that happened tonight and how the town officials really didn’t give Brett’s case any credence, which they shouldn’t. I never knew youth sports could be so political and downright cutthroat. People who I considered friends sat across the aisle from me — glaring. I don’t get it. All I want is for my son to play baseball, for all the children to feel like they belong. Hawk and Owen want that as well.
Making my way into the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and pull out the corked bottle of wine sitting on the shelf in front of me. I’m not much of a drinker, but tonight calls for some liquid resolve. That’s what I’m calling it . . . resolve. I don’t need courage. I need peaceful resolution to everything going on. I want to live in harmony among my friends.
After pouring the Pinot Grigio, I’m back in front of my window, staring out at my neighborhood. The streetlights cast an eerie glow along the paved road and most of the houses that I can see have their porch lights on. Across the street lives Brady, or B Mac, as he likes to be called. I thought for sure when I moved in, he and Chase would be fast friends. Hell, I thought my son would be friends with all the kids in the subdivision, it’s why I chose the area, but I was wrong. B Mac is a bully. He’s the kid that is sweet to your face but the second you turn your back, he’s ruthless. I never wanted to see him as anything other than a ten or eleven-year-old boy, until now. In the past, Chase has said Brady’s mean, but I brushed it off. However, sitting across from him and his father tonight, I saw it firsthand. The menacing look in his eyes matched that of the adult sitting next him. It’s sad, the way he thinks it’s okay to be like this.
Finally, headlights shine into my driveway. I set my glass of wine down, go to the door, open it and wait for Hawk to come up the walk. When he does, he’s holding his right hand and I instantly fear the worse.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I step out of the house and onto my porch. I reach for his hand and he gives it to me freely. His knuckles are swollen, red and he hisses when I touch them. “Hawk?” I motion for him to come into the house, but he stands firm where he’s at.
“I need to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.” I don’t like his tone or the fear I feel right now.
“Did you sleep with Brett Larsen?”
My mouth drops open as the question tumbles out of his mouth. He’s so matter-of-fact that I know he’s serious. I take a step back, needing a little breathing room. Hawk takes this as a sign . . . of what, I don’t know, but by the look on his face, I’m pretty sure he thinks I’d sleep with a married man. I start to shake my head and despite my determination to stop them, tears start to well in my eyes.
“Why?” he asks.
“I didn’t. I would never.”
He shakes his head and his lips tighten. “He said—”
“He’s a liar. He told me if Chase wanted to sit on his bench, I would have to sleep with him in order for that to happen. I’m desperate to help my son fit in but I would never sleep with someone to make that happen.”
He reaches for me, but I shy away.
“I can’t believe you would ask me this.”
“He told me you did, and I punched him, so I had to know for sure that I was right and you’re worth the risk of me losing my career.”
“You punched him? For me?”
He nods. “And he’s going to sue. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that he’s going to do everything he can to ruin me.”
“But why? Why is he like this?”