Winter Miracle Page 28

  I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say.

  Coach shakes his head. “I sure as hell hope so, because your natural successor is Dwayne, and we both know he’s got hands like sticks of butter.”

  I find my voice. “I’m sorry. I’ll be there tomorrow, Coach. You have my word.”

  He smiles at that.. “Amen.”

  I watch him walk off. He’s right. Indy is one thing, Hunter and the family thing another, but I’m here for football. That leather baby is probably the only thing in my world that’s not going to argue back right now.

  I check my cell. No missed calls. No texts.

  So be it.

  I’ll clear my head the only way I know how—with brute, fucking force.

  *

  I have the field completely to myself. I make the most of it, running every drill in the book and even some so nasty they don’t have names, pushing myself to the absolute limit until the sweat is running a river down my back, my vision blurry. I grunt and drive, sprint and spring, my legs on fire, but it’s exactly what I need.

  I’m out there for five hours, working until the field lights switch off.

  I undress in the locker room, peeling the clothes from my body.

  I do feel better, clearer. The cotton wool in my head is gone, replaced with focus, and it’s screaming one word at me.

  Indy.

  I pick up my cell from the top shelf of my locker, go to dial, but hold off. No, I need to speak to her in person. It’s the only way. I’ll get on my knees if I have to, grovel my way back into her good graces. She’s the only decent thing in my life right now and I’m not about to drop that ball. I need her like the air I breathe out there on the grass. Troy might be my temple, but Indy’s my home, my anchor. It’s clear.

  I close the locker door and head to the showers. All the ingredients are there—the water, the heat—but it’s missing one thing. It’s missing Indy, her body against mine, the suds passing between us, our mouths locked and her thigh hitched up against my side.

  I close my eyes and open them hoping, impossibly, to make her materialize.

  Nothing happens.

  The locker room lights go out. The shower continues to run, louder now in the darkness.

  “Hello?” I shout.

  The field lights are on a timer, but there’s a switch for this room. Even the groundskeeper would hear me in here first.

  “What the fuck?” I call out. “If this is some shitty prank, Colton, I’m going to whoop your ass.”

  Something slams into my gut. I crumple in half, gasping.

  I’m kicked from the side, hard enough to send me sliding sideways on the tiles.

  “Wai—”

  Something heavier smashes into my back, driving me to the ground.

  “Colton’s not here,” comes a voice.

  Dwayne.

  He’s near, crouching down in the darkness in front of me just out of reach. He won’t be here alone. No way.

  Dwayne’s voice is laced with smug satisfaction. “Your brothers aren’t here to bail you out this time, Cay. You’re all alone.”

  I try to get up, but I’m driven down again, the pain flaring across my shoulders. The sound of the blow ringing out.

  A baseball bat. Has to be.

  I stay down, try to work out what the fuck I’m going to do.

  “I know you think you’re hot shit,” says Dwayne. “You Becketts act like you’ve got the keys to the kingdom here, but you’re wrong. Hunter’s lying in a hospital somewhere. Colton’s gone and fucked up, bought himself a ticket out of Abbotsleigh, and you? You’re vulnerable. So, let’s see how much damage ‘The Damage’ can do without his good arm.” He clicks his fingers and I’m manhandled from the sides, kicking and slipping on the tiles, struggling to get purchase as my assailants take hold of my right arm, snapping it straight.

  I know someone’s passing Dwayne the bat. I can hear the hollow thump as it lands in his hand. “I’d tell you this isn’t going to hurt, bro, but I’d be fucking lying.”

  I try to buy time. “This isn’t going to do shit, Dwayne. You’ll be quarterback, sure, but you’ll still be a shitty one. The NFL won’t even blink twice in your direction.”

  “Shut the fuck up, and one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  He’s so close I can smell his breath, the turfy stink of weed on it. “After I’m done here I’m going to find your girl and I’m going to fuck her like a real man. I’m going to fuck her in the mouth, in the ass, wherever I damn well please.”

  I lose it. “Fuck you!” I’m lurching for him, but they pull me back. I’m strong, but two of the biggest linesmen in the league make easy work of me. All I can hope for is that Dwayne knows how to swing a bat, makes a clean break of my arm.

  But he’s not going to touch Indy. If he does, he’s fucking dead.

  I sense him standing. “Batter up!” he calls.

  The lights come back on, the scene close to cabaret. There’s me, buck naked on the tiles, Dwayne with bat raised and the two aforementioned linesmen pinning me down, holding my arm out. Add in some curtains and you’d have yourself a scene Charlie Chaplin himself would be proud of.

  But the biggest surprise of all is Coach. He stands six feet away, a pistol raised that looks like it was stolen from a Dirty Harry set. He directs the gun at Dwayne. “Put down the bat, son.”

  Dwayne doesn’t budge. “Why don’t you put away that antique, Coach, before you injure yourself. Let us get this done. You know it’s right.”

  Everyone jumps as Coach fires a shot into the roof. Plaster and dust rain down from a hole the size of my head.

  “Antique, my ass,” Coach says. “Now put down the fucking bat.”

  Dwayne lowers it to the floor, watching Coach. “Easy, old man.”

  Coach moves the gun to the linesmen. “You, Dumb and Dumber, step the fuck back.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Coach,” says Dwayne, but Coach holds firm, taking out his cell and dialing.

  “Drew? Get your ass over here. I’ve got a situation.”

  “We didn’t do shit,” protests Dwayne.

  Coach slips the cell back into his pocket. “Save it and get against the wall—now.”

  The three of them back up slowly to the wall.

  “Don’t think I won’t shoot you,” continues Coach. “I was popping off Japs before your daddy’s balls dropped. I don’t give a fuck about what you can do on the field or who you are. You move, you die.”

  Coach looks down at me. “Can you move, son?”

  I nod.

  “Good. Get behind me, and for fuck’s sake put on some clothes.”

  I stand slowly and move behind Coach, searching the bench for my pants.

  Campus security arrives a minute later. I thought they might have an issue with Coach pointing a fucking gun at these guys, but they simply laugh and get to work.

  Drew thinks the whole thing’s especially amusing as he cable-ties Dwayne’s hands together. He gestures at the gun. “You still got that piece of shit, Maddox.”

  Maddox?

  Holy shit. Coach has a name.

  Coach lowers the pistol. “It’ll still blow your dick off. Just say the word.”

  *

  I wait around for the police, providing a statement to the best of my abilities. Dwayne and his crew are quiet as they’re loaded into patrol cars. They might still get off, but I imagine their football days are over.

  Coach takes a seat beside me on the bench. “You alright, son? They banged you up a bit, but I know you Becketts. You’re made of harder stuff.”

  I have to laugh at that. If only you knew. “I’m okay.”

  “How’s your brother? Any news?”

  It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I checked in. “I think he’ll be alright. He needs a bone-marrow transplant, some other bullshit, but Colton’s volunteered. After all, he’s got nothing better to do.”

  The Coach smiles, closer to a grandfather than the drill
sergeant I know. “Silly kid, though I would have liked to switch places with him when he knuckle-dusted that punk.”

  “You and me both.”

  Coach slaps me on the back. “Go home, get some rest. You can track down your girly in the morning.”

  “How’d you know ab—”

  He clicks his fingers. “Magic.”

  *

  I take Coach’s advice and rest up. I was already beat from my self-imposed training. The additional workout Dwayne and his boys provided, while unwelcome, only served to harden me further.

  But when I wake up, I only want one thing. I want it with every molecule of my being.

  I want her, Indy.

  I dress and run towards campus, desperate to see her, to somehow make amends for this fuckery.

  I’m about a half-mile from her dorm when I spot her.

  She’s talking to the same older guy I saw her with days ago, the guy with the suit jacket and glasses. Just like before, he’s talking and she’s listening, though the distance between them suggests neither of them particularly wants to be here.

  Still, jealousy wells up again. Who the fuck are you?

  I wait for them to finish, for Indy to head off towards class, before I approach him.

  The fucker walks fast. I have to run to tap him on the back.

  He spins, hand running beneath his jacket, relaxing when he sees me. “Can I help you?”

  I look over my shoulder. “You know Indy?”

  His face hardens. “Yeah. I do.”

  “What’s your business with her?” I know I’m coming across overly protective, but something’s not right here and it’s D-day for getting to the bottom of shit.

  The guy looks me over and laughs. “It’s none of yours, kid. That’s for sure.”

  He turns, but I reach for his shoulder, pulling him back around, his condescending little jibe not going to get pass this Trojan. “You either tell me what your business is or I call campus security.”

  He laughs again, suddenly turning serious, shoving me away. “Back the fuck off.”

  He turns to walk, but I shove him in the back. “What did you say?”

  He holds me at arm’s length. “I’m warning you now.”

  I shove his hand away. “Fuck you.” I take out my cell.

  He plucks it from my hand, reaching under his suit and taking out his wallet, flipping it open.

  There’s a badge there, an acronym in big, bold, blue lettering.

  “Like I said, it’s none of your business. Now, let me leave or find yourself obstructing a federal investigation.”

  Federal investigation?

  He hands me my cell.

  I take it.

  He looks around again, replacing his wallet and straightening his jacket before walking off. I watch him, my eyes following him all the way to his black sedan.

  Indy, I think, what the hell are you into?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  INDY

  I’m tired. I’m running on empty. The last thing I wanted to do after a long day of lectures was a shift at The Lab, but I need normality… and food.

  If I had it my way, I would have curled up in bed and never left the room, but my pillow saw enough tears last night. I cried in silence, careful not to wake Naomi. I think she worked out what happened, but to her credit she didn’t ask any questions, didn’t pry. She almost seemed pleased.

  My meeting with Agent Matherson didn’t help. The case has been pushed back due to “additional evidence.” I would have almost welcomed that news a day ago, but now I only want to get as far away from Abbotsleigh as possible, as far away as I can from him.

  Do you? The voice of reason interjects. Can you blame him? He has a right to know.

  I do miss him, his reassuring words, his hands. And sure, maybe I was a little harsh, taking out my own frustration, my own stupid issues on him—someone who just learned they were adopted, whose brother has been diagnosed with a rare disease that he’s powerless to help.

  He needs you. Why won’t you let him in?

  It’s been quiet in here ever since the brawl. A different crowd frequents The Lab now that the sporty types have vanished. It could be any generic bar in the East Village these days, full of arts majors and musicians.

  I’m stocking the rear shelves when I see someone approach the bar in the mirror.

  “What can I get you?” I ask, before I turn.

  When I do, I freeze.

  Cayden places his hands out. “Wait.” He looks like hell, like he hasn’t slept in days.

  “Cay—”

  He reaches across the bar and takes my hand, placing his other on top. “I can’t do this, Indy. I can’t live without you, and yes, I know you don’t want to tell me about your past, your secrets, but I’m here to say I’m okay with that as long as I can be with you.”

  A tear slides down my cheek, but I’m already softening at his touch, the walls I’d built up so high over the last day tumbling down. It’s hard to even recall why I was so mad in the first place.

  A guy steps up to the bar beside us. “Can I get a shot of tequila?”

  Cayden reaches behind the bar and takes hold of an entire bottle, sliding it across. “Merry Christmas.”

  The kid takes it. “Ah, thanks,” he says, bemused, before walking off.

  “You can’t—” I begin, but he interrupts me.

  “Are you listening to me, Indy? Because I’ve had to deal with some serious shit over the last twenty-four hours, shit I wouldn’t have seen coming in a million years. It’s made me question a lot of things, but the only thing that’s true, that feels right, is you. You know it too. Admit it.”

  I sigh. “It’s complicated.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t care. Life is complicated. Do it with me, whatever it is.”

  I stand there on the edge and I want desperately to leap, to trust him.

  You can.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll tell you everything, but not now, not here.”

  “When do you get off?” he asks.

  I check the clock on the wall. “An hour.”

  “I’ll be waiting at the house. You’ll come?”

  I nod. “I will.”

  He smiles. “Okay,” he says, letting go of my hands and walking away.

  The next hour passes like shifting molasses, people coming and going, Lucy darting in and out from the back room, the clock hand ticking, ticking, ticking.

  I half-walk, half-run to the house, expecting to find at least Colton home, but the place is empty bar Cayden, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed.

  He pushes off and approaches me. “Before you say anything, you should know I had a run-in with your friend today.”

  “My friend?”

  “The one with the FBI badge.”

  I take a seat at the kitchen table.

  He joins me, moving his legs between mine, close and observant. I have his complete attention.

  He takes my hands. “Trust me.”

  I take a deep breath. Here we go. “I’m from New York.”

  “Good.”

  “A month ago, I was studying law at NYU. I had a small apartment, a cat called Crackers. I met with friends for pastrami on rye at Katz’s. I ran in Central Park two days a week. I had a normal life.”

  “Until…”

  I take another breath, feel my scars prickling.

  “There was this party one night, in Brooklyn, an ’80s thing. It got late. My ride disappeared, I wanted to go home, but there were no taxis on the street. Hardly anyone was around.”

  I’m shaking.

  He squeezes my hands harder. “Go on.”

  “I got lost, found myself in the back streets. There was a car with its lights on. I thought it was a taxi, so I went over.

  I breathe in deep again. He watches me, eyes imploring me to continue.

  “I got close enough to see it wasn’t, to make out the man driving. He was smoking, wearing a grey suit. I asked him if he k
new where I could find a ride home. He said to walk down a block, take a left. I thanked him and walked away, almost out of the alley when I heard someone shout.”

  “The guy from the car?”

  “Yeah. I turned and saw two other men at his window. One of them pulled a gun, shot him right in the head. The whole car lit up for a second. I was so shocked I couldn’t even get the scream out, covering my mouth and tucking myself behind a wall.”

  Another breath, the scarring on my shoulder heating.

  “A third man came around the corner,” I continue. “He didn’t see me crouched there in the shadows. He was carrying a jerry can. I wanted to run, but I was frozen there, completely scared out of my wits, so I watched. I watched them pour gasoline over the car and run it in a line past me, gasoline spilling around on my shoes and clothes. They stood at the end of the alley, my only way out, a lit match in one of their hands.” I have to stop, catch my breath again.

  “Indy, it’s okay.” He squeezes my hands for reassurance. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

  “I’ve never seen flames move so fast. I crouched there, in a ball, my back burning, unable to escape. I put my arms over head in and waited, hoping I wouldn’t go up.” I stop again, tears falling freely from my eyes, staining the carpet between us. “I was sure I was going to die, and then there was a blast of cold, smoke so thick I could barely see. Someone was lifting me up, a man in a mask.”

  “Jesus,” says Cayden, wiping a tear from my face. “I had no idea.”

  My voice is breaking up, but there’s relief there, too. “The police came to take a statement when I was in hospital, had me moved the very next day, a guard put on my door. I’d witnessed a crime, the murder of the police commissioner himself. I don’t know what he was doing out there alone, in that car, and they won’t tell me, but I’m the sole witness. I’m their whole case.”

  Cayden nods. “I remember. It was all over the news. They arrested three guys, right? Mafia?”

  I nod to confirm.

  “And so you’re in witness protection, but what are you doing back at college? I thought they put you in a safe house or something.”