Chapter 2 #2
A cold wind scattered gold, red, and brown leaves and an empty french fry envelope across his path.
Fries. His favorites were from the Fry Hut back home.
They’d sure hit the spot on a blustery day like today.
After his appointment with Dr. Morgan, he might as well stop by his old high school haunt—where he had spent every Friday night after home games—and indulge.
He could smell the fries now. Hot oil, crisp potato, salt.
Maybe meet Jake? Nah. He’d call Cole and they could catch up.
And he’d better call Janice or hear about it from Dr. Morgan.
Would she really kick him out of her program for not calling his stepmom?
Yeah, better not risk it. The chill in the February day felt good as Sam walked toward his Range Rover, pulling out his phone.
He so rarely called either his father or stepmother, it took him a minute to swipe through his recent calls to find her number.
“Janice, it’s Sam. Sorry I’ve missed your calls.”
He’d just hung up with his stepmom, promising to possibly attend Frank’s birthday party, when someone shouted his name across the parking lot.
“Hardy!”
Sam unlocked the passenger door and tossed his bag onto the seat, then turned to see built-like-a-monster-truck Marco Martelli stalking across the parking lot. He was young, twenty-three, and a second-year starter on the Titans brick-wall offensive line.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you a complete jerk?” Marco stopped in front of Sam.
Good grief, he had a short fuse. “Not in the mood, Martelli.” Sam limped to the driver’s side door.
“Hardy, I said, what’s the matter with you?”
Sam bit back a sigh and faced Martelli. Might as well get it over with. “Besides my knee? Not a thing. Why?”
“Carla.”
“Carla who?”
“The girl you left Rankin’s party with Friday night.”
Her name was Carla? She had been so drunk he hadn’t bothered to ask. He’d felt like he was rescuing a near-drowned cat. “The weepy blonde with too many margaritas on board? She was a mess. I gave her a ride home.”
“She came to the party with me, Hardy. She’s mine.” Marco’s eyes narrowed. “Stay away.”
“She never said a word about you.” Sam held up his hands, took a step back, and eyed his Range Rover’s door.
If Martelli took a swing, Sam could dive for it but that would be a killer for his knee.
“First off, I didn’t know. I have a hard and fast rule about other players’ girls.
You know that.” Everyone on the team knew Sam’s code.
At least what had been his code for the last few years.
“She said she came alone. I drove her home and left her at the door.”
“Not according to her Twitter feed.” Marco brandished his phone like a badge giving him authority to arrest Sam for some perceived failure.
I maybe had a few too many tequila shooters at a team party last night, but so worth it to wake up with @SamHardyQB15’s arms around me this morning. #sorrynotsorry
@CurvyCarla on Twitter
Sam groaned. Would his past reputation ever die?
Sure, there was a time when he had looked for women like Carla at parties—groupies, jersey chasers.
Everyone knew how to play that game. But when he’d made the mistake of “sleeping over” and found his face, and a bit more, splashed all over the internet, he’d answered the wakeup call.
Who was this man he’d become? Was this who he really wanted to be?
It had been over three years since he’d been the kind of guy who partied too hard with the women that made it their life mission to hang around NFL players, offering “favors” in exchange for money, jewels, cars, and a good time.
“I don’t care what she put on Twitter, TikTok, or wherever. I dropped her at her house. Didn’t even unbuckle my seat belt to help her get out.”
Marco gave him a long look, then skimmed Carla’s social feed. He tucked his phone in his pocket, shoulders drooping, and stepped back toward the training facility.
“Marco.” Sam stuck out his hand as the man turned around and waited agonizingly long seconds for Marco to take it.
“Bro, stop going for these jersey chasers. They’re trouble in more ways than one.
Carla and girls like her are not the kind of girl you make a life with, trust me.
Not the kind who will help you celebrate your career achievements or hang with you when in the valleys.
If you want a relationship, go to church or join a club, maybe go back to your hometown and get reacquainted with an old friend.
You’re an NFL stud. Be a man, not a baby daddy.
You’re worth a good woman. Stop looking for the cheerleader and go for the scientist.”
Marco laughed and wagged his finger at Sam. “Old man, you sound like my mama.”
“Then listen to her if you won’t listen to me.”
Marco headed away and Sam climbed behind the wheel. As the engine roared to life, his phone rang. The screen showed his friend and business partner, Rick Moses, on the line. “Talk to me, dude.”
“Hardy, how’s the knee?” Rick’s deep resonance untied some of the knots in Sam’s shoulders over the whole IR business.
“I’ve got an appointment with the best sports medicine doctor in the business. I’ll be on the field by July.” God willing and the creek don’t rise.
Meeting and partnering with Rick was one of the best things he’d done in his life besides making it to the league—which included some bit of luck.
Rick taught him about finances, investing, preparing for life off the field.
Even though a lot of the things he said were things Frank had been telling him his whole life.
“You’ve a knack for business, Sam. Invest wisely.”
Except his father had completely discredited himself when he—
Rick interrupted his thought. Thank goodness. “I’ve got a property for us.”
“Not another franchise?” Sam was always the face of whatever fast-food venture they bought. It was getting old.
He and Rick formed their investment partnership in the early days of Sam’s pro career, right after they graduated from Tennessee.
Besides the fast-food franchises, they owned a car dealership and a small start-up tech company Rick was sure would make Apple and Microsoft look like also-rans one day.
Sam let him have his little fantasy. It didn’t cost them much.
“Better than a franchise. It’s a mom-and-pop business in a quaint, touristy small town.
The owners are retiring…” Rick’s pause made the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck come to attention.
What was he up to now? Whatever it was, Sam wasn’t going to like it.
“It’s a bakery. There’s just one little, tiny issue… ” Rick trailed off again.
“Quit stalling and tell me.”
“That quaint small town is Hearts Bend.”
Sam’s breath hitched. “Wait…a bakery? Are you talking about Haven’s?” Sam heard the sound of papers ruffling in the background.
“Yeah, that’s it. Bob and Donna Morton are retiring.”
“Retiring? Wow…” He felt a wash of sentiment.
One of his favorite, albeit buried, memories was Saturday morning trips to Haven’s with his parents.
Crullers and chocolate milk made him the man he was today.
“I love Haven’s, but Rick, I don’t want to own anything in HB.
I can see you calling me up and going, ‘You need to run to Hearts Bend to check on something for me.’”
He’d put his hometown, and his memories tainted by his parents’ broken relationship, behind him when he left for college.
Since he’d walked in on his father kissing Janice—who happened to be the mother of Sam’s best friend—fifteen years ago, he’d not discussed much with Frank beyond the possibility of rain on the Fourth of July.
But Rick was still talking about Haven’s. “Buddy, this is a good deal. We can’t pass on it. The financials are solid. Bob was a smart businessman.”
“You already made the deal, didn’t you?”
“The staff has been there forever. Very experienced.”
“Is one of them going to run the place? Who’s going to do all the baking? Carry the vision?”
“Dude, you sound like we’ve never done this before. We’ll do what we always do. Hire a baker, a savant, who can manage the place, cast the vision.” Rick sounded pleased with himself.
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Say, is Ruby still there? She used to give me extra chocolate milk when my folks weren’t looking.” Sam grinned at the recollection of the cold goodness sliding down his throat, made sweeter by the secrecy.
“She’s still there. Saw her name on the employee list. Been there thirty years. She’ll be a wealth of knowledge to our new manager. I’ve got a headhunter looking for a baker now. I’d like to get on it fast.”
Haven’s without Bob and Donna. What would that even look like? No Bob with his Pillsbury belly and Santa laughs behind the register, no Donna singing along to the radio in the kitchen, her cheeks flushed from the heat, her nose dotted with flour. Life moved fast, didn’t it?
Which was exactly why Sam had to play this fall.
Why he had to secure his own Super Bowl ring.
He’d just passed thirty. His father was turning sixty.
Life moved on without guarantees. Then folks like the Mortons retired and took precious childhood memories with them.
Sam’s adult self might not care for Hearts Bend, but his child self couldn’t have been raised in a better town.
“Sam? We good on this one?”
“My father’s insurance agency is down the street from Haven’s. Maybe we should pass on this one.” If he and Rick owned a business on the same street as Hardy Insurance, what would come next? Exchanging May Day baskets and shaking hands at Chamber of Commerce mixers?
“You don’t have to see him. He doesn’t even have to know you own the bakery.
HARDRICK LLC will own it.” Rick could be persuasive when it came to their fiscal bottom line.
“We should probably meet to hire a new bakery manager in person, but otherwise, if you don’t want to be point on this one, I’ll handle things from Atlanta.
That’s how we do everything else.” It was like Rick read his mind.
“Sam, believe it or not, this bakery is one of the best deals we’ve come across.
Look up Hearts Bend tourism and revenue.
Busting at the seams. If we don’t get in now, it’ll cost us double to get in later, if we manage to get in at all. ”
Sam stopped for a red light and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You’re right, I know it, but Frank and I—”
“You’re a grown man, Sam. Act like it. When can you get to Hearts Bend to sign the papers? This week preferably.”
Signing this week? So, Rick must’ve purchased the place when Sam was having surgery. Note to self: tell him not to do that again.
He hated when Rick played the older brother. Hated it even more when he was right.
“Fine. I’ve an appointment with Dr. Morgan in Hearts Bend Thursday. I can meet you then.”
“Actually, that’s perfect. Bob and Donna want us to interview some local woman for baker and manager. They say she’s very good. Lots of experience.”
“I thought you were using a headhunter.”
“Yeah, but Bob asked if I’d interview this woman as a favor to a friend.”
“Then why is she in Hearts Bend?”
“Family reason. Wrote it all down somewhere. We’ll meet her on Thursday. By the way—” Rick paused with a hitch in his sigh.
“What?” Sam said.
“It’s nothing, really, but weren’t you giving up the love ’em and leave ’em lifestyle? What happened to wanting a real relationship? Commitment.”
“Is this about Curvy Carla? I don’t even know her, Rick.”
“Never stopped you before.”
Sam winced. He hated who he’d been three, four years ago.
“She told me she was alone and wanted to go home. I should’ve known better.
But I played the Good Samaritan and drove her home.
Didn’t even get out of the car, Rick. End of story.
She’s a groupie. Had her hooks in Martelli until she got bored. ”
“I believe you, but I had to check,” Rick said. “Your private life is your business, but I notice we’ve had a lot more success since you changed your ways.” He cleared his throat. “I would be remiss as your fiduciary partner and advisor if I didn’t point that out.”
“Find the right woman for me and I’ll join you with the house and the picket fence with kids’ toys on the front lawn.
” The words slid out even though Sam doubted their truth.
He wasn’t one to commit. At least he’d been telling himself that for years.
But lately? He’d wondered if maybe there was someone out there for him.
Rick’s laugh came easy. “Deal, brother. Deal.”
Sam ended the call and turned onto Rosa Parks Boulevard.
A fine day this had turned out to be. He’d gotten in with Dr. Morgan, but the therapy and follow-up visits would put him in Hearts Bend every week.
Then Janice had pleaded with him to attend his dad’s sixtieth.
Now he was about to own a Hearts Bend tradition, Haven’s Bakery.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think this was some sort of celestial conspiracy.
Maybe it was time to be a man. Rick’s words, not his. Time to face the pain of his past. He wasn’t that fifteen-year-old anymore, watching his dad seduce another woman. Or watching his mom toss her suitcases into her car, declaring she was going to Charleston for some “me time.”
“I’ll be home soon, Sammy.”
Fifteen years later, he was still waiting.