6. Brody
Iwalked down Main Street, my lower leg nagging like a kid on a long journey. After two more nights on Maggie Swan’s lumpy couch, I was almost ready to pack up and move to the Owls Inn. Damp or not. I’d tossed and turned each night, battling knobbly foam and springs intent on impaling my limbs. But every time the idea of leaving for a solid bed and crisp white sheets gripped me, my mind drifted back to Ro. To the way I’d flirted with her at the diner.
I shouldn’t have done it. Teased her so hard. I promised myself I’d keep things strictly business between us. That I’d keep Ro completely in the “best friend’s sister” zone. Still, that morning, I’d found myself back at the Swallow, knowing she’d be there. I couldn’t help myself. She was just too cute to resist with the way her cheeks fired pink as we bantered.
I had the distinct impression that she’d been avoiding me since the diner. In fact, I hadn’t seen Ro for over ten minutes in total these last couple of days. The idea left a nasty taste.
Even a night out with Coop at the Crow Bar hadn’t sweetened my homecoming. I’d made the right noises, smiled, and cracked on the charm when he introduced me to a couple of women, but my heart wasn’t into meeting anyone. I had bigger things to worry about.
Taking a sip of downtown air, I stepped onto the curb, crossing the road to the Town Square. I always found the little park there oddly comforting. Sometimes, it was full of activities, with kids practicing their cornhole toss and old boys playing Kerplunk on the little stone tables. Other times, it was quiet, like today.
I stepped onto the gravel path, and my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. The word Alex lit the screen. My mouth ran dry. Alex Marshall was an old friend. We dated for a while, back in college, but I’d signed with the NHL, and she moved into sports journalism. Since then, we’d had a mutually beneficial and purely professional relationship. Scratched each other’s backs. She fed the publicity machine, and I gave her exclusives. An all-round win-win.
I found a bench under the oaks that wasn’t coated with pigeon crap and took a seat. Alex contacted me a few times since I’d smashed my leg. She’d wanted a quote or news on my recovery, but lately, she’d only asked about my contract status. And why there’d been no official statements. I pushed a breath out through my teeth. I guess Alex had a nose for bad news.
I opened her text.
Alex: Where are you? I’ve heard some rumblings on the grapevine about your contract. I can’t get hold of your agent, and your team management is as tight-lipped as a clam. Call me.
I swallowed. I hadn’t heard from my agent either. Not even the big-wigs back in Denver. Nobody returned my calls. It’d be pretty tragic for a sports reporter to have information that could affect my whole life before I did. A prickling hit the back of my neck, spreading down my arms. If only I could talk some sense into the doctor. Get him to clear me to play. Once I returned to the action, I’m sure my leg would hold up just fine.
Sighing, I pocketed my phone and looked at the canopy overhead. The late afternoon sun was trying its hardest to break through the thick branches, and the only sound, apart from the light hum of traffic, was the wind coming through the leaves. Or was it? I cocked my ear to listen. Was that a faint scraping noise? Or a grinding? I checked the seat underneath me. If termites were at work, I needed to move. I couldn’t afford to fall on my ass if the bench gave way.
But the noise wasn’t coming from under me. It came from the other side of the park. I stood and headed in its direction. Maybe a couple of residents were out practicing their moonwalking. I saw a poster for a Dance like Michael Jackson festival next month. But there was no singing. No high notes.
The scraping noise got louder as I walked past the playground and across the lawn. Before long, movement caught my attention through the trees. A flash of color.
I broke through the foliage onto the tiny performance space toward the lake, and there she was. She didn’t see me, though. Rowena Swan had her eyes shut, pink headphones hugging her ears as she spun in a tight circle. The wheels of her roller skates scraped on the smooth concrete beneath her.
The tiniest denim shorts topped her toned brown legs, and the dark hair of her ponytail snaked around her body in centrifugal abandon. As she spun out, she lifted her arms above her head and turned faster. My mouth hung open. Man, she had talent.
And then she tipped her head back, her ponytail whipping the cream skin of her waist. Wrapping around her high breasts. My dick nudged the fly of my jeans at the sight. “Get a grip,” I mumbled. Remember, this was Coop’s little sister.
I’d already spent the last couple of days battling unholy thoughts about Ro. Ever since the moment I’d seen her in the dark, in the kitchen, tight up against the cooker, her ass softly jiggling as she worked the eggs in the pan.
That night brought back clear memories of her prom. I’d never made such a stupid, selfish move as kissing Ro, and the hopeful look in her eyes on the porch still haunted me. I suspected she had a crush. She’d hung out with Coop and me that whole summer. But when the chips were down, I’d acted like an a-hole and kissed her anyway. Ignored my good sense and followed my hormones.
I’d felt something that summer. That night. A pull between the two of us. I’d put it down to anticipation. Excitement for my future. But now, seeing her again reminded me of why I’d been so reckless. And if I was really honest, I never regretted the kiss. Not once. Only the way I’d left her. High and dry, without explanation. Without an apology.
My vision snapped back into focus as Ro slowed, never once opening her eyes. When her rotation stopped, she executed a sweeping arc. She skated backward in a circle, her hands as graceful as a ballerina. How the hell was she not crashing into something? I’d give my eyeteeth for some of her skills. Sure, ice skates and roller skates were a little different, but there was no mistaking her expertise.
Ro changed her lead foot and switched back to face forward, coming to rest in the middle of the space, opening her eyes. I stepped onto the concrete, fresh grass cuttings clinging to my sneakers.
“Hi, Ro,” I shouted so she could hear me over the music that must be playing in her ears.
She snapped her gaze in my direction and found me. “Brody,” she said, pulling away some hair that clung to her cheek.
Her chest heaved as she sucked in air, and I struggled to drag my eyes away. “I hope you don’t think I’m stalking you. More like spying. No, scratch that. Spying sounds even worse.” At the blank look on her face, I decided to quit word vomiting while still slightly ahead. “You’re incredible on skates, Ro.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she rolled closer, stopping in a tight circle. “Sorry?“ She pulled her headphones from around her ears, bringing them to rest around her neck. “I didn’t hear a word of that.”
Thank fuck. “You’re great. On your skates, I mean. I had no idea.”
She gave me a half smile, her cheeks glowing the lightest pink. With a flip of her ponytail, she skated to the stone bench serving as the front row of Tuft Swallow’s outdoor theater. Putting her weight on a stopper, she sat down and crossed one leg over the other. She looked so prim and proper with her pink wheels still turning in the air.
I joined her, brushing a few stray leaves from my shirt. I didn’t want her to think I made lurking in bushes a regular thing. I had no idea what to say. What I should talk about. The flowery smell of her perfume had me leaning in a little. “Why didn’t you tell me you could skate like that? I know your mum gave you some lessons back in the day, but that was awesome. Next level.”
Her cheeks blushed a darker rose now. “I found some old tapes of her performances. Took them to be converted to DVD. I’d forgotten how good she was.”
“How good you are,” I said, trying hard not to sound like a crushing fanboy. “With moves like that, you could be famous.”
She chuckled, a light little laugh that lifted the corners of my mouth.
“I’m nothing special.” She turned on me, poking a finger into my shoulder with a grin. “But you are. You made the paper!”
That was nothing new. There weren’t many weeks when I didn’t make some or other sports sections. “Which one?”
“The only one that matters.” Ro’s sing-song voice had me on high alert. She dug a hand into the pocket of her shorts. My eyes followed the long indent of her thigh muscle, and I chewed on my bottom lip. After a beat, she pulled out a folded piece of paper and then spread it against her leg, running her hands over its surface. It took all my strength not to reach out and help.
Once smoothed, she held it up. The words “The Nosey Pecker” ran across the top. I’d forgotten about Tuft Swallow’s popular gossip rag. It came out intermittently, and nobody knew who printed it. But if you wanted to know any of the town gossip, you could find it there.
Ro cleared her throat theatrically and read it out loud.
“Small town hero returns! Form an orderly queue, ladies. Brody ‘Flock’ Flockhart is back in town and will surely break a few hearts. Watch this space for updates.”
I laughed. “What the hell? I can’t believe the whole Pecker thing is still going. It’s been years. Has anyone worked out who writes it yet?”
Ro shook her head, refolding the paper. “My mum used to read these to me for my bedtime stories. Better than fairy tales, she’d say.”
“You still miss her?” The ridiculous question didn’t even deserve a response, but Ro sucked in a heavy breath and hung her head a little. My gut twisted at the tiny furrow that appeared on her brow.
“Every single day.”
I frowned, wanting to kiss her trembling lips. Pull her into my arms and take some of the sadness away. Instead, I fumbled for conversation.
“She skated professionally, right?”
Her mouth lifted a little, and she brought her eyes to mine. “State dance champion 1989.”
I ran my fingertips over the gritty stone seat. “You could do something with your skating, too.”
A scoff left her lips. ”I teach roller dance to the local kids on a Sunday. It’s hardly the same thing.”
“Really?” I grinned, thinking of her surrounded by a gaggle of out-of-control kids on skates. “I hate to tell you, teaching roller skating and crocheting won’t make your fortune.”
Again, her brow furrowed a little. “Does that matter? Why do I need to be rich?”
“Okay, so you don’t want to be rich. But what do you want to do with your life? Pulling gas pumps isn’t going to get you out of Tuft Swallow, either.”
Ro shrugged as if to shake off my questions. “I have no clue. I know I should be full of ideas. Full of dreams. But I love this little town. I don’t wanna leave. It’s weird. It”s ridiculous sometimes. But I can’t imagine living anywhere else. In Tuft Swallow, the little things make a difference.”
“So, no grand plans at all?” Like moving nearer to Denver?
“Not currently. I love working at the Plume. I get free rein over the slushie machine and plenty of crochet time. Besides, why does everyone have to want something bigger and better?”
I pulled my lips together and brought a hand to the back of my neck. “Like me, you mean?”
Her mouth dropped a little, and she sucked in some air as if realizing how her words might have stung. Countless news articles described me as laser-focused, verging on obsessive. Flock Flockhart went after what he wanted. And he got it.
“I didn’t mean that. You have a talent. Worked hard. You followed your dreams.”
“Yeah, and now look at me.” The bitter edge in my voice grated on my ears.
Ro shifted on the seat, threading her ponytail around her fingers. “Eve told me about your leg being worse than everyone thinks. How bad is it?”
A slow burn crept up my chest. “How does Eve know about my leg?” As far as I knew, there’d been nothing in the press outside official statements. No leaks from the rehab care staff or the doctor’s office.
“She read about it online somewhere. Eve hero worships you. Everyone does around here.”
Normally, I’d throw out a cheeky comeback. A question about whether Ro hero worshiped me too, but a heaviness settled over my body. “It’s bad. I shattered some bone in the fall. Like a freak break, and there was no pinning it back together.”
A bitter taste filled my mouth. I’d only admitted the truth out loud to my parents and Coop. Speaking those words into the universe and in front of Ro made it more real. Exposed my weakness. “I’ve worked hard to strengthen the leg back up. I’ve done everything I can, but the worst of it is, whatever happens, is out of my control.”
My chest heaved a little heavier. Why couldn’t I stop the words from tumbling out? A lump sat in my throat, and I couldn’t swallow it away. Fuck, I couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t burst into tears any second. “Any decision about my future depends on one examination. One opinion.”
Ro turned into me. “What do you mean?”
“My contract is coming up for renewal, but if the surgeon says it doesn’t look good,” I met her dark brown eyes, “It’s over.” My voice wavered as I spoke. “I have to get back on the ice, Ro. I don’t know what else I’ll do.”
A line etched between her brows. “But it’ll be okay, right?”
I shrugged. “Best case, I get everything clear and go back to my team.”
“And the worst?”
I paused, steadying my breath. What the hell was wrong with me? “They’ll say I’m unfit to play. If that happens, Denver won’t re-sign me, and neither will anyone else. There’d be no hushing it up. No team in their right mind would hire me again.”
Ro raked her eyes over my face, the line between her brows deepening. An ache hit my chest, and my head throbbed. I wanted her to hold me so much it hurt. To press into my body. Wind her arms around me and help me forget about my leg. My career. The air between us compressed, and all I could focus on were the freckles on her nose.
As if feeling the pull, Ro looked away. Shoving her hands against the concrete, she shifted back on the bench, bringing one of her legs up, knee to chin. She pulled at the laces of her skate. “We should get back. Gran’s making pot roast tonight.”
Her words were so pedestrian, so ordinary. Why, then, did they leave a gaping wound in my chest? I closed my eyes. The last thing Ro needed was to witness my pity party in the park. I forced a smile. “Sure.”
Ro tugged her skate from her foot. After placing it on the floor, she leaned down to haul her bag off the concrete. Stowing it on the seat next to me, a bright piece of paper poked out of the top. The word Scalpers caught my eye. “What’s this? ”
She stopped unlacing her other skate, following my eyeline. “Ha! Just a dumb idea. Eve gave it to me.”
“May I?” My hand hovered over the paper. Ro shrugged, and I picked it up, scanning the words on the flier. My eyes widened, an energy building up in my body. “A derby try-out? You should totally do it! You’d be great.”
She looked at me as if I’d suggested she take up jello wrestling.
“Hey, I know a little about skating.”
She scoffed, pulling on the laces of her skates extra hard. “You know about ice skating, Brody.”
I shook my head. “Are you doubting me? Ro, you have skills.”
“Yeah, but being on wheels is different.”
I folded the flier in half then half again. “Not necessarily. You’d make a great jammer.”
She paused, crinkling her nose. “A what?”
“A jammer. That’s the person who scores the points in derby. You could skate rings around the blockers with your maneuvers.”
Ro giggled. The sound had fingers curled around my gut, giving it a gentle squeeze. “How do you know so much about roller derby?”
There was no point lying about it. She knew I wasn’t a monk. “I dated a derby player. Maybe two or three. Not together, and not for long, but I went to a few bouts. Learned a little. Enough to know you’d be more than useful.”
Ro eyed me, and the warm breeze ruffled through the stray strands of her ponytail. After a long beat, she shook her head. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
She was crazy to doubt her talent, but I wasn’t about to strong-arm her. If I remembered right, Ro didn’t like to be told what to do. She liked to find her own way to a decision. I turned my face into the breeze, and a glint of light in the distance made it through the trees. Sunlight on water. “Do they still have boats for hire out on the lake?”
“Yes. Why?” Ro pulled off her other skate, massaging her foot through its thick woolen sock.
“Nothing,” I lied. “I guess I’m just feeling nostalgic.”
“You remember the lake?”
Oh, I remembered the lake, alright. I remembered that last summer in town, and the day me, Coop and a couple of friends stole a rowboat tethered by the jetty. We headed onto the water and laid low in the hull so the crazy bird watchers wouldn’t spot us. They were always hanging around whenever we were out to have fun. We bobbled around for a while, drinking beer and talking about girls, when Ro poked her soaking wet head unannounced over the side.
She’d swum out to find us. Coop wanted to send her right back, but she refused. She’d dragged out a backpack loaded with beer cans from lord only knew where, so we’d let her stay. Who knew beer cans floated? We’d spent the entire afternoon in the bottom of that boat, drinking, playing poker, and laughing until sunset.
By the time we got back to shore, it was dusk, and Ro had had her first taste of beer. Probably more of it than she should have. Coop had a date, so I’d seen Ro home. Even held her hair when she’d vomited in the neighbor’s hedge. I’d held her upright as she fought waves of nausea and I covered up for her when I finally got her home. I made sure she got into bed okay. Just like any big brother would.
But that day, and that night, was the first time I’d seen Rowena as anything other than a little sister. The memory of her reaching out for me as I tucked her into bed stayed with me. Her heavy-lidded eyes glazed with something other than booze.
“Brody, are you ready?”
My head snapped back to the present. Ro stood beside me, skates slung over her shoulder, their faded, pink wheels a little discolored. “Your skates are pretty old.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “They were Mom’s.”
My gut plummeted. Awesome. Just nominate me for the Nobel sensitivity prize. Reaching out, I touched her arm, fingertips brushing her soft skin. “I’m sorry. I guess it never gets easier.”
She stared at my hand, and I counted her breaths. Four.
Her mouth opened to speak, but a tinkling, followed by a clatter and a nudging at my back, demanded my attention. I whipped around to see two beady, rectangular eyes staring back at me. A goat? It stood on the rock bench behind me. It had to be the one I’d seen the other morning. Today, it had on a yellow sweater, but before I could ask why, it bit into my sweatshirt, chewing down hard.
“Winston!” Ro squealed, grabbing the material and pulling hard. After a few tugs, the animal loosened its grip and let out a strangled bleat.
“Er, why is there a goat here? In the park?”
Ro chuckled. “Oh, that’s just Winston. He loves to hang out here. Maybe it’s the height of the benches. Must remind him of the mountains or life in the wild.” Her infectious grin had me smiling.
“He doesn’t look very wild. And he has terrible taste in knitwear. Yellow isn’t his color.” Winston ground a hoof into the stone behind me, and his nostrils flared as if annoyed we’d removed his meal. “Is he getting angry?”
“No. You just have to know how to handle him.” She ran a hand through the shaggy hair on his head.
“Who owns him? He just seems to wander around. Like the town is his own petting zoo.”
“Ha! We have one of those, too, now. It’s especially for animals on the more portly side.”
From the earnest look on her face, I guessed she wasn’t kidding. “I’m not even going to ask.”
Ro turned to leave, and I followed suit, sticking my tongue out at Winston like a toddler. My sweatshirt was expensive.
“Nobody knows the actual name of his owner. He runs the auto shop,” she said over her shoulder. “Nice guy.”
“And what’s with all the sweaters? I’ve seen two, and I haven’t been in town long.”
She grinned. “Winston has a substantial wardrobe. His dad is a member of the Dirty Hookers.”
“The what?”
“Keep up. It’s the knitting group I belong to.”
“Knitting group?”
Ro looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Yes, silly. Like I told you. I crochet. And also help Mrs. Woodcock run the group. It’s fun.”
My lips trembled as I tethered up the grin I wanted to unleash. “Just like I said, you’re going to be old before your time. This town is sucking away your youth.”
She looked at me from under her lashes, and my gut tugged low.
“I mean it. You should be out raising hell, Ro, not picking up dropped stitches.”
We were almost at the road now, the grass giving way to asphalt. We waited for a rusty old tractor to roll by before we crossed.
“You should try it,” she said.
“Driving farm vehicles?”
“No, silly. Crochet. It’s therapeutic. Might take your mind off your leg problems.”
I smiled, swallowing a protest. For months, my ”leg problems” monopolized my thoughts. Filled every waking hour. But that was how it should be. My goal was to get back on to the ice, not kick around in small towns, knitting sweaters.
I had a goal, a life to get back to. But as I ran my eyes over Ro, I chuckled to myself. Even if crochet was therapeutic, and small towns had their charm, the only thing I needed to take my mind off my troubles was standing right next to me.