Chapter 13 Brooks #2
I’d love to hear her parents’ reactions to this, but that means they would have to know the real story, and I’m not sure how much Lindsey is going to share with them about that.
I get the feeling she’s not ready to make what happened between us anything more than a secret for now.
I’m bummed a little, but I also understand.
Our lives are complicated, each in their own way.
And Lindsey’s divorce isn’t official yet, so according to the state of Oklahoma, she’s one step away from wearing a scarlet letter.
You’d think Brandon would be the one worrying about that. Laws turn a blind eye to men sometimes.
Most times.
I imagine Lindsey’s words in my head, and it makes me smile. My memories then drift to the soft curve of her hips, and the way they felt under my hands while I held her off the bed just enough to drive my cock inside her.
“You awake, Brooks?” Jayden snaps his fingers at me, and I shake myself from my daydream before reaching into the bucket of balls and setting another one up for him on the tee.
“Yeah, sorry. Had a late night,” I say through a yawn. It’s not a total lie. And having a baby is a good built-in excuse to be tired.
“I bet. I don’t know how you do it, man. My mom was always tired when me and my brother were growing up. She was a single mom and all that,” he says, lining up his bat and narrowing his focus to the ball before taking a solid hack.
“Do you talk to your dad?” I ask, setting up another ball.
Jayden eyes me skeptically, so I fill him in a bit on my situation.
“I’m curious because mine just got out of prison, is all. I barely knew the man from the time I was ten on. And my single mom was basically useless, so . . .” I shrug, and Jayden’s gaze drops to his feet for a beat.
“Sorry, dude. I didn’t know. But hey, the dead-beat-dad club has some pretty cool members.” He holds his fist out and we bump knuckles. “My dad took off. He might be in prison. Who knows. But my mom is a saint. Sorry about yours. If you ever want a home-cooked meal and she’s in town . . .”
He makes the chef’s kiss motion, and I nod and laugh.
“Sounds good. I’m still banking on getting a meal at the Blackwoods’ one of these days.”
Jayden takes a swing then rests his bat on his shoulder and tilts his head as he glares at me.
“What?” I shrug.
“You mean Lindsey hasn’t cooked for y’all yet?” Jayden says it as if it’s something Lindsey is famous for and has done for everyone but me. I shift my weight on the bucket I’m sitting on.
“We haven’t exactly had time for family dinner. I’m busy, and when I’m home, that’s her time off. And she’s finishing her degree, so—”
“Listen, all I’m saying is you need to drop the hint that you heard she makes shepherd’s pie and southern cornbread. Leave it at that and see if she takes the hint.” Jayden fishes out his own ball, sets it on the tee, and knocks it to the back of the cage.
“Have you had her shepherd’s pie?” I lean forward and rest my elbow on my leg as I stare at him.
“Dude, I think you’re the only one who hasn’t, brother.” He snickers, then picks up another ball and takes one final hack before flipping the bat and pulling off his gloves.
I put in my hitting rounds for the next thirty minutes, and my hands are buzzing from my heavy swings.
Despite the chaos I left in my wake, when I left the house today, things seemed clearer than they have for years.
Lindsey’s going to need time, and I’m aware what happened between us can’t be a regular thing right away.
But also, there was more to it than just two adults needing a release.
I felt it. I know she did, too. There was too much passion in our kiss.
We said words with our bodies that neither of us has the courage to utter aloud.
And if I need to ease her into the idea that we can do this, I’m willing.
I’m the last one in the hitting tunnels, so I spend my time cleaning up the place, resetting the stools and wiping down the machines to make sure they’re fresh for the guys hitting tomorrow.
We travel this weekend, a road trip to the wonderous Ozarks for a series against the Royal Round Fish of Sutherlin County.
I don’t know what a round fish is, but my guess is it’s a bit . . . well . . . round.
I’m making my way back to the clubhouse, my gear bag slung over one shoulder, when a car door opens from a beat-up, boxy sedan parked in the handicapped spot closest to the front entrance.
I squint when the sun reflects off of the chrome siding on the door, but the second the door slams shut, I wish I hadn’t looked this way.
“Hi, son.”
My father holds up his open palm before stepping up on the sidewalk and making his way to me. I survey the immediate area, not for help but to make sure nobody is catching this moment I’d rather not live through.
“Why are you here?” I drop my bag by my feet, in case I need my hands.
When I was a kid, he sometimes pushed me around.
The odds of that are unlikely now, mostly because of the sheer physical calculations of my body compared to his.
Still, the reaction is ingrained in me. I feel better having all my tools at my disposal. If I need to block a punch, I can.
“I figured maybe stopping by your work would be a better way to see if we could talk. I understand how me showing up at your home felt like a violation.” He rocks back and forth on his feet as he talks, and his eyes struggle to remain fixed on me.
I’m pretty sure he’s tweaking. I’m sure he was the other day, too.
That’s how he exists, and there ain’t no amount of prison that’s going to cure him of that.
“Yeah, well, it’s a violation here, too.
It says so on the sign,” I say, pointing over my shoulder to the no-trespassing sign affixed to the gate I just walked through.
Technically, the front door is open to the public.
But I’m willing to run back to the practice facilities if it means he’ll leave me alone.
Instead of getting defensive, my father coughs out a laugh. The hacking takes over quickly, though, and he has to hold out a finger while he covers his mouth and clears his throat of some nasty sounding shit.
“All I want is a cup of coffee with you. Ten minutes over some eggs, maybe. Come on. What do you say?” He steps toward me and holds out his hand.
His nails are trimmed low, and his fingers are covered in tiny cuts that look to be infected.
I’m not sure whether it’s from razor blades or what, but I doubt it’s from his work in the scrap yard.
That kind of work leaves real, actual bruises.
My dad’s hands look sketchy as fuck. And they’re shaking.
“Fine. Friday morning, seven a.m. at Earl’s.
If you’re a minute late, I’m leaving. And I can only give you twenty minutes.
Then I have to get on a bus and leave for a game.
” I nod at his hand, refusing to shake it, and instead I spit on the ground.
My gaze hits his, and I make sure the expression on my face means business. He seems to get the message.
“I’ll be early. And this is my treat. Breakfast, I mean. And the company,” he says through an awkward chuckle.
“Whatever.”
I turn my back on him and walk toward the back entrance, and don’t let the weight of the moment hit me until I’m alone in the showers. There, I will the hot water to spray down the drain everything having to do with this new memory .