Chapter 4
FOUR
LUCAS
I’m a sucker for a woman in heels, and this woman is missing one like a girl from a fairy tale. A dainty foot with pink toes is mostly covered in mud, and even coated from top to bottom, she’s gorgeous.
I reach out to help her up, and she hesitates, her vulnerable eyes focusing on me.
“Did you come over here to gloat?” she accuses.
I keep my face neutral—though it’s not easy because she looks like Two-Face from Batman . One side of her head is caked in mud, the other is normal. It’s honestly impressive.
"No," I say, deadpan. "I’m here to rescue the damsel in distress."
She grabs my hand with the clean one—at least she’s considerate—and I pull her up. The second she’s steady, she yanks her hand away like I’ve licked it.
I don’t know why that bothers me for half a second, but it does. Not that I care. She’s just a mom in tragic shoe choices whose kid my brother coaches.
“You ought to get cleaned up. Jace and I can keep a watch over Nolan while he practices,” I say in a low voice. I wasn’t planning to come today, but Jace needed an extra helping hand. He’s still exhausted from being sick.
“Thank you.” She nods and turns to Nolan. “I’ll be back soon to pick you up.”
“Okay, Mom.” His brow furrows. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m a mess, but nothing hurts too much. Beyond my pride anyway.” She smiles ruefully and nods to the field. “Your practice is starting. You should go. I’ll be fine.”
Nolan hesitates, like he wants to argue, but then he nods, turns, and runs toward Jace.
“Do you have a towel you can sit on in your car?” I ask.
She frowns and knits her dainty eyebrows together. “Oh, I didn’t think of that. I don’t think I do.” A chunk of mud slides off her cheek onto her shoulder. She stands there completely unfazed, like it’s a normal Tuesday.
“I have one you can use,” I offer.
She narrows her eyes. “You carry a towel in your car?”
I cross my arms. “Would you rather I air-dry?”
Her nose wrinkles, and she takes a step back, like just thinking about putting my used towel on her skin might infect her.
“You want me to use a dirty towel?”
I sigh. Why do people always assume the worst? It’s not like I’m diseased.
I clear my throat. “It’s cleaner than you are. I used it on my clean body.”
Her face goes through a rainbow of shades.
First pale with worry, then purple with anger, like I’ve accused her of being filthy, and finally bright red, like the image of the strip of terrycloth being against my naked body being held against her—even fully clothed—was too much for her brain to handle.
I should walk away for her to figure it out, but I don’t. Because I can’t stand to do nothing when a woman is in trouble. “If you want to clean up at that spigot by the baseball field, I can get my towel from my car.” I point to where a covered pavilion stands next to it.
She squints at me. “This is the most talking I’ve ever heard from you.”
Great. Now she’s keeping score.
She heads toward the pavilion, and I go to my car, pulling the towel from my trunk. Being the hero is exhausting.
When I get back to her, she’s leaning over the spigot, rinsing out her hair. Her shirt is white and streaked with mud and see-through where the water has splattered it. I avert my eyes and hand her the towel so she can cover herself.
“Thank you.”
I nod in her direction and head back to the game. I settle in my chair so I can study what the boys are doing. Nolan is the goalie, and he’s showing natural reflexes but no proper technique.
After practice is over, Nolan comes over to where one of the moms has drinks and snacks set up on a table. He approaches me with a Gatorade and a protein bar. “Mr. Hensley, thank you for helping my mom with your towel.”
I pause mid-drink and nearly choke. Why does this kid have to look so genuinely grateful? I hadn’t stopped to think about how Nolan might have perceived all of this.
I shrug. “All I did was the bare minimum.” The last thing I need is for this kid to think I’ve gone soft on his mom. Which I haven’t. I step forward and hide a wince. Sitting for the last hour has my knee feeling stiff.
“I heard you play soccer, too,” Nolan says. “My mom signed me up for a soccer mentorship, and I just found out I got it.”
“Is that right?” I wonder . . .
Nolan takes a sip of his Gatorade before running off to talk to a few of his teammates.
Jace turns to me, the soccer ball under his arm. “He’s with Play It Forward. His mom emailed me about it last night. Apparently, he got the mentorship, but they haven’t found someone to match him with yet. My guess is they’re waiting on you.”
I turn to Jace. “Milo has been harassing me about making a final decision.”
Jace drops the ball and sets his foot on top of it. “What’s holding you back?”
“I won’t be here forever. You know I’m planning to leave Roanoke and go back to Atlanta.”
“And he could learn a lot from you in the meantime,” Jace pushes.
“Nolan has a lot of raw talent, but he needs better technique. I’m doing my best with him, but our time together is limited.
He needs some one-on-one training with a goalie who knows what he’s doing.
Someone like you.” He runs a hand over his short, spikey, blond hair, so different from my long, wavy hair.
Anabelle is heading across the field toward us, freshly showered, having swapped that muddy disaster for a flowy sundress with blue flowers. Her hair is down and loose, and she’s wearing a straw hat like she belongs on a postcard or is about to chase me out of her garden.
I look away. Not my problem.
She smiles at me and waves, and I just stand there before turning away to get my bag. Time to leave.
“Did you get my email, Jace?” she says behind me.
“About the mentorship?” He glances sideways at me. Nope. Guilting me into helping this kid isn’t going to work.
“Nolan needs this opportunity. His dad was the one who got him into soccer, but he’s been pretty absent lately. I don’t want to see Nolan lose that progress he was making from all the one-on-one time he had with his dad.”
The kid’s dad bailed on him? Oh, no. I won’t get involved. No way. But I know the sting of a dad leaving. Mine left when I was five.
Jace looks over at me again. “Come on, man. It’s only a few times a week.”
Anabelle looks between us. “What? Is Lucas thinking about mentoring?” Those pink lips turn downward like she’s eaten something rotten. She shakes her head. “I’m not so sure you’re the right fit for Nolan.”
“Looks like we finally agree,” I grumble, grinding the toe of my cleat into the mud.
Jace turns to Anabelle. “You do realize Lucas is one of the best goalies in the country. There’s no one better in all of Roanoke to train Nolan. I’m sure if we email the people running Play it Forward we could get them connected.”
Her gaze darts to me. “I don’t know.”
I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. Like I’m some sort of unsavory character. Not that she’s wrong.
“Come on, Lucas. What’s it going to be? Can’t you convince the woman you can help her son?”
Nolan runs up to his mom and wraps his arms around her in a hug. She bends down and kisses his head. The boy is almost as tall as she is. She takes his hand, and they walk toward the parking lot.
Something unsettling twists in my chest. I exhale sharply. Come on!
“Fine,” I mutter.
Jace grins and slaps my chest. “I knew you would do it!”
I scowl. “Don’t make a big deal about it.”
I’m sitting in my truck after physical therapy when my phone rings. My older sister Hazel’s picture flashes up on the screen. She lives in our hometown of Twin Waves, North Carolina, and is a single mom to four girls, ranging from twenty down to two.
I don’t answer at first. I’m too exhausted to talk. But I give in and swipe across the screen.
“Hey, Lucas. How is therapy going for you?”
I sigh and rub my knee. “Still painful.”
“You’ve been through so much.” The genuine empathy in her voice makes me shift uncomfortably.
“Yeah, well. You’d think it would be getting better by now.”
She pauses, and I almost regret answering. Hazel always sees too much. But before I can say anything else, I blurt out, “Looks like I got volunteered into mentoring a kid Jace coaches.”
Silence stretches for a beat before she laughs gently. “I have to say, I never pictured you matched up with a kid.”
“Neither did I. It’s a big brother/big sister thing. Tommy said I need it for my image if I want to get back to Atlanta.”
“So, you don’t really have a choice.” I can practically hear her smirking. “Just don’t be too hard on the poor kid.”
“I make no promises.”
Hazel laughs again. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll soften you up a bit.”
“I don’t need to be ‘soft,’” I mutter with a scowl.
“Try smiling—it won’t kill you,” Hazel says.
“I smile enough.”
“Scowling doesn’t count,” she says brightly. “Anyway, call me if you need to vent, okay?
“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, but soften my voice a little. “Thanks, Hazel.”
I head over to Anabelle’s store. It’s off the beaten path.
Not the greatest location for traffic. It’s a wonder she can pay the bills.
Maybe she has a strong social media presence or something.
When I emailed Milo to let him know I was accepting the mentor position and that I’d like to be matched with Nolan, he emailed back within two hours to let me know he could make it work.
Which is why I’m now driving to Anabelle’s store.
There’s a small field behind her shop where we can practice.
I park and head inside the shop. Grandma would love it. Hazel would, too, though she’d immediately rearrange shelves and offer unsolicited business advice. Ever since Grandma passed her boutique chain down, Hazel thinks she’s a merchandizing expert.
Shelves are lined with homemade soaps, hand-crocheted stuffed animals, candles, and books. Definitely targeted toward women. Anabelle isn’t around, so I take some time to browse. I stop to organize a shelf of lotions.
“Can I help you?”
My hand freezes midair. I turn to the sound of Anabelle’s voice like a kid caught by the principal. When she meets my gaze, her pleasant expression dims.
“Oh, hi, Lucas,” she says in a flat voice. “Nolan is in the back. I’ll go get him.” She turns and disappears through a door near the register.
The door to the shop opens, and a plump woman wearing a blue dress and a straw hat with oddly bright orange flowers enters.
“Yoo-hoo! My dear? Are you around, Anabelle?” She swivels her head, and her gaze falls on me, rearranging a stand of homemade jams. Caught red-handed.
“Oh, hello there!” She heads toward me like a mother hen preparing to gather her chicks.
Her eyes are wide as she takes in my little housekeeping project.
“I don’t think we’ve met before.” Like it’s unusual to see someone you don’t know in this town.
Maple Creek is so weird. “Are you Anabelle’s new employee? ”
Anabelle emerges from the back room with Nolan, saving me from having to speak to this woman who acts like she wants to know my deepest secrets.
“Lucas!” Nolan runs to me, eyes bright—a reminder of how much I’ll probably let him down. What have I gotten myself into?
“Nolan, remember to say hi to Mrs. Wheaton,” Anabelle urges.
He turns to her and waves. “Hi.” He immediately turns back to me with that eager look in his eyes. I gulp. Here we go.
“I see you hired some more help,” Mrs. Wheaton says excitedly.
Anabelle’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Did I get it wrong?” She looks between us, and her brows rise like she’s just figured out where the buried treasure is. “Oh, is this your new man?”
Anabelle’s mouth drops in horror, and her cheeks tinge pink. “Absolutely not!”
I frown. She really loves shoving this in my face, doesn’t she?
“If he’s not in love with you”—Mrs. Wheaton waves her arms as she speaks—"and he’s not your employee, then why is he rearranging your store?”
Someone put me out of my misery. Please.
“Lucas is my big brother,” Nolan explains. “He’s here to teach me about soccer.”
Mrs. Wheaton narrows her eyes, as if she’s just cracked a decade-old Maple Creek scandal. "Oh! Did your father have a little… ahem … adventurous past?"
“He’s not actually his brother.” Anabelle’s cheeks are bright red by now. “They’re in a big brother/big sister mentorship.”
“Oh, silly me! What a wonderful opportunity for you, Nolan.”
“We should get going,” I say, before this woman adopts me or arranges a wedding. I’m not sure I can handle another moment with this woman.
As I head for the door, I can feel Anabelle’s gaze burning a hole in my back. Her hand reaches out and sears my arm just as I step outside—warm, firm, and impossible to ignore.
“Lucas,” she says, her voice low with suspicion. “Why were you rearranging my store?”
I glance down at her fingers on my skin, then at her flushed face.
Caught red-handed. Again.