Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (16 page)

She glanced over her shoulder at him, face pinched. “Go outside with Terrell,” she said, scrubbing a plate harder than seemed necessary. “I’ll clean up.”

“I told him I’d be out in a bit.” Mike set the dishes next to the sink. He leaned backward against the counter. “I missed you last night.”

She kept quiet, intent on the dirty dishes.

“They put me at a table with some Bears players. Nice guys. Big, though. The mayor was at the next table over. My friend Travis got stuck with a bunch of highbrows, but knowing him, he probably enjoyed it.”

She dropped silverware into the water, the clatter a slap to his dying patience.

“Felt like I talked to everybody there. People stopped by my table all night.” He gave her a sideways glance, but she didn’t seem to be listening. “Of course, I would have told them to get lost if you’d been there.”

Still no reaction.

“You can’t be mad at me for this, Meg. I wanted to take you. It stunk going with someone else.”

“Didn’t look like it,” she snapped.

This woman… “I paid for two tickets. I had to take someone. So stop making judgments based on what you think you’ve seen.”

She faced him, her jaw clenched, anger blazing in her eyes. “What I think I’ve seen? What about what I
know
happened?”

“I’m not talking about the past, Meg! I’m talking about last night. You saw… what? Half a second of us with our hands together? I wasn’t holding her hand. She held mine, and I got out of it as fast as I could.”

This wasn’t worth it. This was
not
worth it. If only he liked Sara; then he’d call her back like she wanted.

But he didn’t like her.

Not that he liked Meg at the moment, either. He bit down on his tongue and forced himself to stay. To wait for her to speak.

She rinsed one dish after another, the dishwasher slowly filling.

She was gonna drive him crazy.

He leaned back to catch her eye and force her to acknowledge him.

Her cheeks looked damp.

“Are you crying?”

“No.” She swiped her cheeks with her wrist. “I splashed water on my face.”

He’d never meant to hurt her. At least, not this time. Why were they suddenly so bad for each other? “Meg, you can’t jump to conclusions.” He reached for her shoulder.

She backed away, sudsy hands in front of her. “Don’t touch me,” she spat, tear tracks continuing down her face.

His temper snapped. “Believe me. It’s not even tempting right now.”

Her eyes hardened. Flickered.

Good.

He swallowed. No, not good. He’d just hurt her worse.

But she’d pushed him to it. What woman turned a guy down, then got upset when he took someone else? Did Meg not get her own insanity?

She returned to the sink. “Go outside with Terrell.”

Might as well. “I’m taking him with me. He can play on the field, hit in the batting cage. A kind of graduation present. You good with that?” Not that he cared. He
was
taking Terrell.

She shrugged. “Whatever, Mike. Just go.”

He headed for the back yard.

How had this week gone so wrong?

The view through her office window reflected her emotions perfectly. Dark treetops across the street bounced beneath the wind and pounding rain, their movements backlit by flashes of lightning. The storm hadn’t started until Mike’s game ended, but her clock showed it was after eleven, and Mike and Terrell still weren’t back from the stadium.

She flipped her pen end-over-end between her fingers. Her anger from Friday had morphed into cold numbness. And why not? Mike had forced her to relive the old pain of his betrayal. For all she knew, the woman he’d been with had been Brooke.

Meg gave up trying to distract herself with work and shut off her computer before trudging downstairs. The kitchen was spotless, but anger always did that to her. Their Texas townhouse had been spotless, too, when she turned in her key to her lawyer and returned alone to her parents and the soothing smells of the farm.

She stood before the bank of kitchen windows, staring at the Ashburns’ house. A single light shone from their living room. What would Jill’s advice be?

The light went out.

So much for that idea. Looked like she was on her own.

Jill, of course, would say Meg was not. She had God. The Bible.

But the pain of desertion still craved human comfort.

And tonight even Terrell was gone. With the one who’d deserted her.

A car door’s slam drew her to the living room. She peeked between closed curtains.

Mike lifted a sleeping Terrell from the Range Rover. He held him against his chest and hunched over him to protect him from the downpour before darting up her sidewalk.

Meg let the curtain fall. If only someone would shield her like that.

She could already hear Jill saying that God
did
care for her like that, and, while Meg knew it was true, she was afraid to let her hurt go and be limp—like Terrell—in her heavenly Father’s arms.

Doing that would require her to forgive all that Mike had done.

Mike was sick of rain.

Sunday evening the team arrived in Kansas City with storm clouds towering in the west. At the airport, wind whipped his suit coat and pants against him as he boarded the team bus. By the time they reached the hotel, blowing rain drenched everything, and the sound of wind and water beating his window kept him from a deep sleep.

That and Meg.

More storms rolled in Monday, twice halting the night’s game while the grounds crew spread the tarp over the infield. Mike spent the rain delays with his teammates in the clubhouse, but he escaped once and jogged up the runway to look at the field. Sheets of rain blew across the stadium. He leaned against the cement wall, wondering if Meg’s stormy coldness had passed.

In the morning, the sun peeked around the clouds, but the rain came and went all afternoon. By game time, the outfield was soaked again. Mike dove for a ball in the first inning, only to catch a faceful of grass and water.

Before the inning ended, the light rain turned into a downpour, starting another rain delay.

Mike ran across the field to the dugout, water splatting up around each footfall. Once inside the clubhouse, he paced. Rain delays were the worst, but two straight nights of them?

Again he jogged down the runway and stared through the dugout.

Fine droplets blew in toward him.

He needed something to distract himself, something to relieve this stress that seemed to build with every minute. He stepped farther into the dugout, letting rain touch him. Like he could get any wetter after his hydroplaning act.

The tarp caught his attention.

He ran up the dugout steps and onto the grass. In a few strides he reached the edge of the rain-covered tarp and dove head first. The cool water shocked him, but he held himself straight as he slid, water piling on either side of his body. He’d hear about it, for sure, but a guy could only stand so much rain and time and angry ex-wives. He slid once more, feeling better. The few fans left cheered him, but he gave them only a token nod as he returned to the dugout. He hadn’t done it for them.

Like a dog, he shook his head, water flying from his hair.

In the clubhouse, teammates laughed at something on the television.

Mike joined them and watched himself dive onto the tarp.

Will Hamrick tossed him a towel. “You look like you might need this.”

Mike ran the towel over his face, hair, and neck. “Think they’ll call it?”

“They just did. No sense wasting the night. Let’s go out.”

Not in this mood.

But by the time he’d showered and dressed, Will had talked a third of the team into hitting a club.

Mike caved and joined them.

He, Will, and Travis shared an Uber ride. Mike dug out his phone, tempted—for some bizarre reason—to call Meg.

Why? To irritate her more? To mend fences?

Hard to fix them when she’d demolished them.

But his phone showed that she’d called him. During the game. He smiled his surprise. His relief.
She’d
called
him.

Wait. She knew he wouldn’t be able to answer his phone.

Was something wrong?

Or had she wanted to tell him off when she knew he couldn’t say anything back?

There was no message.

Okay. He pocketed the phone. He’d find someplace private at the club to call her back.

By the time the car stopped in front of the club, the downpour had lessened, but the sidewalks were still empty. Mike slid across the seat and out the door after Travis, pausing to tip the driver before catching up to Will and Travis.

The double doors of the club opened, and a couple ran out with a shared coat over their heads. Neither noticed him, which was fine. He caught the door, following his friends inside.

Voices and laughter mingled with the band that played on one side. The smell of burgers and fries suddenly called him, waking hunger he thought he’d already satisfied. He worked his way through the crowd to the opposite side where Will, Travis, and five other teammates surrounded two tables. He’d place an order, then call Meg.

With food coming, he headed for the exit. Outside he’d be able to hear her better, even with the rain.

Which had slowed to a soft gentle shower.

“Where’ve you been for the past three days?” he muttered as he found Meg on his phone. He stayed under the building’s overhang, tucked into the corner, and listened as her phone rang.

The doors opened, a lone man filing out, the band’s noise exiting with him.

Mike turned his head into the corner and stuck a finger in his ear in time to hear Meg say hello.

“Meg, it’s Mike. I’m returning your call.”

“My call?” She sounded confused. “From when?”

“Tonight, eightish?”

“I didn’t call you. I was cleaning Terrell’s—” She halted, and when she spoke again, a smile colored her words. “Terrell called you. I was coming downstairs from my office and caught him acting funny. I must have walked in on him.”

“Sorry I missed him.” Their Saturday at the stadium had been a blast, despite how the day had begun. “Is he awake?”

“No.”

“Bummer. Well, tell him he can call me anytime.”

A noise distracted him, and he looked over his shoulder as someone walked by, head down in the rain. He turned back to the brick corner. “How are you?”

“I’m all right.” She didn’t elaborate. “I should go. I’ve got laundry to fold.”

“That can’t wait?”

“It’s been waiting. We’re digging through it each morning.”

“Got it. Then I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’ll tell Terrell you called.”

“Thanks. Meg, wait.” He pressed his lips together. He shouldn’t say this. He shouldn’t start it all over again— “She isn’t anybody, Meg.” But Sara had been, he remembered after the words were out. “I don’t want you to think… I’m not seeing anyone. I don’t have my eye on anyone but you.”

She said nothing.

He took in a deep breath. Why did he keep putting himself out there? He forced his voice to be light. “What about you? Have your eye on anyone?”

Her voice, this time, was gentle. “Mike, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Then
what
, Meg? Tell me what to talk about.”

She kept quiet for a moment. “We enjoyed your slide. It looked fun.”

She watched his games? Even after their fight Saturday? “It was a decent stress reliever.”

“Well, good, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Mike, I’m—I hope your stress isn’t from me.”

How did he answer that?

She sighed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“No, Meg. Don’t—just—” He stumbled over his words and swallowed before trying again. “I don’t want us handing out fault every time we turn around. Yeah, I’m a little stressed, but so are a lot of guys on the team. I hear that’s life.”

“Maybe.”

The silence returned. Mike held his breath.

“Well, thanks, Mike. I should go. Our clothes are still waiting.”

“Sure.” He pushed off the wall with his shoulder. “Go have fun with your laundry.”

She gave him the light chuckle he’d almost forgotten. “I will. Goodnight, Mike.”

“Night.” He’d made her laugh. They’d actually had a conversation that went… well? Was that the right word? No one was mad, she wasn’t crying… Hope rose—flooded—through him. This was good. This was really—

“Mike Connor?”

He turned toward the male voice behind him. “That’s me.”

A hooded figure stood with arms upraised. Mike looked up as the arms began their downward swing.

They held a crowbar.

Mike threw an arm up over his head.

The crowbar smashed against his forearm.

White-hot pain knifed through him, the blow knocking him backward into the brick. He clutched his arm to his chest as he fell to the ground, the burning on the side of his head minor compared to the agony in his arm.

A clank sounded.

Mike braced for another blow.

But the man was gone, already a distant figure down the street.

A woman dashed into view, almost toppling over his feet.

Reflexes jerked his body into a ball, his elbow banging the brick. Pain flashed up his arm. Mike let out a gush of air, not recognizing his own cry of pain.

Because he’d never felt pain like this before.

The woman pointed down the street. “Did that guy hit you?”

Awareness registered. Someone had attacked him.

Another woman dropped beside him, brown hair sliding over her shoulder. “Are you okay? Did you see who did that?” She looked from his arm to his face, then sat back on her heels. “You’re—”

Pain sent dark shapes across his vision. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. His shoulders shook. “Just call the police.”

Seconds later she spoke into her phone.

But the words didn’t register. He pressed his lips together, barely holding back the agony that pushed from the pit of his stomach.

Breathe, man. Deep breath. Breathe.

He opened his eyes to find the other woman kneeling at his feet, focused on his arm.