Harley Brennan, Running Back Page 19

  “Wait! Shy. Don’t. I know how you feel. But don’t.” He stepped over to the designer and placed his hand on her am. “Thank you. Thank you for everything. Let me walk you to your car.”

  He made a kneejerk motion to pick up her luggage, but she grabbed it.

  “You’re not supposed to do that.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry. Next time.”

  Vanessa arched an eyebrow. “Next time?”

  “Come on, Nessa. Give us a break.” Harley followed Shyla to her vehicle. “Thank you for everything, babe. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Yes, you could. You were right. You could have hired someone.”

  “I’d never find someone like you. You’re special.” He hugged her.

  “What about Miss Poison Tongue?” she said, snaking her arms around him.

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  Shyla leaned back to look at him, her eyes wide. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, well. It’s not going great.”

  “Are you going to break up with her?”

  “Right now I have to take care of my career. Football has to come first.”

  “Right. Be well, sweetie,” she whispered in his ear.

  “I’ll do my best. Take care of yourself.” He opened the car door. “I can do this, right?”

  She laughed and got behind the wheel. Harley stood in the cold, November day, wrapping his arms around himself, and watched her drive away. Funny, every time he did that, it hurt his heart. Soon, she’ll be a world traveler again. This crap with Marriage Minded will blow over, and she’ll have people begging her to design for them.

  A hollow feeling zinged through his body for a second before he turned and walked up the path back to the house. Can Vanessa even boil water? He shrugged. Time would tell.

  * * * *

  Shyla spent most of the ride home reading herself the riot act. What was she thinking? He belonged to someone else now. But couldn’t she be a friend? After all, she didn’t sleep with him. But was that only because he couldn’t? Of course, if he could, she wouldn’t have been there, or would she?

  Arguing back and forth with herself made the trip go quickly. Before she knew it, she was lugging her bag upstairs. She got a text from Mindy inviting her to dinner. She accepted gladly. Last thing she wanted was to be alone and to think about Harley Brennan.

  Mindy and Drew asked her a million questions. They were so star struck, it was cute.

  “I’ve never met anyone who knew a guy in the NFL,” Drew said, taking a bite of his chicken Marsala.

  “Me, neither,” Mindy put in. “Especially someone who was sleeping with an NFL player.”

  Shyla blushed despite herself. He had been her boyfriend. Sex would be expected. She didn’t need to be self-conscious. Undoubtedly, Mindy and Drew had slept together before they had gotten married. Still, somehow, she was embarrassed about it.

  Shy regaled them with some of her wonderful stories about being Harley Brennan’s girlfriend—involving planes passing in the night, eager groupies trying to push her out of the way, teammates, parties, secluded weekends on deserted islands. The more she talked about it, the more romantic their time together seemed. Four years ago, they’d met. A year ago, they’d parted. Now, the only thing she went to bed with regularly was regret.

  “We’ve been invited to Laura and Barney Dailey’s house for Thanksgiving. They have a big crowd, but they wanted me to invite you too. Do you have plans?”

  Me? Plans? Thanksgiving? Not a plan in the world.

  “Laura Dailey is the best cook in the county, maybe even the state,” Drew said, before seeing the look of disapproval on his wife’s face. “Except for Mindy, of course.”

  “I’d love to. Let me know what I should bring.”

  After dinner, Shyla went over her ideas for two of the shows next season with Mindy. She retrieved her mail and went to bed early. It had been a long day and a long week.

  Shyla kept busy designing and volunteering at the library. She helped set up a children’s art show, in conjunction with an afterschool program. She loved kids. Harley did too. She wondered how Miss Perfect Body felt about children. Shyla had a hard time picturing the statuesque brunette pregnant, or with peanut butter smeared in her hair. The thought made Shy giggle as she cleaned her apartment.

  Thanksgiving Day came quickly. Shyla received a warm welcome from Barney at the door. Wonderful aromas permeated the air. Gavin Daily and Drew ladled out mugs of hot, mulled wine. Women set the table and bustled in and out of the kitchen. Shyla could hear orders being barked by Laura Dailey and decided it was best to stay out of the way.

  She stood by the window. It was a gray day. The trees were bare, and an occasional squirrel scampered across their backyard, looking for a place to bury nuts. A flash of bright red against the taupe and brown of the landscape caught her attention. It was a northern cardinal looking for his Thanksgiving dinner. The window was cracked open, bringing in the call of the chickadee.

  Shyla smiled at the sounds of nature, hunkering down for a long, cold spell. She loved being amongst the creatures of the forest, something she’d missed when she’d lived in New York City. It took a trip to Central Park to come up against nature there.

  Her cell rang just as Laura was calling everyone in to dinner. It was her brother, John. Probably calling to wish me a happy holiday. She shrugged and turned off her phone. I’ll call him back after the meal.

  Nestled comfortably between Barney and Drew, Shyla joined the party for grace and shared, along with the others, her reason to be thankful.

  The food was delicious. Conversation died as the folks tucked into their meal.

  “Didn’t think you could outdo last year, Laura, but you did. Son of a bitch, lady. You’re some cook,” said Martin, Laura’s in-law.

  “Thanks, Martin. I think.”

  Martin’s wife nudged him, and he went back to eating. After they finished the main course, the men formed a clean-up crew under the direction of Barney. The women put on coats and headed outside for a walk. The sound of someone’s cell alerted Shyla that she had turned hers off. Once it was up, she remembered that John had called.

  Checking her phone, she discovered thirteen messages from him. She broke off from the others and dialed.

  “Well, it’s about time!”

  “It’s Thanksgiving here. I’m at someone’s house.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right. Totally forgot. I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Uh oh. You or Dad?”

  “Dad, I’m afraid.”

  “What is it?” She clenched her jaw and stopped to lean against a lamppost.

  “He died last night. I’m sorry to tell you this way, sis.”

  It was as if her lungs didn’t work. No air went in, and none came out. Her heart sped up, the pulse beating in her neck.

  “Shy? Shyla? You there? These damn international connections. Shyla!” He hollered.

  “I’m here,” she whispered.

  “You knew it was coming.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought I told you about his last doctor visit. It’s been touch and go for two weeks now. At least he’s out of his misery.”

  And I’m out of mine. Or am I?

  “I’m making arrangements to have his remains shipped to New York. I can’t come—finals. You’ll have to have a funeral place pick him up. Is there somewhere you can bury him?”

  “I don’t know. Please let me think. Let me think.” She switched off her cell. A weakness in her legs made her slide down the pole until she was sitting cross-legged on the cold, hard ground. A wetness on her cheek surprised her. Her body was numb, breathing shallow. Time stopped. She didn’t know how long she sat there before she heard her name called.

  “Shy? Shyla? Are you okay?” Mindy ran over.

  Shyla looked at her with unseeing eyes. She heard Mindy’s words, but they seemed to be a mile away, almost like a whisper in the wind. She pushed to her feet, steadying herself with the he
lp of the pole. Blood had drained from her face, making her dizzy.

  The next thing she knew, Drew had her in his arms as he marched up the steep stairs to her apartment. Once on the bed, the door closed, Shyla heard Mindy’s soft voice then nothing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next few days blurred into one long one. There was so much to do and almost no time to grieve. Laura and Barney put her in touch with a local church that had room in their small graveyard to bury her father, who’d left strict instructions not to cremate him.

  She had to find a funeral home that would pick him up at the airport and transport him to Pine Grove. She drove down to oversee the arrangements. There was one thing after another and a zillion government forms to fill out. Neither her father nor John had put money aside for a burial, so Shyla had to empty her savings account.

  It was sunny and a few degrees above freezing on the day of the funeral. The short service was arranged for ten o’clock. The minister asked her if she wanted to speak, but she declined. She had nothing good to say and refused to trash the man who was half the reason she was alive.

  She’d never been his favorite, he’d never believed in her, but who cared now? It was too late to mend things with him, if she ever could. That was the hardest part, knowing her last chance to have peace with her father was over.

  Her new friends came to the service, but had to return to work afterward. So, Shyla headed for the cemetery alone. Her body was heavy, as if she’d gained fifty pounds. She could barely make it up the hill from the parking lot. She’d rode along with the hearse. Her last trip with her father, she figured.

  While Shy trudged up the hill to the grave, the men opened the back to unload his casket. The hole had been dug. She eased down on a bench nearby as she watched them. The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway drew her attention. Focusing was difficult, but she noticed an unusual car pulling into the lot.

  Can’t be Harley. He can’t drive. A small flash of red drew her gaze as a northern cardinal landed on the branch of a pine tree a few feet away.

  “How are you?” a deep voice asked.

  As she turned, her mouth opened a little, but no words came out. There he stood, Harley Brennan, star running back, wearing a suit. Emotion stole her voice.

  “I came as soon as Penny told me. I’m sorry I missed the service.”

  She continued to stare, convinced he was a mirage, an illusion. He stepped closer. She reached out and touched his arm. It was firm and moved under her grip. He was real. She slid over, making room for him on the bench, though she still hadn’t found her voice.

  “You’re damn quiet for the Shyla Hollings I know.”

  “You’re here?” she squeaked out as air moved in and out of her lungs.

  “Damn right. You need me. Where else would I be?”

  “With your fiancée?”

  “Pfft.” He made a noise with his mouth and waved his hand. “Don’t worry about her. How are you doing?” He inched closer and put his arm around her shoulders.

  Shyla turned her face into his chest and sobbed. He gripped her hard, holding her to him, kissing her hair that was blowing freely in the wind. The funeral director walked over and cleared his throat. Harley reached into his back pocket and pulled out a hanky for Shy.

  “We’re about ready to start, miss. If that’s okay with you?”

  She nodded. Harley pushed to his feet first and extended his hand. He helped her up the same way he would a fellow teammate who was on the ground. Wobbling a bit in high heels, she took his arm. He steadied her over to the graveside. The funeral director said some words. He turned to her, but she shook her head. He nodded to the men, who flipped a switch, and the casket began its trip into the ground.

  “Bye, Daddy. I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Shall we wait?” the man asked, turning toward the lot.

  “I’ll take her home,” Harley said. The director looked uncertain until Shy nodded.

  She retreated to the bench to wait until the burial was complete. Once the men left, she walked over to the grave with Harley. They clung to each other as she cried.

  “Does your mother know?” he asked.

  “I doubt it. Why would she? She hasn’t spoken to him in fifteen years.”

  “A shame.”

  “Yep. It is.” With a deep shuddering sigh, she looked into the blue eyes staring so intently.

  “Ready?”

  “I am.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Surprisingly, yes.”

  “Know a good place to eat in this town?”

  “Homer’s, by the lake. I’ll navigate.”

  By the time they returned to his car, she was shivering. She eased back into the supple leather seats while Harley blasted the heat. Pretty soon, her toes were toasty again. She stared out as he drove past fallow land, forest, and fields. The beauty of nature soothed her. Its calm reduced her anxiety.

  “I love it up here.”

  “I thought you were such a died-in-the-wool, city girl.”

  “I like the city too. But there’s nothing like this open space, the peace, the quiet, to calm you down and let you think.”

  He smiled as he opened the door to the restaurant.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said as Homer showed them to a table by a window.

  “Where else would I be when you need me?”

  * * * *

  Harley began some light workouts with the team. He sat on the bench during the games, wishing he could play. Except for getting tired easily, he felt fine, but still didn’t have clearance from the team doctor. After a heartbreaking loss to the Colorado Miners and a good night’s sleep, Harley got a call on Monday morning. Lyle Barker wanted to see him.

  He showered, ate, and then dressed in a suit. He knew it couldn’t be good. Ambling along, he entered the waiting room of the big office on top of the stadium. Lyle’s secretary, Edie, told him to go right in.

  Coach Bass was standing, talking to Lyle, who sat behind a big, glass desk.

  The owner rose to shake Harley’s hand. “Welcome, welcome. Great to shake the hand of the man who’s done so much to make this a winning team.”

  Coach slapped him on the back and sat in the chair next to him, across from Lyle. Harley narrowed his eyes at the large man, who couldn’t meet his stare.

  “What’s up, Mr. Barker?”

  “Call me Lyle.”

  “Okay. What’s up?” After a moment’s silence, Harley redirected his question. “Coach, what’s this about?”

  Pete Sebastian looked at Barker, who nodded. “We’ve been talking to Doc, Harley. That last injury. That concussion. It was a doozy.”

  “You’re telling me!”

  “There have been too many concussions. The team, the front office, really, has made a new ruling. It’s being done for the safety of the players.”

  “We hate like hell to do this, but it’s the right thing to do,” Lyle put in, rising from his chair.

  “You’re over the line on head injuries, Harley. We can’t safely play you anymore.”

  “What are you saying? I’m fired?” Heat boiled up inside him.

  “We want to talk to your agent. And you should speak to the player’s rep too,” Coach said.

  “To be blunt, it’s in your contract. There are three years left. We can offer to pay you two-thirds of that up front and cancel the remaining,” Lyle said, before taking a drink of water.

  “It’s for your protection, Harley. You’re in a danger zone, heading for real trouble. This way, you get a big payout and still have time to do something else.”

  Although something like this wasn’t totally unexpected, tears stung at the backs of his eyes. Fired, contract bought out, any way you put it, the idea created pain in his heart. Football was all he’d known most of his life, and it’s what he loved.

  “Give up football?”

  “It isn’t safe for you to play,” Coach Bass said. “One more encounter with Horse Jackson, or that number s
ixty-three, and you might not wake up.”

  “Or you’d be permanently damaged,” Lyle put in. “Look. Let’s be honest here. We’re damn sorry to lose you. You’ve been a huge part of our offense, and replacing you isn’t going to be easy. But my wife has taught me to have a heart. Football can’t be all about money, the team, or even me, Harley. Without healthy players, football dies.”

  “Talk to your agent, a lawyer, and the rep. Go over your contract. It’s a good deal.” Coach smiled. “Better deal for you than the Kings. The guys’ll hate me, and I don’t know how we’re going to finish the season without you.”

  Harley just looked at them.

  “It’s a twenty-million buyout, son. Not shabby. Not shabby at all.” Lyle stood, indicating the meeting was over. “I’ll be available to talk to your agent or lawyer at any time. Just tell ’em to call me. And thank you.”

  “Can I stay for the rest of the season?”

  “Sure. We won’t play you, but you’re welcome to hang with us,” Coach said. He gave the running back a brief hug.

  Before he knew it, Harley was in the parking lot, heading for his car. Twenty-million dollars. Great. But where do I go? What do I do? He dialed Vanessa. “Cancel any plans you have. Dinner tonight.”

  “I’m in New York.”

  “I’ll drive down.”

  “What’s up?”

  “A change in plans.”

  “Oh. Okay. Meet me at Limoges.”

  “Make the reservation for seven.”

  “Done.”

  He returned home and drew a hot bath. Lying there, tears came. Focused on football and success all his life, Harley was floating. Where would he go? What would he do? Keep the house in Monroe? Why? So he could watch all his teammates play the game he loved? His heart ached. This was a game-changer, like stacked up dominoes. Once one fell, piece by piece, they all did. First thing to do was make business calls.

  After he shaved and dressed, he called his lawyer and agent. The player’s rep could wait until tomorrow. He put in a call to Verna Carruthers. She handled his investments. His personal team would gather to help him through this transition.