Always Have: A Bad Boy Romance(9)

With that wrapped up, I head home and take another shower. I’m sweaty from training all day. Afterward, I get dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark gray shirt. It’s March fifteenth, which means I have somewhere to be.

I pull up in front of the assisted living facility. It’s a nice place—not the kind that smells like bleach and death when you walk in. Kylie’s dad has lived here for the past year. He’s only in his sixties, but a debilitating combination of rheumatoid arthritis and gout have ravaged his body. He’s wheelchair-bound and has a hard time using his hands, which made it impossible for him to live alone. Kylie’s parents have been divorced for years, so assisted living was the only good option. I made sure we found him a place where he’d be well taken care of, and not feel like he’s doomed to spend the rest of his life in a hospital. This place was a good choice.

Chelsea at the front desk says hi when I sign in. Most of the staff knows me. I try to come visit Mr. Winters once a week, although it doesn’t always work if I get busy. But today is his birthday, so there’s no way I’d miss it.

I take the elevator upstairs to the top floor. He can’t get out much, so I made sure his apartment had a great view. I knock and he buzzes me in.

“Hey, Mr. Winters,” I say. He’s told me numerous times to call him Henry, but I never do. It doesn’t feel right.

“Braxton,” he says with a smile. He’s sitting in his wheelchair, near the living room window. With obvious struggle, he lifts a finger to press the button on the remote that’s attached to his chair. The TV turns off.

I pull a bottle of Jameson from beneath my jacket and hold it up so he can see. It’s not fancy, but it’s what I get him every year. “Should I pour?” I ask.

“Only if you’re having one with me,” he says.

“I will not say no to that,” I say.

I head into his small kitchen, find two highball glasses, and pour us each a drink. I stick a plastic straw in his. It looks sort of odd, like suddenly it’s apple juice instead of whiskey, but he has an easier time drinking if he doesn’t have to hold the glass.

He moves his chair over to the small table on the other side of the room. His hands are curled, like awkward claws, and I can see the pain in his face as he works his motorized chair. It kills me to see him like this.

I take a seat and put the drink on his tray once he’s settled in place. “Happy birthday,” I say, lifting my glass.

He nods to me and sips through the straw. “Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to have this.”

I take a sip, too. “Strictly speaking, I kept it under my coat on the way in. So if you don’t say anything, I won’t either.”

“Good man.”

Mr. Winters isn’t my father, and he never tried to replace my dad. But in his own way he filled that role for me more than once when I was growing up. Most boys need a man to stand up to them when their balls drop and they think they’re the shit. Henry Winters did that for me.

Of course, I kind of still think I’m the shit, but at least now I can back it up.

“How are you feeling today?” I ask.

“About the same,” he says. “That’s good news, at this point. How’s work?”

“Busy,” I say. “I signed Derek Marshall today.”

“Good,” he says, nodding slowly. “He made the right choice.”

“We’ll see if he still thinks so when I start kicking his ass next week.”

“Don’t kick his ass too hard,” he says. “We need him healthy next season.”

I chuckle. I know he’s pitching me shit. “He’s going to dominate next season. Just wait.”

“All right, then,” he says. “I expect a Super Bowl out of that kid.”

“That’s the goal,” I say.

We talk about sports for a while. It’s our usual topic. Half the time when I visit, we just sit and watch a game. He’s having a harder time as his body deteriorates, and I think he gets pretty lonely. I try to keep it light, and act like we’re sitting in his living room at his old house.

He finishes his drink. “You should clean this up and put the bottle away before the nurse comes,” he says.

“No problem.” I polish off the last of my whiskey. “Do you want me to take the bottle and bring it back next week?”

“No, I can keep the bottle in the cupboard,” he says. “But the nurses will give me fewer dirty looks if I don’t have it sitting out.”

I grab our glasses and clean everything up. “Did Kylie come by yet?” I ask when I come back to the living room.

“She came for lunch,” he says. “Brought me a cake.”

I smile. “That’s not surprising.”

A serious look crosses his face. “How is she?”

“Didn’t you say you just saw her?” I ask.

“I did,” he says. “But I’m never sure if she means it when she says she’s fine. I worry about my girl.”

I smile at him. “Yeah, I think she’s good. Last time we hung out, she seemed okay.” I neglect to mention that the last time I saw her, she was passed out drunk on Selene’s couch, looking ridiculously hot in nothing but my t-shirt. To be fair, she was break-up drinking with Selene, but I don’t think her dad needs to hear about that.