The Hero (Thunder Point #3)(45)

She sat down at the end of the couch. “We already have a lot of appointments booked. Aren’t you going to Dallas tomorrow?”

“I don’t have to be at practice the first day—they’re just going to get equipment issued and paperwork passed out. My assistant, the former coach, and the equipment manager will handle it. But first thing Tuesday morning, the torture begins.” He grinned evilly. He looked around the small room. “How’s that? Locks and shades.”

“And phone. I’ll figure it out tonight.”

“I hope it makes you feel more comfortable here.”

“You know what? I’ve struggled with safety my whole life, sometimes not even realizing it. Sometimes this need to feel safe is the bane of my life. I can’t make peace with it.”

“You can’t,” he said. “We can do everything right and shit still happens.”

“I guess you know, huh?”

“Healthy young wife, stricken with cancer... Yeah. Shit happens.”

“How do you handle that?”

He shook his head. He smiled slightly. “I live. That’s what I do, Devon. I live. I asked myself—if I could build a bunker for me and Austin, and live there for the rest of our lives protected from the sun’s rays and all car accidents and maniacs and slippery floors, would we emerge as very old men and feel like we’d won? Like we’d beat the system? Or would we crawl out of that bunker and look around and say, we had long lives, but empty lives?”

“But do you ever worry that you haven’t been cautious enough with your son?”

“Not anymore. I made a decision—worry doesn’t work. The only thing that will work is my best—and we might still have huge challenges. I don’t cut any corners, don’t take any chances, especially with Austin, but being afraid to do anything fun, anything that brings happiness isn’t going to be the answer—I know that. Jesus, Bridget didn’t do anything wrong or foolish or irresponsible. And living in a bubble wouldn’t have helped her. There was a valuable lesson in that.”

“And how am I supposed to make peace with all of it?”

“Lock the doors. Pay attention. Call me if you hear a noise.” He smiled at her and reached out to touch her nose. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“You’re sure?”

He gave her a nod. “I’m just not sure how fast, that’s the only detail.”

Eleven

After the first night with locks and blinds and a phone, Devon began to grow more confident. The next night she slept and the night after that, she slept even better. The high school boys began to keep their appointments with Dr. Grant and, to her extreme pleasure, he asked her to run the patient histories, create their charts, weigh them, take their temperatures and blood pressures and, for those who had insurance, she filed the paperwork.

She remained vigilant, watching her surroundings both at home and at work, but she didn’t see anything or anyone suspicious and, over the course of the week, she began to relax. Gabriella reassured her that she was very careful about things like keeping the doors locked when she was minding the children, so Devon did not worry about Mercy during the day.

When Friday came, Devon took an early lunch break, leaving Scott at the office, and drove to the high school with her lunch. From the parking lot she could hear the football team shouting, grunting and groaning. She walked toward the bleachers and smiled as she heard Spencer’s voice rise above the rest. “Hump! What’re ya, tired! Move it! Drop and give me twenty! Sorenson—you lazy bum, let’s see some action!” And he would just use his whistle. A lot.

She went to the bleachers and sat there, taking out her drink and her sandwich. After pushups, he had a couple of them passing the ball, a few running a couple of plays, a few players—suited up in pads—smashing into each other with him yelling, “Harder!” He was jogging all over the field in his sweats and sleeveless T-shirt, sweat staining the shirt, and she hadn’t really noticed until today—what a fine male butt he had. He was full of gestures—rolling his arm and shouting, telling them to rev it up. Leaning his hands on his knees, bending over and shaking his head as if someone had a long way to go, demonstrating some footwork by rapidly running in place, knees high.

Spencer was all over the field, sometimes yelling, sometimes slapping a player on the back or giving an approving knock to a helmet. She had headed this way because she was curious, but her curiosity was quickly giving way to an onslaught of other feelings. She was enjoying watching him. At first glance she wouldn’t have thought he had such power. Such strength. And his energy was impressive. Some of the boys on the field were as big as he or even bigger, but he ran them ragged.

Devon had been an athlete herself at one time. She might still be an athlete, given half a chance. She should have been prepared—his sweaty, muscled, graceful movements appealed to that part of her. She loved sports, always had. And she’d been very competitive in high school. She hadn’t had time for more than working out and running in college—with classes and a job, she’d been too busy. She thought about how fun it would be to play some fierce volleyball or soccer. A pickup basketball game would be fun, as well.

Then she realized, if she was still here in Thunder Point when Mercy started team sports—which was not too far away—maybe she’d be one of the parents who coached!