The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(57)

“What?” The boy had died? My heart cracked and my eyes flooded. That poor family. Why hadn’t Cal told me the day I’d mentioned that boy? Why would he do all of that for a family of strangers? My soul ached for that boy’s parents. And it ached for Cal.

“I heard an announcer say once that no quarterback was as good at the fake handoff as Cal,” Pierce said. “I thought that was fitting because he’s a pro at faking his life too. He shows the parts that he wants the world to see.”

“They’re not the good parts.” I dabbed the corners of my eyes dry. “Why does he do that?”

Pierce gave me a sad smile. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“Yeah.” I nodded and stood. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

The weight in my heart made my footsteps heavy as I returned to my office. Concentrating on anything was almost impossible because my head was stuck on Cal. After an hour of struggling through a few emails, I blew off my inbox and pulled up Google.

It took a little research but I found the boy’s obituary. Hollis York. The photo of him smiling, wearing a Tennessee Titans jersey broke my heart. A few more clicks and I landed on his mother’s Facebook page. Her profile picture was of Hollis in his wheelchair, smiling from ear to ear, as Cal knelt by his side.

That signed game ball was in the boy’s lap.

The media should have picked up on this. Cal’s agent or his manager should have shared this with the press. Or maybe they had. Maybe it hadn’t fit the image the networks wanted for Cal and that was the reason no one had seen this photo.

How many other examples of this Cal—a good, decent Cal—had been missed by the masses because they’d been too busy watching reruns of him get ejected from a game for flipping off a referee after a missed call?

Pierce swung into my office around four before he left for the day. Five minutes after he walked out the door, I did the same, saying goodnight to Kathryn who was stationed at the front desk.

I drove into town, but as my turnoff neared, I kept going straight, the downtown buildings streaking past my window as I headed to the motel. Cal’s SUV was parked in the alley next to the Winnebago.

He was sitting in that camp chair outside the RV’s door, wearing a pair of athletic shorts. His torso was tan and bare, his abs on display for no one but me. He had on a baseball hat and sunglasses. Somewhere he’d scrounged up a standing umbrella, and it cast an oval of shade over his makeshift patio.

I parked and climbed out of my car, leaving my phone and purse behind as I walked his way.

There was a beer can in the mesh cupholder of his chair. Cal lifted it as I approached. “Beer’s in the fridge.”

“No, thanks.” A beer would lower my inhibitions and today, like any day, I needed them when Cal was within touching distance. I took the empty seat beside his. “Why, when you have this nice chair, do you sit in that one?”

“Because this one’s mine. That’s Harry’s.”

The older woman wasn’t here, yet he left her seat open in case she’d stop by.

“What do I owe for the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.

“The truth.” It was my turn to make demands, and since neither of us cared for small talk, I didn’t hesitate. “Tell me why you hide yourself from the world.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Blondie. I was a pro quarterback in the NFL. As you know, I spent some time on Monday Night Football. Wouldn’t exactly say I was hiding.”

I sighed, so damn tired of the façade and snark. “You know what I mean.”

He snapped his fingers three times before lifting his beer to his lips. Trickles of condensation fell down the silver aluminum, two landing on his knee as he gulped. When the can was empty, he crushed it. Then we sat in silence, until the shade of the umbrella had shifted and the sun skimmed our toes.

Cal finally cleared his throat. “My dad is an asshole. You know that.”

“I do.”

“He cares about his image. Not his reputation, his image. The house. The cars. The money. The status. The trophy wife. The young girlfriends.”

Did it surprise me that Cal’s father cheated on his wife? Not in the slightest.

“And I’m the football-star son,” he said. “I am just a part of his image. I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to look the same as Colter Stark.”

“So you’re an asshole of a different breed?”

He shrugged. “It’s what I know.”

The show. He’d learned from his father to put on a show. “But you’re not really an asshole, are you?”

“Nellie.” He shot me a flat look.

“You were kind to that boy in the wheelchair. You paid for his medical bills. You helped his family. Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Cal snapped his fingers again, which meant I was unsettling him with this topic. Good. “People have their mind made up about me. You included.”

“You didn’t give me a lot of choice.” I sat straighter. “You have been awful to me more often than not. In high school, you used me. Tormented me. Belittled me.”

“Yeah, because you decided I wasn’t good enough.”

“Me?” I pointed to my chest. “What are you talking about?”