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“I’m sorry, man.”
“Yeah.” I run my hands down my face, and he shakes his head before leaning across the table toward me and dropping his voice.
“Get me a copy of the texts and the number they’re coming from, and I’ll see if I can do anything or find anything out.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“It won’t do much, but maybe she’ll feel a little better if she’s able to put a name and a face to who’s doing this.”
“Maybe,” I agree, knowing I’ll feel better too. I glance at my watch and curse when I see the time.
“Late for a date?” he asks as I stand and grab my cup of coffee.
“I’m due at a jobsite across town in twenty minutes to meet clients for the final walkthrough of their house before they close Friday.”
“How long are you planning on helping out your dad before you get back to what you’re meant to be doing?” he asks, unfolding from his chair, and my jaw clenches.
“My soccer days are over,” I remind him, something I shouldn’t need to remind him of, since he’s the one who flew out to London to sit at my side after I was injured during practice and needed to undergo surgery for my ankle. Then he was there when the doctors and my coach informed me that my career was over and that if I played again, I risked not being able to walk. Which wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.
“They don’t have to be, and I know that’s not what you want. I know you can’t play again, but you could still coach. You could even start out by helping me coach Billy’s team this spring,” he says, referring to his nephew who just turned six a couple of months ago.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him as we head outside and start down the sidewalk toward the station.
“Will we see you Sunday for dinner?”
“If I can make it work I’ll be there.”
“Try, Mom’s been worried about you.”
“Mom’s always worried about me,” I mutter the god’s honest truth. Since the day I met Rebecca she’s been in a constant state of worry about my life and what I’m doing with it.
“You aren’t lying.” He grins stopping at the station’s doors.
“I’ll call her and check in.” I give him a fist bump. “We’ll have a beer this week.”
“Let me know when.” He lifts his chin before I continue on down the sidewalk toward my truck.
Once I’m behind the wheel, I slide my coffee into the cup holder, then start the engine, back out of my spot and head across town.
When I arrive at the house, the clients are already there and inside, but thankfully they are so pleased with how everything looks that they don’t even mention the fact that I’m ten minutes late. I wrap up with them after two hours, then head to my house to pick up Dozer, my Labrador, before I drive to my parents’ place.
A little over a month ago, while I was still in London trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do with the rest of my life without soccer, I got a call from my mother informing me that my father suffered a stroke. That it had left him paralyzed on the left side of his body and that I was needed at home. I might not have been planning on returning to the US, but after that call, I packed up my dog, the little bit of shit I collected over the years, said goodbye to my team, and got on a plane two days later.
When I arrived back in Tennessee, Dad was already out of the hospital and at home with around-the-clock help, while my mom was steadily losing her mind. My father might have been an absent one, but he was good at his job and hands-on in every way—maybe even to a fault. No one seemed to know up from down, and even the guys working for him for years were struggling without him steering the ship.
It took me two weeks to calm the waters and get things back on track, but even now, things are strained. Everyone is worried Dad won’t make a full recovery, and the men who have shares in his company want to know what that will mean for them and the business if that does happen.
My grandfather started Bender and Sons when my dad and his twin brother were two years old, and by the time he passed the business on to my father, whose brother passed away in a car accident, it was one of the biggest in Tennessee, and it still is to this day. There’s only one other company that is as well known, and that’s Mayson Construction, a family-owned business a couple of towns over. Bender considers them competition—something I don’t get, since there are plenty of land developers clearing land and selling lots each year to keep everyone busy.
When I get to my parents’ place, I park at the edge of the circular driveway, then shove my door open and glance over at Dozer, who’s passed out on the passenger seat.
“You coming or staying?” I ask him, and he lifts his head, then slowly stands and walks across the seat, wagging his tail. “You’re getting lazy in your old age.” I hold the door open for him to hop down, then head for my parents’ front porch and ring the bell. It takes a minute for the door to open, and not surprisingly it’s not my mother who answers but one of the nurses working with my father. A petite brunette around my dad’s age with a kind smile.
“Mr. Bender,” Marla greets, and I just avoid rolling my eyes at the ridiculous greeting. Only my mother would require people—the ones here to help her husband—to address everyone so formally.
“Please, Marla, for the love of all that is holy, call me Aiden.”
