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Marcus Meyers knew I existed, but again he vehemently denied fathering me. What I remember is standing on the loading dock while a giant—to me, back then—man yelled at my mother for showing up and spewed every abhorrent name in the book at her. I remember him telling her we could live on the street for all he cared.
He refused to give her a dime until he saw a court order for a paternity test. She knew that would take far more time than she had. She also knew she didn’t want him in our lives, but she was desperate for money.
In the end, it was my grandfather who handed her an envelope of cash. She figures he did it to end the scene and rid himself of the young woman and child on his loading dock as quickly as possible. Either way, it was enough to get our heads back above water.
We never went back there again. Even Dottie Reed has pride.
I sense Shane wanting to ask more questions—I told him that story once, lying beneath the canopy of a grand oak tree. Does he remember?—but instead he shifts back to his task.
“So, Cody was born and then what?” I’m desperate for more information to fill the gap between then and now.
“And then I went back to California. I hated being so far away from him, but I had a scholarship. Penelope took a year off school. I don’t think she was planning on going back, to be honest. She expected me to go pro and set her and Cody up with a big paycheck for life. And I would have. But then I got hurt.”
What must it have been like for Shane to have such a promising future end before it really began? “Do you miss it?”
It’s a long moment before he answers and when he does, there’s a tinge of sorrow in his voice. “Yeah. I miss the game, and the crowds. I miss the team. When it happened, I was devastated, but I made peace with it. Still, I can’t help but think about what life would’ve been like if I’d made it. I should have made it.”
“You would have. You were good.” Me, who doesn’t care for the sport, but even I noticed how Shane outshone everyone on the field. “I’m really sorry that happened to you,” I offer softly, hoping he can hear the sincerity in my voice.
He nods. “The silver lining is I got to be around Cody more. I lost my athletic scholarship after that year because I couldn’t play. I didn’t see much point in staying in Cali, so I transferred home to finish my degree at Penn State. I was on the fence between coaching high school football and firefighting. I wasn’t sure I was cut out for dealing with dumbass teenagers all day long, but I actually like working with Cody.”
“Do you think he’ll play for the Panthers?”
“He will, if I have anything to do with it.” He winks. “Coach called me the other day and asked if I’d want to come help out this season. I’m thinking of doing it. It’d be good for me to get involved and learn what I can about teaching kids. Might give me some ideas for Cody. It’s different, playing the game versus teaching it. Well … I guess you know.”
I watch him paint for a moment, his muscular arm stretched over his head. Every choice he makes, he seems to do so with his son in mind. “You’re a good father.”
He pauses midstroke to meet my gaze and, where his eyes are normally playful, I see nothing but seriousness now. “I try to be.”
I finish one side of the wall, and then busy myself with dragging the sheets of newspaper over to the far side of the room and rearranging them to cover the hardwood around the tray.
“Nice shorts,” Shane murmurs.
“Shut up. These are my junk clothes. They’re good for painting.”
“No, I mean it. Especially when you bend over like that.”
Shit. I didn’t consider the view from this angle, but the pant legs are wide and I chopped them fairly short. I tug the material at the back down self-consciously. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Don’t apologize on my account.” His voice sounds strained.
I glance over at Shane. He has given up all pretense of painting and is simply standing there, his jaw taut, his expression serious, the hard ridge along the front of his shorts prominent.
Yeah, I’d say I just inadvertently gave Shane a highly indecent view.
I barely contain my laughter. He always said he liked my ass, and that was before the countless hours of yoga and Pilates turned it curvy and rock hard.
He chuckles but his cheeks turn pink. “You didn’t mean to, huh?”
“I didn’t. I swear!” But a thrill courses through me at his reaction.
