Linebacker’s Second Chance(69)
“What?” I can’t keep the amusement out of my voice, and now Rowan is smiling too. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and for the first time, I see the hints of two dimples. I hadn’t noticed them, but now that I have, they might be my kryptonite. I get the urge to reach out and poke at his cheeks, to see if he’s actually real, but I settle for melting slowly into my seat. “Seriously, what?”
“Golfing sucks. A big dick. Golfing sucks a humongous horse dick, and I won’t lie about that.” His voice suddenly goes very country, and I burst out laughing, thinking of him in his cowboy boots out on the golf course. I don’t know how his dad even convinced him to do it. “My dad says I’m strong, so I can swing, but the damn ball always goes off in some random direction, and I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. One time, I hit a senator from Texas right in the head.”
“With a ball?” I snort and keep laughing, tears popping up in my eyes.
“With a club.”
“No. No. You didn’t. How in God’s name—”
“I was trying to swing. I swear it. Trying to do my daddy proud. But I got the thingy—the thingy at the bottom of the club—stuck in a patch of grass. The grass came flying up into my face, and I swung that club back as hard as I could. I was going to get that damn ball, I tell you, girl. But instead, I got Senator Johnson from the great state of Texas right in the damn face. He’s a friend of my father’s—”
“You didn’t. Bull. Shit. You’re making that up.”
He lets out a loud laugh. “To what? Impress you? Hell naw. You aren’t impressed, are you? It’s not usually a story I use to impress women.” He’s laughing at himself now, and I barely notice that we’re pulling up to a large building that sits on the outskirts of town.
“I’m a little impressed. Senator Johnson wants to shut down Planned Parenthood, restrict immigration, and approve racial profiling for the police force. He’s—”
“A racist, sexist, backwards, xenophobic asshole? I didn’t exactly say I wasn’t aiming for him. I wasn’t, really. I’m just really big and clumsy when it comes to golf and skiing and shit. The worst thing was that I had to act like I was distressed, and I most certainly was not.”
I’m laughing so hard now that I can’t stop, and it seems to me like a ridiculous joy is filling me. The sky is achingly blue around us, the day crisp and cool, the streets decorated with trees and lights and big green wreaths made of real pine and decorated with delicate golden ornaments. And there’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen getting out of a limo and walking around to open my door for me.
Roll with it. A voice deep inside of me tells me to just go on and enjoy. Maybe it’s that woman I used to be, coming back for one last fight. I thought she was gone a long time ago, but as Rowan walks me around the Coming Home Foundation building, I think she just might have a chance.
“This is it,” he says. “Star has her mural on this side.” I huddle into the fleece Rowan gave me this morning. It’s black with the Coming Home logo embroidered on the chest, and it’s far warmer than the leather jacket I brought with me. Eliza follows us as we walk up to the building, sniffing the ground and barking off into the distance when she hears a scuffling in one of the surrounding trees. “The weather should be warming up for the next week before the snow sets in—”
“Snow? It snows here? I mean, not just on the mountaintops?”
“No, girl. Not just on the mountaintops.” He points out Star’s mural—a burst of bright color, like sunshine—but I know I’ll examine it further when I get to know Star and the team of people working here. After that, he leads me inside, Eliza following close behind us. “And this is Coming Home. I hope the snow holds off until after the fundraiser. I won’t be a happy man if it doesn’t. We’ll get by, I reckon, but it’ll be a damn sight better if the board members and community folk can come by without having to use the four-wheel drive.”
The building is huge, with a round open space in the middle, filled with light and trees and a little koi pond beneath a tall glass ceiling. On either side of the lobby are ten large rooms that look out into the gardens. Most of them are for group therapy, but they’re called “playrooms” so that the children who come here will feel more comfortable. Glass windows look into all of the room save for the back two, which are for private therapy sessions. The rooms are all filled with art supplies and wooden toys, bean bags, and works of art from children of all ages. “Holy shit. This is amazing.”