Chapter 1
Jax Green's breath breath fogged the crisp October air, his sandy blond hair spiked with sweat and his blue eyes gleamed as he ran.
“Keep those knees up!” Coach Jackson’s shout could be heard clear across the field, echoing in the air. Usually they’d be in the gym this time of the morning lifting weights, but Coach said he wanted to do something different today, and Jax was all for it. He loved getting outside and enjoying the sunshine.
A tire drill was next, and Jax stepped up the pace. He was happy with how his fitness had progressed since joining the Atlanta Falcons over a year ago. This was his second season on the team, and now that he was off the bench, it had been the best season of his life.
“Jax, come over here.” Coach’s eyebrows sloped over his narrowed eyes like hungry black caterpillars.
Jax jogged over, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Yes, Coach?”
“Put a bit more hustle into it. I want to see you nailing those drills tomorrow.”
Jax couldn’t help grinning at hearing the words from the famous Tal Jackson’s lips. He remembered the exact moment he’d learned he’d been signed as an undrafted free agent by the Falcons, the team he’d rooted for since he was a kid. He’d been down ever since being cut by the Buffalo Bills in his first training camp after college, unsure of whether he should keep pursuing his NFL goals. He’d served as a concierge for a cruise line for a while and enjoyed it, but no kid grew up dreaming of working on a cruise ship.
Then his agent called with the good news, and he’d worked his tail off in training camp and made the Falcons’ regular season roster. He’d returned punts for a while, then got into the starting lineup after a couple of other running backs were injured and made the most of it – 600 yards rushing, 200 receiving and five touchdowns in a half-season’s duty. He even got a third-place vote for Offensive Rookie of the Year. If he could keep up his produc- tivity, he might be looking at a Pro Bowl berth this year.
Still, he felt as though he’d rushed from one crazy moment to the next, with no time to stop and take a breath. The past eighteen months had been a whirl- wind. His dream of becoming a pro football star had finally come true. Now he needed to keep it. “Yes, sir.” Coach scratched his chin and his brow creased, caterpillar eyebrows squirming in place. “I like what you’ve been doing, Jax. Keep it up and you’ll be my star running back for a long time.”
Jax walked away, still grinning. He was looking forward to next Sunday’s game against the Green Bay Packers, and had never felt fitter or stronger in his life. “You’re on fire,” said Wallace Johnson beside him.
Wallace was the second-string quarterback – he knew what it meant to train, sweat and hanker for game time but never get to play, and they’d commiserated a lot the previous year before Jax got into the starting lineup.
Jax nodded. “Thanks, Wallace. It’s hard to wait, but everyone has their moment. You will too.”
Wallace shook the sweat from his black hair, smiled and arched an eyebrow. “I hope so. Ready to do some catchin’?”
Jax grinned and began to run. He could never be satisfied with where he was – every week he trained harder, pushed farther, worked more than any of the other players on the team. He had every intention of staying on top for as long as he could.
By the time practice was over, he was tired but invigorated. After the first training session in Bills camp, he’d thought he might collapse – even a grueling four years with the University of Georgia Bulldogs hadn’t prepared him for that. But now he’d gained stamina, muscle mass and flexibility and it made all the difference.
“Jax!”
He wiped his face with a towel, the steam from the showers fogging the mirrors on the locker room wall so all he could see was shadows. “Hey, Wallace – be done in a minute.” He threw on his clothes, slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and headed outside.
He found Wallace talking to one of the trainers. Wallace saw Jax, excused himself and jogged to meet him. “Hey, you did great today. You have those routes down.”
Jax chuckled. “It went well. And the rest of the team’s on point. I think we’ve got a good shot at upsetting the Packers.”
Wallace grinned. “Good to hear. Oh, another thing – Sophie made me promise to ask you to come over for dinner tonight.” Wallace had married his high- school sweetheart, taken her with him to Alcorn State, and already had two children. He was well established as a family man when most players his age were still trying to pick up girls in bars.
“Thank Sophie for me, but your kids are gonna think I’m part of the family if you keep taking me in like a lost puppy.”
Wallace laughed and slapped Jax on the back. “You are part of the family. No pressure – I’m sure you have plenty of offers – but if you’re looking for a home cooked meal, you’re always welcome.”
“Thanks, man, I appreciate it. I think I will come over. Billy has that new Nerf gun he’s been begging me to try out for weeks.”
The two men walked toward the parking lot. The musk of the locker room was replaced by the fresh scent of a brisk fall day, and the chatter of football players gave way to the hum of traffic and the buzz of a twin-engine plane overhead.
“I wish I could take a couple of days to fly back home for a visit.” It had been almost eight months since Jax had been back in Ardensville, North Carolina, and homesickness was wearing on him. He’d never missed home so much before, but there was a nagging feeling he should go see his family, spend time with them.
“Good luck with that in mid-season,” replied Wallace.
“I know. I should’ve gone before training camp, but I was distracted.”
“You were distracted by the trip to Hawaii with that girl … what was her name?”
Jax groaned. “Tiffany.” “Yeah, Tiffany.”
“We were just friends.”
“Now you say that.” Wallace cocked his head. “Maybe after the Thanksgiving game, Coach will give us some time off.”
“Maybe.” Jax sighed. “It’s just that all of a sudden I feel like visiting home. Bad timing, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling.”
His pocket buzzed, and he pulled out his phone and put it to one ear, holding it in place with his shoulder while he pointed his key fob at his Range Rover to unlock it. “Hello?” There was quiet on the other end of the line. He grabbed the phone and looked at the screen – June. His sister must have butt- dialed him, since she wasn’t making a sound. He held it closer to his mouth and spoke louder. “June? Hello?”
There was a sob.
“June?” His voice softened. “What’s wrong?” “Jax … it’s Daddy.”
He drew a quick breath, his head swimming. “What happened? June, what is it?”
Wallace watched him, brow furrowed in concern. “He died, Jax. Heart attack. It was really sudden.
He seemed okay this morning before he left for work. Beverly found him at the church office, but it was too late.”
Beverly Hampton, his father’s secretary, would have done everything she could, but maybe if he’d been there … Jax couldn’t process what his sister was saying. His father was young, fit, strong … this couldn’t be right. She must be mistaken. “Are you sure?”
She sobbed again. “Mom and I came to the hospital right away. We didn’t even get to say goodbye…” Her crying was muted, as though she’d put a handkerchief over her face.
Jax’s mouth was open, but he couldn’t speak. This wasn’t right – Dad should’ve had much more time. He wasn’t even a grandpa yet. And Jax hadn’t seen him in months … why hadn’t he visited home more in the offseason? He should’ve spent time there instead of goofing off with his team mates.
He became aware of Wallace’s hand on his arm. “Jax? Something wrong?”
He nodded. “My dad …” His throat tightened, then he spoke to June again. “I’m coming home, June, first chance I can get. I’ll call you from the airport to let you know what time I’m getting in.” She mumbled something unintelligible, and he told her he loved her before hanging up the phone and shoving it back in his pocket.
Jax stood still, staring at his SUV, his mind blank. He felt as though he’d stepped into another reality. Unreasoning anger ripped through him – someone should’ve done something to help. If only he’d been there.
“Can I do anything?” asked Wallace.
Jax shook his head, a lump in his throat. “No, thanks. I have to get home, call Tom and then pack.” Tom Dimitroff, the Falcons’ general manager, would hopefully put him on the inactive list for the week for “personal reasons.” Usually that was for a player going into drug rehab, but the death of a parent would qualify. The Falcons were good about things like that, better than a lot of teams. Right now he had to concentrate on getting back to Ardensville to face what had happened. Face his mother. The thought made his breath catch.
“Okay. Call me when you get there? Sophie and I will be praying for you.”
Jax nodded, climbed into his car and pressed the starter, his chest tight and his thoughts in a spin. Dad was his rock, the person he turned to whenever he needed to talk through a crisis, or wanted advice or prayer. Now what? God, help me through this, he prayed silently.
He turned the wheel and steered the vehicle out of the lot and toward his apartment. He was operating on autopilot, his mind elsewhere. When was the last time he’d seen Dad? What had they said to one another? It had been February – they’d watched college basketball together and talked casually. But had they discussed anything meaningful? What if his last words had been flippant, thoughtless?
Now Jax had so many things he wanted to say to his father, and it was too late.
Chapter 2
“Those tables aren't going to bus themselves!” shouted Marcie Hardman, a lock of her hair falling out of her hairnet. She pushed it back and reached for the spatula to flip the burgers that had been grilling for what Stacey considered a little too long.
Stacey Murphy sighed and nodded. “Got it,” she called back. Holding a square bucket against her hip, she used her free hand to load dirty plates, mugs and silverware into it.
Milly Hardman, Marcie’s daughter and the heir apparent to the Smokehouse Grill, eyed her, an oily strand of hair over one eye. “Get to it, Stacey,” she muttered, then smirked. Stacey and Milly were the same age. At school Milly had been the quiet under- achiever who sat in the back corner, examining her black nail polish and listening to whatever emo band was popular at the time. Ever since Stacey started at the diner, Milly had taken it upon herself to order Stacey around as if pursuing some kind of vendetta. Stacey had no idea why.
“Miss?” A new face turned toward her. He looked like a truck driver, likely on his way through town. The diner was close enough to I-40 to attract its share of truckers. Some were nice enough, others weren’t.
She forced a smile, her face aching with the fatigue of having to brighten everyone else’s day when her own was typically dull. She’d taken this job for temporary income until she got that scholarship to Duke’s engineering program. But she didn’t get it, and hadn’t come up with a plan B. So years later, she was still stuck at the Smokehouse, wearing the same grease-stained yellow uniform with the too-short skirt and too-low neckline. “Yes, sir?”
“Can I grab a coffee refill over here, honey?”
She nodded, her nostrils flaring at the term of endearment. She hated when anyone called her “hon- ey.” It reminded her of her grandfather saying it, and how it was usually followed by his boot in her rear. Biting her tongue to hold back any retorts, she lugged the bucket into the kitchen, pushing the swinging door open with her back.
“How’s it goin’ out there?” asked Phil Owens, the cook who at that moment was taking a break to drink a pint of coffee with a half pint of cream in it. He liked to joke that was the only way to take the beverage, but she liked her coffee hot and in smaller doses.
“Fine, I guess. Full house, and I’m tired from that double shift yesterday. But I’m almost done. Then, I’m headed home to have a long hot soak with some scented bath salts.”
Phil nodded and gulped more coffee. “I hear ya. I think I’ve ‘bout cooked every egg in the whole state of North Carolina this mornin’.” He chuckled, finished the coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Well, guess I’d better get back to it.” They both knew Marcie would be on his case if he took longer than ten minutes for a break, especially with so many customers waiting. Marcie filled in at the grill while he was out, but she didn’t like cooking, and the customers didn’t like her doughy waffles and greasy eggs either.
Stacey stacked the dishes in the sink for the dishpig to wash, set the empty bucket on the floor by the door and headed back out into the diner, grabbing the coffee pot on her way to where the trucker sat. He was shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth as though they’d disappear if he took too long. She poured the coffee into his almost-empty mug with a smile.
He swallowed and smiled back, a glint in his piggish eyes. “Thanks, honey.”
“You’re welcome.” She swallowed her agitation and turned to go.
“Ya sure are pretty, ya know that?”
He was old enough to be her father. Perhaps that’s how she could take it, as though it was a fatherly offering. Nothing sleazy about it. Sure. “Thank you,” she replied stiffly.
“Maybe ya and I could get together when you’re done?” He winked.
Bile rose in her throat. “No. I don’t date customers.”
“Ain’t askin’ ya to marry me, just grab a bite to eat or somethin’. Or perhaps I could grab a bite of ya?” He chuckled.
The coffee still poised steaming in one hand, she rolled her eyes, doing her best to ignore his last remark. “Thanks for the offer, but I work in a diner. Food’s the last thing I want when I leave this place.”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ of food.” That laugh again that sent a shiver up her spine. “We could work somethin’ out, I’m sure.”
Her head began to spin as anger surged through her veins. When his hand landed on her rear and squeezed she couldn’t take it any longer. With the coffee held high so as not to spill, she slapped her other hand against his bearded cheek with as much velocity as she could muster in her five foot four, one- hundred-and-twenty-pound frame.
His eyes widened, and he pressed his palm to the reddening skin. “What’d you do that for, you little — ”
“Stacey!” Marcie screamed over the din.
Just great, of course Marcie would happen to witness the one and only time in the course of her entire waitressing career that she’d slapped a customer. Maybe she’d see Stacey’s side of things once she had a chance to describe what’d happened.
Her boss loved to gripe, often at full volume in front of the patrons. Half the time it was about some- thing Milly or one of the other waitresses had done, but in her eyes Milly could do no wrong – and seemingly Stacey could do no right.
Stacey marched over to Marcie, whose face had turned a shade of red that was downright scary. “Yes?” Marcie pointed toward the door that led out back, then set her hands on her hips. She wanted to talk in
private this time? This really wasn’t going to be good. “Yes, ma’am.” Stacey set the coffee pot back on the burner and headed through the door. It wasn’t her fault, she’d been accosted by that lout, and Marcie would see it her way in no time at all, if she’d just let her explain.
She spun on her heel and found herself face-to- face with Marcie. “I can explain…”
“I don’t want to hear your explanations,” hissed Marcie as she slammed the door shut. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
Stacey’s eyebrows arched high. “What’s wrong?”
“I told you a dozen times about money going missing from the till,” Marcie snarled. “I finally discovered who the little thief is.”
“Well, that’s good.” But why was she so angry about it? Did she think Stacey knew who it was all along and had hidden it from her? She honestly had no idea. Well, she had seen Milly take money from the till whenever she liked, but had assumed Marcie had told her to for some diner-related expense or another. They were mother and daughter, after all.
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