Chapter Four: Owen

"Another?"

The bartender stood before me as I sipped at the beer he handed me over an hour ago. I wasn't much of a drinker to begin with, but my mind was still spinning from the secrets my mother spilled this afternoon.

I stormed out after learning she lost the house I grew up in and had been working for the Easterlys for the past year, before which she'd held a few serving jobs after my high school graduation. I'd been sending her money for years, but she refused to touch any of it.

Driving around earlier, I thought about going to the bank to try to salvage the house, but a quick drive past the property showed me how in disarray it was. The roof had caved in from the large oak tree in the front falling over. The same tree I'd fallen from while climbing it when I was ten and broke my collarbone.

Just thinking of that accident left my shoulder twinging. That was another tribulation I was going to need to deal with soon. I'd scheduled time with one of the team's new sports medicine therapists to work on my shoulder for the upcoming season. I kept the prolonged aches and pains from my coach as long as I could, but he pulled me aside at the end of last season and requested I take care of it. Looking back, it wasn't so much a request as it was a demand. The team had a lot of money invested in me.

"Yeah."

Spinning around on my stool, I took in the crowd, noticing that the old bar filled up quickly. In my mental solitude, I'd ignored all the noise. It was a trick I learned on the field, a way to help me focus.

A group of women stood at a high-top table, and the second my eyes skimmed past them, they immediately started preening. One fluffed her hair, and another adjusted her top. The other three had their backs to me.

Running a hand through my own hair, I continued to take in the crowd, ignoring the women's come-hither stares. I instantly regretted not wearing my ball cap. Though, most of the townspeople I grew up with knew me better with it on than off. But to this new crop of Ashfield dwellers, I was fresh blood… and a celebrity. Seemed Colton's appeal had worn off.

"Shit," I mumbled as a group of guys started approaching. I didn't recognize any of them, but by the suits they wore, my guess was they worked for the bank or a law firm in town.

Unfortunately for them, I was not up for making new friends today—or, well, ever.

"Hey, man."

"Hey," I replied kindly, because the last thing I wanted to do was cause a PR nightmare. Thankfully, the bartender set the refreshed beer in front of me, giving me something to do with my hands and my mouth.

"You're Owen Ramsey, right?" the shortest of the trio asked, his eyes lighting up in the process. As nice as it was to be amidst a fan, I was not in the right headspace to make a lot of conversation.

"I am," I said, lifting the new glass and taking a sip of the amber lager.

"Wow. I knew you grew up here, but I never expected to see you in person. I'm a big fan." He continued to list off some plays and data like he was reading directly from my stats sheet.

One of the other two men seemed interested as well, while the other looked off and winked at the women who had been vying for my attention not a full minute before. Out of the three, he was what most women would call handsome. He resembled someone from a cologne advertisement I'd seen in a magazine at the airport. His blond hair was slicked back, and he had an end-of-the-day shadow along his jawline.

While I'd been busy eyeing his friend, the man who'd been chatting my ear off asked a question that I missed. Thankfully, he let it slide when I apologized, and he repeated himself.

"Want to join us for a game of pool?"

The hope in his eyes almost had me caving, but I held strong. Sipping my drink again, I shook my head slowly.

"Sorry. I'm… uh… waiting for a friend," I lied. For a split second, I thought about calling my old high-school buddy Chris, but I hadn't spoken a word to him since graduation.

Truthfully, I hadn't spoken a word to anyone since that day. I hadn't been close enough to anyone in school to want to keep in contact. The one time I'd been home as my mom's plus-one for a wedding I'd kept a low profile. It was easier. Safer.

"But maybe next time?" I added as the man's eyebrows tilted downward in disappointment. His demeanor instantly changed, and the three of them made their way to the side room where some pool tables were set up.

With my admirer's retreat, I spun to face the bar, turning my back to the crowd. I watched as the droplets of condensation raced down the side of the chilled beer glass. Two of them sped up, and I internally chose a winner, grinning when it reached the epoxy-coated bar top first.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as someone planted themselves on the barstool next to me. I really hoped it wasn't another fan. As much as I appreciated them, I just wanted to sit in peace and have a drink or five. I'd figure out later how I was getting home.

A home that no longer existed.

The thought of sleeping in my car left me gulping the rest of my beer in one fell swoop.

"Never thought I'd see the day," a rough but familiar voice said beside me, with a chuckle that wrapped around me like a tight embrace. I closed my eyes forcefully, relishing the sound.

Opening them in a flash, I spun on my stool, facing my guest with a grin that I usually reserved for myself. One of true happiness. "Coach Rudicell."

That man had been my savior when I was growing up. Because of our small town, he was the coach for the recreational T-ball and baseball teams I was on, as well as the high school baseball coach. But not only had he been my mentor, he'd been the closest thing I had to a real father. The kind who cared about you and made sure you were doing all the right things.

I feared he knew what my home life was like and did so out of pity, but I wouldn't have changed a second of the time I got to spend with him. Some days, I even lied to my mom about what time practice was ending, just so I could spend more time with him. Our one-on-one sessions were my lifeline.

"How you doing, kid?" The lines around his eyes deepened as he grinned. His face was leatherier than I remembered. Years of being out in the sun and having a hard life. His wife of thirty years had passed away when I was a junior in high school. That was the first time I'd ever witnessed an adult male crying.

"I'm… okay."

"Surprised to see you home. Heard about the wedding. Sorry about that."

"Yeah. It happens." I wasn't even heartbroken over it. Just hated I didn't find out until the day of our I-dos. "Coming home was the only way I could escape my ex and the paps."

He chuckled again before taking a sip of his own beer. I mimicked his movements and enjoyed the cool liquid sliding down my throat. "I can't imagine what that's like, but you know you can't avoid them forever. They'll find you if they look hard enough."

I recalled him saying something similar when I was packing up to leave town without a backward glance for the first time. That was an instance no one knew about. No one but Coach Rudicell. It was after my dad left a boot-sized bruise on the side of my ribs and I could barely catch my breath. I tried to fight back that day, but my father was a massive beast and took me down without much of a hassle. Rudicell caught me in the locker room after practice with my backpack filled with clothes. He was smart enough to put the pieces together and let me stay with him that night.

"I know. Come here often?"

"Nah. I heard you were in town, and your mom called and asked me to check up on you. I scoped the school and baseball fields first. This was my last stop."

Grumbling, I uttered, "I'm not a child."

Coach must have heard, because he replied, "We know that. She just cares. Your mom has missed you all these years, but she never complains. Anytime she gets the chance, she goes on and on about how proud she is of you."

Well, if hearing that didn't sting like a thousand porcupine quills. I knew her heart was in the right place, but I'd sent her all that money to help her move on from the lies and the heartbreak my dad caused. Not for her to stuff it away in an account that only I was able to access. The condemned house had been bad enough, but to hear she was working off the double mortgage and personal loans my father had taken out under her name and squandered had been overwhelming. If the man hadn't died, I would have killed him myself.

"I know she is. I'm not mad at her. Just upset that she kept me in the dark all these years."

"Hard to bring you to the light when you chain yourself to the shadows."

Tipping the glass back, I swallowed the rest of the liquid as I turned to face the mirror over the bar across from me.

"You're welcome to stay with me if you need to, but I think you need to have a sit-down with your mom. Let her explain."

"Since when have you and Beverly been so close?" I asked cynically.

"Since I was the only one who really listened." Coach quieted, letting his words sink in. It was confirmation that he'd known what had been going on all along.

Fucking embarrassing to realize my coach absolutely knew what was happening behind closed doors. About the torment my mother and I suffered. At any other time, I'd be angry as hell that he didn't help, but I remembered my attitude as a teen. I was a pompous asshole who acted out as a way to keep the attention there and away from the agony.

"Thanks for the offer," I said as I gestured to the bartender again, offering to refill Coach's as well. The burly man shook his head and slipped off the stool.

"I'll be seeing you around, kid. Would love to have you stop by the school and meet some of the players. Would mean a lot to them."

"You're still coaching?"

"They'll have to kill me before I stop," he joked as he set a twenty on the bar. His drink was only a quarter of that amount. "Don't be a stranger."

Our ten-minute conversation felt like it lasted years. I was worn out, as if dragged through the mud in the rain and left outside to weather the storm.

"Maybe something stronger with this too? Shot of gin?"

The bartender went to work on the shot after setting my frothy refill in front of me in a new frosty mug. A second later, he set the one-ounce glass in front of me and moved to the other end of the bar, lifting a hinged portion of it to leave it unmanned.

Splaying my hands on the sticky bar top, I watched as the expanse of my fingers nearly reached the opposite edge. Having large hands made my job much easier, even with a mitt. Grabbing the shot glass, two of my fingers wrapped around the drink. It reminded me of one of the thimbles my mom wore on her finger when she used to have to patch my clothes, since we couldn't afford new pairs of jeans and all mine had holes in them.

Fuck.

Thinking of my mom only depressed me more.

Tossing back the shot, I let the gin, which tasted awful, slip down my throat before chasing it with my beer.

I fucking hated liquor, but I needed something to take the edge off, and the beer wasn't cutting it.

An obnoxious scent clouded around me, and I nearly coughed when the brunette who had fluffed her hair earlier sidled up beside me. She didn't bother with the stool, instead wrapping her pink-tipped fingers around my forearm and pressing her breasts against my bicep. She was pretty. Even beneath all that makeup, she was probably still a knockout. But without even her making a suggestion, I knew my cock wasn't interested. Which was a shame, because at least if I went home with her, I'd have a place to sleep tonight.

My mind started playing out different scenarios as she fluttered her lashes and pursed her lips. I could get her off and hope that my dick would come around. That was the best-case situation.

"Hi," she finally said, licking her lips in invitation.

"Hey."

"I'm Kasey. I've been waiting for my chance to come over here. You're quite the popular fellow."

"Owen, and I'm sorry about that. Just a few people wanting to catch up." I smirked at her, but it felt off. Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice.

Deciding she was my shot at a bed instead of sleeping in my car or at my old coach's house, I played the part of the playboy. The part I perfected when I was drafted by the Coyotes. The part that got me the supermodel fiancée.

Ex-fiancée.

"Would you want to buy me a drink, Owen?"

I held back my sigh, not wanting her to notice how uninterested I was. Instead, I nodded just as the bartender returned and ordered her another dirty martini.

For a while, she droned on about her work—a teller at the bank, and her hobbies—watching reality television, specifically a show about marrying someone they just met. I did my best to feign interest, but I wouldn't recall a single detail if she quizzed me later. But she continued to inch closer, something I wasn't sure was possible, since her body was already pressed against mine.

The air shifted as the song on the jukebox changed, and I glanced up in the mirror to find my little nightmare stroll in. She was wearing the same pair of cutoff jeans that forced your eyes to gaze at her toned, tan legs. Even at her miniscule height, her legs looked like they went on for days. Tucked into the waistband was a loose white T-shirt, the neckline hanging off a bare shoulder. A pair of clean cowboy boots, these in much better condition than the ones she had on earlier, finished her ensemble.

Though it was a local pub, Aspen wasn't dressed like the rest of the women in the bar. She was all casual, where the rest were dressed for finding a husband, or a night of fun. But even without trying, she was the most beautiful woman in the place.

Definitely couldn't let that secret out. She'd hold it against me for all eternity.

I continued watching her in the mirror, chiming into my conversation with Kasey when necessary, but my mind was focused elsewhere. Specifically on the blonde sitting at a table in the corner with a friend who was staring at the group of suits near the pool tables.

They ordered drinks, and I was surprised when Aspen wanted a beer. She was the only female in the place that I could see without a cocktail of some sort.

Kasey must have noticed my wavering attention. Her nails sank into my skin, and my fist flexed out of reflex. Jerking my face in her direction, away from the mirror, I narrowed my gaze.

"Don't," I snapped harshly. It was my first reaction to the pain. Triggering a memory of someone gripping my arm, inflicting their strength over mine. I could only mask the fear with irritation.

Thankfully, Kasey was either too buzzed from the alcohol or too unobservant to notice. She perched her chin on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. I couldn't make out a lot of what she was saying, but I picked up on a phrase or two, like "have fun in the bathroom."

I was well past the college days of hooking up in a public bathroom.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Aspen's friend stand up from the table and move down a hallway.

"Excuse me," I mumbled to Kasey. "I see my friend. Enjoy your drink."

I left her gaping like a catfish as I pushed away from the bar, and her hooks, making my way to my favorite person who hated me with a vengeance. I left her on a bad note earlier, lashing out when I'd been angry at myself and my mother.

Should I go over and apologize?

Yes.

Will I?

Absolutely not.