The Game by Vi Keeland by Vi Keeland

I rose to my feet. “Can I at least help you up and walk you back to sit on the couch?”

“I’m fine.”

I stopped at the bathroom door and looked back. On the tip of my tongue was to tell her I loved her before I left. Because I was head over heels in love with her. But this wasn’t the time.

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach as I walked out of the apartment. Pulling the door closed, I just hoped I got the chance to tell her.





CHAPTER 28




* * *



BELLA



The next morning, I left the house to go to Miller’s apartment. But that wasn’t where I ended up.

“Kiddo?” My grandfather opened the door. “Well, this is a nice surprise. At least I think it is. Or did you tell me you were coming and I forgot?”

I leaned down to kiss his cheek, and tears unexpectedly stung my eyes. I’d come to get answers, but then it hit me that I might be about to hurt my grandfather, too. I hadn’t cried before now, though tears had threatened a few times, and I’d stubbornly fought them back. Suddenly I couldn’t do it anymore.

My grandfather took one look at my face and opened his arms. “Oh, sweetheart. Whatever it is, it’s going to pass. Come here…”

I leaned down and let him console me. It had been a long time since I’d cried in the arms of someone and let it all out. When I finally stopped, my grandfather’s shirt was all wet.

“I made a mess on your shirt.” I laugh-cried as I pointed.

My grandfather’s own eyes brimmed with unshed tears, yet he smiled warmly. “It’s alright. As long as you don’t blow your nose in it.”

I snorted and wiped wetness from my cheeks. “I promise.”

He tilted his head toward the living room. “Come on. I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me whose ass I’m going to kick for making you sad.”

I followed him, but part of me regretted coming as I settled in. Maybe I should’ve gone to Miller’s after all. But I needed answers, and I knew he’d only have more questions. When he returned, Coach balanced two steaming mugs on a tray on his lap, while his good arm moved his wheelchair. It wasn’t easy to not get up and help, but he’d told me on more than one occasion that he liked to do things himself, that that wheelchair wasn’t who he was, it was only his mode of transportation until PT could get him fully walking again.

“Here you go,” he said. “Just like you like it, with a half teaspoon of sugar.”

“Thank you.”

He parked himself diagonal to where I was seated at the end of the couch. “Talk to me. It better not be Knox who’s got you so upset. If it is, I’m going to need you to find me a big stick before you go, so I can whack him in the back of the knees and take him down to my level to get a solid punch in.”

I smiled sadly. “It’s not Christian, not really anyway.” Tears threatened again as I looked into this kind man’s eyes, but this time I managed to swallow them back. “I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning is usually a good place. Take your time, sweetheart. There’s no rush.”

Over the next twenty minutes, I spilled my guts. If I’d had any doubt as to whether Marvin Barrett knew what his son had done, his face confirmed he was as shocked as I’d been.

But as I told the crazy story out loud for the first time, a lot of pieces clicked into place. It had never made sense why John Barrett would care enough to follow me—doing crazy things like donating a library next to the shelter where I’d lived—yet never come forward to admit he was my father. Now I understood it was because he had guilt, but his freedom meant more to him than clearing his conscience.

My grandfather shook his head. “I don’t even know what to say. How could he have done such a thing and hidden it?”

That was the million-dollar question. If it had been an accident, he would have stopped. So it either wasn’t an accident, or there was a reason he’d kept going.

“Did he drink in the owner’s box during the games?” I asked.

My grandfather frowned. “He liked to have a few. There was a period of time right after Celeste died that he got carried away. I remember being worried he was taking things too far. He had the girls to consider and all. They’d just lost a mother, and the last thing they needed was a drunk for a father. But then something changed, and he seemed to go back to his old self. He didn’t quit drinking, but he had more control over it, or at least I thought so.”

“Do you remember when that was? Or maybe how long he seemed to have problems?”

Coach tapped his lip with his pointer. “Not exactly. But it was sometime right after Celeste passed, which was on St. Patrick’s Day, I remember. And by the end of the season that year, he seemed to have things under control.”

“His wife died seven months before my mom. I remember reading about it when I first found out he was my father. She died in March, and my mother’s accident was in late October.”

“Jesus…” He shook his head. “So you think he was drinking, and that’s why he left the scene?”

“That’s the only thing that makes sense. Either that or he intentionally hit her.”

“I can’t imagine that,” Coach said. “But I also would never have imagined that he drove drunk, killed a woman, and ran away.”