Read Online Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) by Sally Bradley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Bradley
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drapes. She rolled over and looked at Mike’s side of the bed.
Empty. Untouched.
She grabbed her clock. Eight-thirty. Was that right?
The light edging the curtains said it was.
Where was Mike? Had something happened? Had the team’s plane gone down?
She flung back the covers, jumped from her bed.
No, someone would have called.
Where was he?
The guest room.
She grabbed her hair and yanked it into a ponytail, then hurried down the hall, but the room was empty. So was the other bedroom and the couch in the living room and family room. In the garage, her Lexus sat alone.
Okay. Okay. Calm down. She dragged her hands down her cheeks and fell onto a chair at the kitchen table. Think, Meg.
She turned on ESPN. The sports ticker streamed across the bottom of SportsCenter. There was last night’s score. Texas, three, and Kansas City, seven. And nothing else. No plane crash, no extended game, nothing out of the ordinary.
Pain flared in her stomach, a low flame that burned hotter and higher. Meg shoved it aside. For eleven days she’d faced the truth and survived. This wouldn’t kill her, either.
He was with Brooke.
She forced saliva so she could swallow. He’d always come home. After all, she did his laundry, kept his favorite beer in the fridge, cooked his favorite meals. Brooke hadn’t kept him yet. He’d be back. In a couple hours maybe—
Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her fists. How could Mike do this?
Hours wore on. Mike did not appear, did not answer her calls. At 6:30, she turned on the team’s pre-game show. If he so much as smiled—
The pre-game showed him sitting in the dugout, talking to two players, the three of them laughing at whatever story they shared.
Her pain vanished.
When the game was almost over, Meg drove to the stadium and waited in the concourse outside the clubhouse. If Mike didn’t like it, he could blame himself.
Marty, one of the security guards, walked to where she leaned against the wall. “Any reason you’re out here, Meg?”
She kept her focus on the clubhouse doors. “Pink eye. I’m contagious.”
He nodded as if he’d seen it all before and returned to his chair.
Meg waited twenty minutes before the first player walked out. As Mike’s teammates emerged alone or in groups, she realized she could tell who knew and who did not.
Cliff, Jeff, and Juan waved, smiled, said hello.
Aaron wouldn’t look at her, although Lindsey, his wife, stopped to talk.
Dante and Mariah gave weak smiles and hurried past.
Maury, Eve, and their twin daughters asked why she was out here. Maury backed away at her excuse.
Adam Destin, one of Mike’s closest friends, took three steps outside the clubhouse before he saw her and turned back.
“Adam,” she called.
His shoulders slumped. Reluctantly he came over.
She prayed her voice would hold. “Please don’t tell him I’m here.”
He looked all around her before meeting her eyes, his own heavy. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged—it was that or bawl on his shoulder—and he left.
Two more players appeared before Mike walked out alone, a grin on his face. It vanished when he saw her, but he walked to her without missing a step, as if he’d expected her to be there.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Waiting for my husband.”
“Ah.” He adjusted his collar and looked around, nodding and smiling at someone down the concourse.
Couldn’t he pay attention for more than two seconds?
She fought to keep her voice calm and firm. “When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know.” He looked down, and she followed his gaze, watching him rock up and then down on his toes.
“I thought we were going to talk.”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
Noise from the clubhouse entrance distracted them, and Mike called goodnight to two more close friends, teammates who had to know this conversation wasn’t a good one.
She didn’t want to do this here. “Mike, come home. We can start over.”
“I have.” He took a step back,
Empty. Untouched.
She grabbed her clock. Eight-thirty. Was that right?
The light edging the curtains said it was.
Where was Mike? Had something happened? Had the team’s plane gone down?
She flung back the covers, jumped from her bed.
No, someone would have called.
Where was he?
The guest room.
She grabbed her hair and yanked it into a ponytail, then hurried down the hall, but the room was empty. So was the other bedroom and the couch in the living room and family room. In the garage, her Lexus sat alone.
Okay. Okay. Calm down. She dragged her hands down her cheeks and fell onto a chair at the kitchen table. Think, Meg.
She turned on ESPN. The sports ticker streamed across the bottom of SportsCenter. There was last night’s score. Texas, three, and Kansas City, seven. And nothing else. No plane crash, no extended game, nothing out of the ordinary.
Pain flared in her stomach, a low flame that burned hotter and higher. Meg shoved it aside. For eleven days she’d faced the truth and survived. This wouldn’t kill her, either.
He was with Brooke.
She forced saliva so she could swallow. He’d always come home. After all, she did his laundry, kept his favorite beer in the fridge, cooked his favorite meals. Brooke hadn’t kept him yet. He’d be back. In a couple hours maybe—
Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her fists. How could Mike do this?
Hours wore on. Mike did not appear, did not answer her calls. At 6:30, she turned on the team’s pre-game show. If he so much as smiled—
The pre-game showed him sitting in the dugout, talking to two players, the three of them laughing at whatever story they shared.
Her pain vanished.
When the game was almost over, Meg drove to the stadium and waited in the concourse outside the clubhouse. If Mike didn’t like it, he could blame himself.
Marty, one of the security guards, walked to where she leaned against the wall. “Any reason you’re out here, Meg?”
She kept her focus on the clubhouse doors. “Pink eye. I’m contagious.”
He nodded as if he’d seen it all before and returned to his chair.
Meg waited twenty minutes before the first player walked out. As Mike’s teammates emerged alone or in groups, she realized she could tell who knew and who did not.
Cliff, Jeff, and Juan waved, smiled, said hello.
Aaron wouldn’t look at her, although Lindsey, his wife, stopped to talk.
Dante and Mariah gave weak smiles and hurried past.
Maury, Eve, and their twin daughters asked why she was out here. Maury backed away at her excuse.
Adam Destin, one of Mike’s closest friends, took three steps outside the clubhouse before he saw her and turned back.
“Adam,” she called.
His shoulders slumped. Reluctantly he came over.
She prayed her voice would hold. “Please don’t tell him I’m here.”
He looked all around her before meeting her eyes, his own heavy. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged—it was that or bawl on his shoulder—and he left.
Two more players appeared before Mike walked out alone, a grin on his face. It vanished when he saw her, but he walked to her without missing a step, as if he’d expected her to be there.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Waiting for my husband.”
“Ah.” He adjusted his collar and looked around, nodding and smiling at someone down the concourse.
Couldn’t he pay attention for more than two seconds?
She fought to keep her voice calm and firm. “When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know.” He looked down, and she followed his gaze, watching him rock up and then down on his toes.
“I thought we were going to talk.”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
Noise from the clubhouse entrance distracted them, and Mike called goodnight to two more close friends, teammates who had to know this conversation wasn’t a good one.
She didn’t want to do this here. “Mike, come home. We can start over.”
“I have.” He took a step back,
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