Page 7 of Rushing Into Love

Pulling into the drive, Charlie jumped out practically before I had the car in park.

“Wait up, little man,” I called out, although it was a lost cause. He’d already banged through the white-washed screen door and rushed inside. I slammed the car door, not bothering to lock it, and strolled into the main house, pausing to pet our golden retriever, Goldy.

“Hey, Mom,” I said. “Smells great. Anything we can do to help?”

Walking over to the oven, I bent down and gave my mom a squeeze. Maeve “Gigi” McCauliffe was a solid foot shorter than me, a slender, petite woman, unlike my brother and me. Her size did not stop her from being an absolute force to be reckoned with in the McCauliffe household, however; in fact, her unofficial tagline was “small, but mighty.” Truer words had never been spoken.

“I’m good, honey, you and Charlie go wash up. He ran straight through here and out the back.” She tipped her head to the right, motioning to the family room. “Dinner will be ready in just a few.” She shooed me away with an oven-mitted hand.

I made my way through the kitchen and into the family room, my dad’s favorite spot in the house. He obviously wasn’t home, or he would’ve been sitting in his oversized leather recliner in the corner, watching game shows on TV. Only Goldy sat there now, curled up on the rug in front of the brick fireplace, waiting for him to come home. I crossed over to the picture window that ran the length of the room and watched Charlie standing on my old tire swing, flying high in the air. The pure joy on his face helped me relax my shoulders a bit; Peachtree Grove was a great place for him to grow up, no matter how we got here.

Stepping onto the screened back porch, I called to him. “Charlie, time to eat!”

Grinning over at me, he jumped off the swing and flew through the air. He stuck the landing, then ran full-tilt towards the house. I held the door for him, ushering him through the house and into the guest bath to wash his hands.

“Oh good, I’m not late.”

Behind me, the deep voice of my older brother Quinn rumbled through the house, followed by the crash of the door slamming behind him.

“Uncle Quinn!” Charlie scrambled out of my grasp, water still dripping from his hands, and ran out of the bathroom. My brother was quite possibly his favorite person in the world, mainly due to his career as a firefighter, which currently ranked high on Charlie’s list of coolest jobs in the world.

“Hey, little buddy.” Quinn ruffled Charlie’s hair, then gave him a fist bump and a side hug, their special uncle/nephew greeting. “I see you had football practice today. Hey, bro.” Quinn nodded at me.

“And I see you’re wearing your Daddy’s number, #18.” Gigi pointed at Charlie’s jersey.

“Yep. The lucky number,” Charlie beamed, scraping his chair out and plunking down in his designated seat at the oak farmhouse table, the very table where Quinn and I’d eaten as boys.

My chest tightened at the mention of my number and I couldn’t figure if it was pride or concern. I was happy that Charlie liked football and seemed to be taking after me, but I also knew how tough sports could be, especially once you started talking pro ball. Cracking my knuckles under the table, one-two-crunch, one-two-crunch, I tried to snap away the unbidden flash that surfaced.

Me, in the lineup, far right side of the field. Down, set, hike. Running, fast, down the sideline, barely staying in bounds. Looking back, seeing the ball flying in my direction. Cutting in, jumping up, making contact. I gripped the ball to my chest. Landed soft. Then a helmet to my shoulder and I was down. Searing, burning pain in my arm.

“Ryder? Is water good for you?” Gigi stood next to me, pitcher poised over the old-fashioned juice jars we’d used since we were kids. A shadow of concern clouded her eyes as she peered down at me.

“Yeah, sure.” I gave my head a little shake, trying to dislodge the unpleasant flashback of the day my world came crashing down. Rolling my neck, I asked Quinn about his day at the fire

station.

“It was good, man. Nothing burned down today, so I can’t complain. And I’m off for the next forty-eight, so I’m free as a bird.” He took a swig from his beer bottle to mark his freedom. “Want to grab a drink with me Friday night?”

I glanced at Gigi, gauging her willingness to keep Charlie for a few hours. She nodded.

“I’d love to keep him, Ryder. Go with your brother.”

“’k, thanks.” I smiled my appreciation at her, although I got the impression she kept Charlie partly out of selfish motives. She loved spoiling her only grandchild and I knew she was constantly hoping I’d come home with a suitable mother for him.

“Gigi, did you know we have a gi-irl on our team?” Charlie whined the word again, just as he had in the car, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“Well, isn’t that wonderful!” she replied. “I’ll bet you’re one of the only teams that got so lucky!”

“No, yuck!” Charlie stuck out his tongue to show how awful this development was.

“Did I hear you say dinner was yucky?” My dad’s voice boomed through the kitchen as he sauntered in, also slamming the door behind him. My mother had the patience of a saint.

“No, Pops, girls are yucky!” Charlie cried, bouncing out of his seat to hug his grandpa. “And we have one on our team.” He looked up at John McCauliffe, who still stood over 6 feet tall, even in his late sixties.

“Well, now, you rascal, mind what you say,” Pops said in a conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t want to go hurting Gigi’s feelings.” He motioned his thumb in her direction.

“I’m not talking about her, Pops. I’m talking about Alex,” Charlie explained.

---