Page 3 of Stealing Home

All the fight in me has fizzled out. I’m as empty as the vows we made on our wedding day. Love, honor, and cherish my ass. Love doesn’t leave bruises. He doesn’t honor me with his insults, and he certainly doesn’t cherish me with his disdain.

2

Harlow

Parents and playersmingle inside the university’s ballroom. It’s a lovely set up, too bad it’s another thing I can’t really enjoy. While some might see lovely centerpieces, soft lighting, and a fancy buffet, I see landmines. Every person who approaches me might make Nando suspicious, jealous, or insulted. Inevitably, if any of those things occur, it will be my fault. If I say nothing, I’m being rude. If I talk to them, then I said something wrong or perhaps talked too much.

Frankly, life is becoming fucking exhausting.

Nando’s hand is on my back guiding me where he wants to go. I move, perhaps a bit woodenly, with a fake smile plastered on my face. No one notices. They never do.

After making the rounds of the room, greeting families, we finally stop at our designated table. Naturally, it’s in the front of the room. A spot he no doubt sees as a position of honor. I take my seat, fighting the urge to groan at the ache in my leg as well as the pinching of my toes in these shoes.

“Nice to see you again, Harlow,” his assistant, Coach Able Tucker says.

I smile and nod. “You as well.” Looking around I realize he’s alone. “Where is your wife?”

He rolls his eyes. “She hates these events. I’m supposed to tell you our sitter fell through, but I don’t see why she has to suffer through something she hates just because my job requires I attend.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say softly.

A well-dressed couple strolls our way. In seconds I can tell they’re madly in love. My heart pangs seeing evidence that a loving marriage isn’t a myth some of us tell ourselves. She’s stunning with long, dark red hair, a light dusting of freckles she didn’t bother to hide, and wide green eyes. He’s tall, blond, and oozes confidence. They’re probably a few years older than Nando and I, but I’m only guessing that because they’re standing next to the star pitcher of the team. He’s a carbon copy of his father, just with no gray laced through his blond hair.

Her smile isn’t fake as she holds her husband’s hand. No, it very much looks like she’s convinced he invented rainbows, puppies, and caffeine. Lucky bitch.

He comes to stand next to where we’re seated, and Nando jumps up immediately. So much for not standing in these shoes. I follow his lead and stand up.

“Hello Coach, I’m Aiden Ryan and this is my wife Becca,” he greets while shaking Nando’s hand.

“Yes! Thank you so much for the donation you made to the program. The new equipment has really been a godsend during training,” Nando gushes while he continues to shake his hand.

I turn to the wife, knowing if I continue to stand here like a mute I’ll hear about it for weeks. I offer her my hand, but our handshake is blessedly brief. “Hi, I’m Harlow.” I never offer my last name. That would cause a huge battle at home. Nando is angry I kept my last name. I think, even back then, there were doubts I ignored.

“Are these things always so fancy?” she asks.

I smile and nod. “Unfortunately for my feet.”

She’s tiny, but when I look down at her feet she’s wearing a pair of sparkly ballet flats. “Life’s too short to wear uncomfortable shoes.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” I say. In another life she and I would have been friends.

Scott Ryan watches me when he doesn’t think I’m paying attention. For a moment it’s flattering, but the longer he looks, the more I fear he sees.

Nando strikes up a conversation with Mr. Ryan about his days playing college ball. Based on what I overhear them say, Mr. Ryan was something of a rising star once upon a time, but gave it up at the end of college to focus on his family. Being a classic narcissist, Nando tries to make his own career in the minor leagues sound more impressive than it was.

Mrs. Ryan rolls her eyes, and tips her head towards the refreshment table. I take her cue and follow her over, grateful for any excuse to leave my husband’s side. Scott joins us, and the three of us linger near the punch bowl.

“Coach is barking up the wrong tree if he thinks he’s going to bond with my dad over baseball,” he states.

Mrs. Ryan turns to me. “Don’t get me wrong, my husband loves baseball, but he’s not fanatical about it. Now, get him talking about photography, and he won’t shut up,” she says laughing.

My leg throbs and I don’t realize I’m rubbing my bruises, one of them really close to my knee, until I see Scott staring at where my skirt has come up and exposed the lowest two bruises. He scowls, and I quickly pull my skirt down to cover the marks.

He raises an eyebrow, but he’s insane if he thinks I’m going to answer his silent question. I’m embarrassed enough to be talking to a woman who clearly loves her husband when I’ve long forgotten what that feels like. I’m not going to admit mine is a narcissistic tool bag who would hurt me over a hypothetical conversation with his boss’ wife.

“Some men don’t appreciate the good things in their life, and put too much importance on a game,” he says, still glaring daggers at my now hidden bruises.

His mom gasps. “Scott Aiden Ryan, that is a rude thing to say about your coach, and to his wife no less. I know you’re bumping heads with him, but have some respect.”

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