When my marriage had crumbled, though, Columbus had seemed like the place to pick up the pieces. Sometimes, I’d said to myself, you just want to go home.
Home.
Amazing how, even after twenty years of telling myself I’d never set foot in Columbus again, it still felt like home. The townhome I’d rented had grown on me, and I enjoyed my pediatric practice at a local clinic. I’d even made a few friends, though I hadn’t contacted anyone from my high school days. I couldn’t.
Brett Falcone.
For twenty years I’d tried to erase him from my memory.
For twenty years I’d been unsuccessful.
What could I do? Call the county sports association and ask that Maya be put on a different team? Maybe. I couldn’t withdraw Maya from soccer. She was only four, and she was excited about her first chance to play a team sport. I couldn’t take that away from my daughter.
I checked my watch quickly. Four thirty. My mother was picking Maya up at the sitter’s and taking her for the night. Danny would pick her up tomorrow morning and take her for the rest of the weekend. I had nowhere to go. Though it was Friday, someone would likely still be at the sports registration office until five. I shuffled the papers on my desk until I found the copy of Maya’s registration and keyed in the number.
“Tri-County sports.”
“Yes, hello. This is Kathryn Abbott. My daughter is registered for Pee Wee soccer, and I was wondering if there was any chance we could change her to a different team.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. All the teams are full. We didn’t have as many volunteers for coaching, so there aren’t any open slots. Unless you’d like to coach a team?”
I arched my brows. Avoiding Brett Falcone might be worth learning soccer. Unfortunately, I had no athletic talent whatsoever. The sheer unfairness of all this! Brett Falcone would be a great coach. He was a natural athlete, great at soccer and football. But his first love had been baseball.
“Ma’am?”
I jolted back to reality. “I’m sorry. No, I can’t coach, though I wish I could. I know nothing about soccer, about any sports. I really want my daughter to learn. To do what I never had the talent to do.”
God, I was babbling. The teenybopper on the other end of the line didn’t care about my lack of sports experience.
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“I understand. Thank you for your time.”
I set the phone back on the cradle.
Brett Falcone.
The Italian Stallion.
How he’d lived up to that name.
I poured myself a glass of iced tea and sat down in my recliner. I took a long sip of the crisp beverage, letting it float over my tongue and coat my throat. Then another. I needed to cool off. Just the name Brett Falcone had made my entire body blaze like an inferno.
I set the tea down on an end table, leaned back, and closed my eyes.
Brett Falcone.
Twenty freaking years. Well, in three days, I’d see him again.
What would happen?
I had no idea.
Twenty years earlier
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Phillips?”
“Yes, Kathryn.” The guidance counselor motioned for me to enter his office. “Close the door and have a seat.”
I complied. I’d never been in a counselor’s office. I was a straight A student, editor of the school newspaper, member of the orchestra, president of National Honor Society. I’d received early admission to Stanford, my dream school. Spring was here, the school year was nearly over, and graduation was just around the corner. Why was the senior guidance counselor summoning me? What had I done wrong?
I sat, quiet, and waited for him to tell me.
He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you in here.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”
He smiled. “No, of course not. You’re a model student.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”
Mr. Phillips chuckled, shaking his head, and part of his comb-over fell over one ear. “You weren’t really worried about that, were you?”
“No. Not really, but you never know.”
He nodded. “I called you here because I need your help, Kathryn.”
“Of course. What do you need?”
“We have a student who needs a tutor. I think you might be the best fit.”
“Oh? Who is the student?”
“Brett Falcone.”
“The Italian Stallion?” I clamped my hand on my mouth. Not the thing to say to the senior guidance counselor.
Mr. Phillips, however, let out a laugh. “Yes. The Italian Stallion. He’s failing math, Kathryn. If he doesn’t get his grades up, he can’t play baseball. Our team needs him.”
“You’re kidding, right? I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you want me to tutor Brett Falcone so he can play baseball? Why are sports so important, Mr. Phillips? Why isn’t it important that he learn math because it’s math? Math is a lot more useful in life than batting a ball.”
I was overreacting, but still I seethed. The emphasis schools put on athletics angered me. I’d never been good at sports, was always the last picked for any team in gym class, and I’d revered the day, sophomore year, when I finished the last required physical education class of my high school career. No doubt all the jocks and jockettes had revered that day too. No longer would they be saddled with the class nerd on any of their teams.
“Normally, I’d agree with that assessment,” Mr. Phillips said, “but he’s already been offered a scholarship to play baseball at OSU. If he doesn’t get his math grade up, he won’t keep the scholarship.”
“A scholarship?” I shook my head.
Brett Falcone would never make it in college. Clearly, he was barely making it through high school.
“So you want me to tutor him and get his math grade up so he can play in college?”
Mr. Phillips cleared his throat again and his cheeks reddened. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“I think I might be too busy. I have my own grades to think of, you know. And the newspaper and—”
“We all know you’ve already been admitted to Stanford. Your grades at high school level no longer matter.”
I opened my mouth, but Mr. Phillips held up his hand.
“You’re an incredibly gifted young lady, Kathryn. Your grades won’t suffer for helping another. You know that as well as I do.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Phillips, I cannot help Brett Falcone. He and I have a…history.”
“A history?”
Mr. Phillips’s bulgy eyes bulged out even farther. No doubt he was wondering what kind of history the Italian Stallion could possibly have with Kathryn Zurakowsky, nerd extraordinaire.
“Yes.”
“May I ask what kind of history?”
“Not a good one, and nothing I care to talk about.”
“How would you have a history? You don’t run in the same crowds. Do you even know Brett?”
Did I know Brett Falcone? Know was such an innocuous word. It didn’t describe my relationship with Brett Falcone. Granted, once we’d gotten to high school, he’d left me alone. Middle school, though, had been hell on earth, courtesy of the Italian Stallion.