Prologue
MACY
Nine Years Ago
“Sweetheart, I know it’s going to be tough, and it’s a shock to us all, but I don’t want you to stress about money. I’ll sort something out. We’re going to be fine,” my father says to my mother the day he arrives home from the hospital.
“For God’s sake, Peter. Stop living in your goddamn happy-land where you believe everything is going to be okay. It’s not. You’re going to need extensive rehab, physical therapy and follow-up doctor visits and that’s if nothing else goes wrong.” She curls back into her lounge chair and covers her face with her hands. I want to step out from the corner doorway and say something in support for Dad, only I know better than to interrupt when Mum has an opinion. I’m not ready for her wrath to be switched to me.
“Nothing else will go wrong,” he says, as he struggles to adjust his position in his reclining chair but grimaces with the slightest movement.
I suck in a sharp breath, knowing he’s in pain and doing his best to keep a brave face.
“You’re a bloody fool,” she snaps. “You could get an infection in your wound, not to mention any number of other things that could go wrong. You’re carrying unhealthy weight around your fat gut, and knowing my luck, you’ll have a stroke, and I’ll have to look after you more so than I’m required to now.”
“No one expects you to be my caregiver,” he rasps.
My throat burns seeing the hurt in his expression.
“I certainly am no one’s caregiver. For years, I’ve suffered while you’ve been on the road for sometimes weeks at a time—alone and trying to run this house, pay bills with the pathetic wage you bring home. And Macy. She’s a dreamer and needs an uncle or someone to look out for her because you’re not a good influence.”
I take a reactive step forward and freeze when Dad’s gaze meets mine. His cheeks blush, and he gives a gentle shake of his head warning me not to let her see me because, by the sound of her tone, she’s firing up to full-on rage.
“Macy is doing fine,” he replies. “Her grades are good. She’s happy, which is a plus because many kids her age are on social drugs. So, I don’t think I’m too bad of an influence.”
She laughs at him. “Maybe if you encouraged her to get out of the house more often, she wouldn’t be the size she is.”
My chest burns, an imaginary knife twisting deeper.
“Enough,” Dad yells. “I won’t have you talking about her in that tone.”
“You want me to whisper, so she doesn’t hear?”
“Sylvia, stop,” Dad says between clenched teeth.
The momentary silence fools us both.
“I’ll tell you when I’ll stop,” she yells. “When I’m free of you both. You think you’re suffering because you have one leg? Well, my wings were clipped the day I met you. I’m a beautiful bird stuck in a cage having to sing and dance on a perch to entertain you. I can’t take it anymore. I see today as an opportunity when the cage door unlatches, and I’m flying out to be free.” She stands and leans over him, a finger jabbing toward him as she screams in his face. “You thought I was the beautiful girlfriend on your arm when we went out to parties. An accessory like an expensive handbag. You can’t afford Louis Vuitton.” Dad’s eyes round, and I’m scared because she’s hysterical. “I’m not meant to be with someone like you. I deserve better.”
“Sylvia…” Dad’s voice cracks. “It’s been a stressful week. Let’s sleep on it.”
“If you think I’m getting in bed with you, then you’re mistaken. I’m calling a friend. I’ll be back tomorrow for the rest of my belongings.”
I step forward so she can see me. “Dad doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. He’s been through enough.”
Dad shakes his head. “Macy—”
“No, Dad. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You little snake.” She glares at me before pushing past, her heels clicking on the wooden floor of the hallway. I slide on to the lounge chair next to Dad, hug him, and lean my head on his shoulder.
“You’re braver than me, my girl.” Dad pats my back.
“What if she doesn’t come back?”
“I can’t make her stay if she doesn’t want to.”
I curl into his shoulder and sob. “I’m sorry…” I sniff. “I’m sorry she doesn’t like me.”
Dad repeats my name softly. “She loves us both. She’s going through a tough patch at the moment. It’s all a shock to her, and she’s scared. Just give her time.”
Chapter One
MACY
“LOSERS.”
I utter the word to myself as I write it in capitals on the back of the menu above meaningless lines and scribbles with arrows drawn from point A to B.
This gibberish art means something to the guys who sat at this table minutes before I walked over to clean up the mess. A detailed gameplay. The new offence their coach ran over with them at an earlier training session. Three days a week they come in here for coffee and breakfast, then chat about the strategies discussed during the team meeting as they graffiti our menus. While waiting the tables at Lombardi’s, I hear their antics mocking each other in a mate’s code of friendship.
Shit, I’m not usually this grumpy.
Before I left this morning, even my dear father told me to cheer up as he hobbled across the kitchen on his crutch. He never complains or stresses about the never-ending bills rolling in.
Instead of smiling as my father would suggest, I underline a big fat zigzag beneath the word LOSERS. The emphasis puts a smile on my face. “Fuckers,” I murmur, now satisfied. Maybe this makes me as bad as them, tagging our perfectly good menu, but figure it’s ruined now. Doesn’t change the fact I have to pick up after these lazy shits. I mean how hard is it to place your half-eaten sourdough crust on your plate?
I toss the leftover food from the table onto the plates. These guys are elite AFL football players with superb hand-eye coordination. Even so, they can’t even keep their food on the crockery.
The door chimes alerting me to new customers.
An arm reaches across the table and snares the menu.
A sexy arm.
I straighten. Heat creeps up my neck as one of the football players looks pointedly at the menu then back at me.
The player who gives me spine tingles every time our eyes meet.
“Tell Oliver we’ll pay for new menus to be printed.” Mr Blue Eyes-Blond Surfy-Hair waves the menu in his hand flicking crumbs aside. “Gotta write down new team plays while it’s fresh in our mind after training. Maybe it’s the organic coffee, but everything makes sense when we’re here.” His lips curl up, and he’s looking at me as though he wants to say something else like every other time he is here and we stare at each other, tongue-tied for words. A few seconds of awkward silence pass before he turns and strides away.
“I bet it does,” I say to his back—broad and muscled—as the door whooshes closed behind him. Even his sexiness does nothing for my disgruntled mood. I can’t help the envy because what do these overpaid sports players have to stress about?