Loving You (20 page)

Ominous black smoke had thickened into a column. It lifted into the air, twisting, writhing, as it reached for the sky. Nick shuddered. It looked like the hand of death, stretching out greedy fingers as it tossed its latest soul toward heaven.

Instinct and twelve years of Catholic school had him crossing himself for the sake of whoever was lying in the wreckage beneath that smoke.

Sirens screamed as police cars, tire trucks, and ambulances raced along the shoulder. Traffic inched closer, closer, until at last Nick was driving past the scene of a one-car accident.

The black SUV that had passed him in a blur of speed only minutes ago was now lying on its top like an upended turtle. Smoke billowed and poured from beneath the hood and the chassis. Already, bright orange flames were licking at the black paint, blistering, searing.

He didn't want to look but couldn't help himself. Instinct had him wanting to stop, get out, and see if he could help. But dozens of firefighters and cops were already bustling around the scene and wouldn't thank
civilians for butting in—no matter how well intentioned. So Nick sat in his car, hands fisted around the steering wheel, squeezing the leather-bound wheel to combat his own sense of helplessness.

Traffic moved again. Haltingly cars chugged forward. Cops blew whistles, shouted, and waved their arms to clear a path for the ambulances and paramedics while their comrades tried to pull the poor bastard out of what was left of his car.

Not ten minutes ago, the driver of that SUV had been in such a damn hurry to get where he was going, he'd taken risks that hadn't paid off. He'd been alive and impatient and Nick had cursed him for it. Now, he wouldn't be arriving anywhere.

A cold chill slipped along Nick's spine and he stepped carefully on the accelerator as traffic moved past the scene of the accident. Choices. It all came down to choices. Football player or doctor. Hairdresser or scientist. Alive … or dead. In his rearview mirror Nick watched the smoke until it was nothing more than an indistinct smear in the distance.

And all he could think was just how quickly life … everything … could be over.

C
HAPTER
12

Jonas was at the front of the mob and had to move fast or get run down by the scattering horde of kids spilling out of the school. When the final bell rang, things got crazy as every kid in the building tried to be the first one out. Even the air smelled better once school was out for the day, and everybody was in a hurry to have fun.

Somebody crashed into him from behind, yelled, “Sorry,” and kept running. Jonas didn't even look up. Instead, he kept counting his money. For the third time, he flipped through the dollar bills and smiled to himself when he got up to, “Nine. Nine whole dollars.”

“You already counted it like a hundred times,” Alex said, and elbowed him in the ribs. “Whatcha gonna do with it?”

“I told you. Tasha's birthday.”

Alex grinned and rubbed his palms together. “Yeah, or the game center at Bullwinkle's.”

Jonas thought about it for a minute and almost caved in as visions of Space Blasters dazzled his brain. But then he remembered Tasha and shook his head. “Uh-uh. I'm gonna get Tasha something nice.”

“Not with nine bucks.”

“Dave Hackett's gonna buy a picture, too, so that'll be five more.”

Alex shrugged, tossed his dark brown hair out of his eyes, and trudged along beside Jonas as he headed for the front of campus. A cold wind pushed at them and the boys ducked their heads and charged through it like they were tackling a linebacker. Black clouds stacked up in the sky, bouncing into each other, and the distant roll of thunder whispered a warning.

“You have the picture?” Dave yelled as he raced up to join them. With his blond hair shaved short, Dave Hackett looked like a bald fifth grader. But nobody told him that, 'cause Dave was kinda big and he might not like it and a black eye was hard to explain to people.

“Yeah, I've got it.” Jonas dropped his backpack to the ground, then knelt beside it and tugged at the zipper. Pulling out a blue San Jose Saints folder, he opened it and took out his last signed picture of Nick. Holding it carefully at the edges, Jonas stared down at his father's smiling face and felt bad about selling his last picture. But he needed the money and Nick said he'd get him more, so that'd be okay, and besides, he had Nick for real now. The pictures weren't
all
he had of him anymore. Now he didn't have to pretend to know Nick and stuff. Now he could see him all the time.

“Okay, here.” Jonas stood up and handed the picture over before he could feel bad about it.

“Cool.” Dave took the picture and looked at it for a second. Then he frowned. “Hey, how come he signed his name different?”

“Huh?”

Dave scowled at him. “I saw the picture Tommy
Malone bought off you and the handwriting looked different than this one does.”

“So?” Jonas had noticed that, too. But it didn't really matter. “Can't a guy change the way he signs his name? Don't you sometimes?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So no big deal.”

After a minute or two, Dave shrugged and pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from his jeans pocket. He handed it over, then looked at Jonas and asked, “So can I meet him, too?”

Already mentally adding the five dollars to his nine, Jonas was hardly paying attention. “What?”

“Nick Candellano. You said he's your dad. So can I meet him?”

Jonas stood up and hefted his too-heavy backpack over his left shoulder. It would be kinda neat if he could get Nick to come to the school, so everybody could see Jonas with him. He smiled thinking about how all the guys would really be surprised and how Nick would call him
sport
again, only this time in front of everybody.

Enjoying the visions swimming through his mind, Jonas indulged himself. Heck, even the principal would want to meet Nick. And then Mr. Viggo would tell Nick what a great son he had and how smart Jonas was and everything—as long as Mr. Viggo didn't tell Nick about the water balloon war behind the science building, then everything would be really great.

Smiling at Dave, he said, “Sure, I'll ask my dad to come sometime and—”

“He's here now.”

“Huh?” Nick? Here? Jonas swiveled his head quickly, his gaze sweeping across the grassy yard behind
him and the asphalt playground. That quick look encompassed the basketball courts, the handball squares, and the tetherball circles. But all he saw was kids. Everywhere. With a couple of teachers wandering through, still blowing their dumb whistles and shouting. He turned slowly, letting his gaze sweep across everything that was familiar. “Where is he?”

“There.”

Jonas shifted a look at a spot just in front of the school, and there he was. Funny, he'd never noticed him. Probably 'cause the red Corvette was so low to the ground, it was blocked by the crowds of kids streaming along the sidewalk in front of it. And if he hadn't known to be looking for him, Jonas never would have noticed Nick, leaning against the car, arms folded across his chest—because there were a few grown-ups surrounding him and he was hard to see. They were all talking and looking at him like he was a movie star or something.

Pride flickered inside Jonas, then was quickly snuffed when he noticed Ms. Carmichael, his English teacher. Worry darted through him, but then Jonas figured since she was smiling, she maybe wasn't telling Nick about that whole report he was supposed to do and how he hadn't finished it yet and it was late.

Besides, he thought, his insides getting all excited again, this was too cool to be worried about. Nick was
here
. At the school. And everybody could see him.

“Sure,” Jonas said, already headed toward the Vette. “You can meet him now. You, too, Alex.”

The boys moved through the crowd like little eels, slithering in and out of the moving mob of kids, their gazes locked on Nick.

Nick saw them coming. He'd been watching them
for a few minutes—long enough to wonder just what kind of transaction Jonas had made under the big tree. It was too far away for Nick to see much more than money and something else exchanging hands. Dread reared up inside him and he wondered frantically what a little kid Jonas's age could possibly be selling … or buying. Dozens of ideas, each more scary than the last, raced through his brain and he wondered how parents did it. How did they manage to keep from worrying themselves into heart attacks on a daily basis? How did they send their kids off to school and not be terrified by what they might encounter there?

Jesus.

Being tackled by a three-hundred-pounder out for blood suddenly seemed like small potatoes. This whole parenthood thing could kill you.

And to top off the worry, Nick hadn't been able to show it, since he was caught, having to smile and nod in all the right places while a few fans asked for autographs and talked about old times. Ordinarily, there was nothing he liked better than listening to people talk about the fan's-eye view of one of his games. He enjoyed reliving great runs and game-winning touchdowns. And he'd always gotten a charge out of giving the fans a little lift. He knew they'd go home and tell their wives, brothers, sisters, whatever, about meeting him, and it was fun knowing he'd be the star of stories that would probably be told for years.

And also, any other time, he might be more than a little interested in Jean Carmichael. She'd introduced herself as an English teacher and Nick could hardly believe it. All of his teachers had been old crones who liked nothing better than making kids' lives miserable.
But Ms. Carmichael was gorgeous, curvy, and more than obviously interested.

Which didn't explain why
he
wasn't.

But Nick pushed that worry aside for later as he watched Jonas approach. The boy squirted through the edges of the crowd like toothpaste from a tube and grinned up at Nick as he rushed toward the Vette.

“Hi!”

“Hi yourself, sport,” Nick said, and ruffled the kid's sweaty hair. God, he hoped everything was all right. What had Jonas been selling … buying? Nick nodded absently at the adults and one by one they drifted off into the crowd. Well, all but the teacher with the great legs. She hovered just a foot or two away as if waiting for him to turn his attention back to her. Nick couldn't bring himself to care.

Moving in a little closer to him, Jonas mimicked Nick's position and leaned against the Vette himself, as if proving to his friends it was okay. “This is Dave and this is my best friend, Alex. You guys, this is Nick.” He took a breath, held it, and added, “My dad.”

Nick winced inwardly but didn't say anything to contradict the kid. He remembered too clearly what it was like trying to look good in front of your friends. All an adult had to do was say the wrong thing and a guy could be branded for life. So he grinned at the boys, then shook hands solemnly. “Good to meet you guys.”

“Wow,” the stocky blond kid muttered, jaw hanging open and eyes bugged until it looked like they were about to roll down his cheeks.

“Hi.” Alex swung his too-long hair out of his eyes in an action so like Jonas's habitual movement, Nick
almost wondered if they'd choreographed it. It wasn't easy after all, being cool.

“Are you picking me up today?” Jonas asked.

“Yeah.” Nick looked down at him, trying to read the boy's eyes. But all he saw was excitement, pleasure at seeing Nick, and he felt a responsibility for this boy's dreams that was heavier than anything he'd ever experienced before. “Tasha said it was all right.”

The boy grinned and his dark brown eyes shone like 100-watt bulbs were inside them. “That's great.”

Yeah, great, Nick thought. If he hadn't been here, he wouldn't have seen Jonas and his friends doing some kind of deal and he wouldn't now be forced to confront a kid who thought of him as a hero. Well, hell. Even heroes had bad days, right?

“Hey, Nick,” Dave said as he held out an eight-by-ten photo. “Would you sign this again? And this time put my name on it?”

“You bet.” Nick took the picture, glanced at it, then turned a thoughtful gaze on Jonas. Was this what they'd been doing? Was Jonas selling Nick's pictures? That
would
explain why the boy had asked for more of them. But why? he wondered, and knew the question would have to wait. “You have a pen?”

“Yeah.” Jonas bent over, dug through his backpack, came up with a chewed-on white pen, and handed it to him.

Nick pushed away from the car, took a few steps toward the long, low hood, and laid the photo down on the engine-warmed surface. Before he signed it, he looked at the signature already there.
Running Backs Rule, Nick Candellano
. Now he did wince. How corny was that? And who'd come up with it? And why hadn't he known about it before?

Because, he admitted silently, he hadn't cared enough to find out. Which said a lot for the man he was, right?

Not only was it a stupid signature, but the words were written in a scrawl that was nothing like his own. He frowned slightly as he realized that there were pictures of him, just like this one, all over the country. Generically signed by people who'd never even
seen
him, these pictures were tacked up to bedroom walls, taped onto lockers, and stuck into scrapbooks. And every one of those people who had a picture of him was convinced that he had a small, personal piece of Nick Candellano. That somehow he'd cared enough to take the time to sign his own name.

He couldn't help wondering how those fans would feel if they knew the pictures were churned out of an office in Santa Cruz that Nick had never even visited.

But he couldn't change the past. Only the future. And right here, right now, he'd do his best to salvage this one small situation. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head and wrote in a close facsimile to the scrawl across the top of the photo:
To Dave—any friend of Jonas is a friend of mine—Nick Candellano
. He straightened up, handed the picture to the kid, and watched a grin spread across the boy's face as he read it.