Page 25 of Hard to Hold

“Haven’t had the opportunity,” I lie.

“I’m sure you’ll get one now. I’ve watched you play over the past few weeks, you know.”

“Yes, sir.” I eye the biscuits again as his feet move and smash another one into the ground. It takes everything I have not to protest aloud.

“You’re trying out for the team? Your presence is causing quite the buzz as it should. I think you’re the one to beat right now.”

I swallow down the hope surging through me. “Thank you, sir.”

“The coach is a good friend of mine.” He starts to say something else but then stops himself. “Do I know your parents? I don’t believe I’ve seen them around the pitch.”

“No. Don’t have any, sir.”

“Everybody has parents,” he says through a chuckle.

My smile is tight—to be polite—as I try to change the topic. “I need to be getting home, now.”

“Where to? I can give you a lift. The sky’s going to open up any minute now.”

“I can walk,” I say. He’s the police. He’ll kick me out or turn me in for certain.

“Nonsense. Let me take you.”

“You’ve done more than enough already, sir.” This time when I meet his eyes, I think he really sees me. The shame. The embarrassment. The fact that I feel “less than” in so many ways. The second-hand uniforms I scrounged together from the lost property. The boots with a hole in their side and with studs worn down to nothing.

The opening and then closing of his mouth tells me he understands more than I’ll ever admit to and that maybe, just maybe, he gave me a lifeline he never knew he was giving just now. When he threw his son under the bus for whatever reason he had to protect me.

“Okay then.” He blows out a breath and nods. “I’ll leave you be, but I’m not going to allow you to walk home in the rain that’s about to come down. The last thing we need is those talented feet of yours off the pitch because you’ve gotten sick.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and stuffs some notes into my hand without looking at them. “For the cab ride, then.”

“Sir. I can’t—” I fumble with the words and the money. “Why?”

His dark brown eyes hold mine as lines etch the sternness in his face. There’s enough in his sigh to tell me he’s disappointed in Rory, and it makes me more uncomfortable than not. I don’t have to explain any more for him to know what I’m asking.

“Do you know what it’s like to have a son who thinks he can do what he wants because of my position? To do things and then get away with them because others are upholding some unspoken code? Humility is a good thing, Rush, and Rory needed some of it.” He looks down to where the toe of his Oxfords crushes another biscuit before meeting my eyes again. “And because you never know when you might need a favor in return.” He offers me a smile after saying words I don’t understand. “See you on the pitch tomorrow, son.”

Son.

It’s a word I don’t think any male has called me before and it stops me in my tracks. It makes me feel cared for. And before I can say something stupid, Inspector Matheson walks the opposite way without a backward glance to where I stand.

It’s only then that I notice he gave me so much more than a cab ride home. He gave me enough money to have food for a few weeks.

I open my mouth to call after him, to say thank you, anything, but he’s nowhere to be found. I stand on the street corner staring at the notes. Inspector Matheson just unknowingly gave me the single greatest gift anyone has ever given me.

Time.

I’m not the smartest kid in the world, but I know where I’d have ended up if the policeman had taken me in.

Foster care. Or with relatives who live on the other side of the country and away from the dreams I’m so close to achieving.

“Your presence is causing quite the buzz as it should. I think you’re the one to beat right now.”

I gave up praying years ago, but I pray anyway.

God, help me get that scholarship. Help me use what Rory’s dad gave me to make it. Please let those dreams come true.

CHAPTER NINE

RUSH