Page 52 of Hard to Hold

The pair of them hit me in every part of my past and what’s brought me to this future, and I struggle with what to say.

“Hi. And who might this be?” I ask as I meet his eyes and then his mum’s.

“I’m Scottie,” he says in a timid voice as he worries his hands in front of him.

“Hi Scottie. How are you today, Mum?”

“We’re very good, thank you.” She darts her eyes to the line behind her and then back to me. “We don’t have anything for you to sign. We can’t—” Her voice breaks off as she motions to the merchandise stand to the far left of us. I know she means they can’t afford to buy anything for me to sign. “But you’re his favorite, so I had to make sure he got the chance to see you since we’ll most likely never get the chance to see you play in England.”

My smile is plastered on my face, as I swallow over the lump of emotion lodged squarely in my throat.

I’ve seen mothers like this one a few times over the years, and mostly due to the rush of the event, I haven’t stopped to consider the extreme hardship my mum suffered. I recognize the look in her eyes, because I saw it for years in my mum’s. But I can also now see something with startling clarity.

This mum is probably around the same age my mum was when she died. When she cried her final tear because she wouldn’t be there for me anymore. And this mum’s the same.

She’ll never give up on her son. She’ll push and push because of her love for her little boy.

God, it’s times like these that I want to make more of a difference.

“Do you play?” I ask Scottie, when I can finally push words from my mouth. He nods. “How old are you and what position?”

“I’m thirteen and I play center mid.” His voice is so very quiet.

“A very important position. That means you’re steady and dependable when needed and aggressive when warranted.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I say, then I pull my jersey over my head and take it off. “I think this would fit you better than me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

LENNOX

WHO IS THIS MAN?

His comment to the little boy with the red hair and freckles galore about not believing everything that you hear, and the look he gave me, is the reason I’m still standing here. Still staring.

That’s why I’m watching him when I should be stewing over that kiss he planted on me in public—public—where everyone and their brother could have seen it.

And that’s how I catch the change in his expression—the softness—when he pulls his jersey over his head and signs it for the little boy who’s staring at him like he’s his hero, with a mom beside him who has tears welling in her eyes.

I take a few steps forward instinctively but am unable to hear what he’s saying when his voice lowers, as if they’re the only two in Rush’s world right now. The little boy looks at Rush with disbelief etched in every line of his face.

Rush starts to look around as if he needs some help, and when he sees me, he motions me closer.

“Did you need something?” I ask.

“Yes. Um . . . my friend Scottie is going to be my guest for the exhibition tonight.” Scottie’s jaw drops open and he glances at his mother, who looks just as surprised. “Can you help me find someone to get him and his mother some gear and out onto the field? I’m thinking they can have a spot on the end of the dugout with the rest of the team.”

“No. Way.” Scottie can barely get the two words out as his arms are halfway stuck through the jersey as he puts it on.

Rush turns to him, his smile genuine, and nods. “Yes, mate. If that’s okay with you and your mum?”

“Yes. Of course. Are you sure?” Scottie’s mom asks, almost as if she’s not used to anyone doing something like this for them.

“It’s my pleasure,” Rush says and then looks back at me while Scottie is all but bouncing out of his shoes. “Can you find someone to help me with that, Lennox?”

“Definitely.” I nod, and our eyes meet for a brief moment. I don’t know Rush well enough yet to be able to read into whatever emotion is swimming in his eyes—compassion, understanding, a gentleness I don’t expect—but all are definitely there. “Scottie and Mrs.?”