Page 48 of Bad Blood Panther

Chapter 18

Xander drove the back roads until his cat finally shut the hell up and stopped making strangled noises. Then he drove to a ball field where he sometimes went on sunny afternoons, when he needed to get away.

He bought a bottle of water from the concession stand and sat on the hood of his truck, legs dangling down, watching the kids play. He’d changed out of his shorts, fishing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt out of the back of the truck where he kept his spare stash. He’d shredded way too many clothes in uncontrolled shifts not to have a couple changes back there, just in case.

There were two games going on today. A local league had the near field—middle school kids in uniforms with logos of ice cream parlors and bowling alleys—the sponsors of childhood.

The gathering places of communities.

On the next field was a t-ball game. Little kids, kids too young to hit a pitch or throw one from the mound to the plate. He saw one kid, a little dark-haired boy, smack the ball off the tee and head for first base, his chubby little legs pounding while the infielders fumbled the ball in their too-large mitts.

Parents sat on the sidelines with folding chairs and picnic blankets and coolers. Kids ran up and down the splintered bleachers at the side of the ball field, chasing each other and shrieking.

Dads coached. Adjusting grips and yelling encouragement, corralling kids who were wandering off in search of juice boxes and bathrooms and butterflies and who knew fuck-all else.

He yearned for it with every fiber of his being.

Another truck drove into the parking lot and pulled up next to him. He glanced up. It was Tank, which surprised him a little, down in the place where he gave a fuck what was going on. He wasn’t that close to Tank, not like he was to Sloan or Jaz or even Lissa.

The big guy must have drawn the short straw.

Tank shut the door of his truck and walked over to stand next to Xander, leaning his hips against the fender of the truck. He had a couple cold ones in his hand, and handed one to Xander.

“It’s illegal to have an open beer here without a permit. Public park.”

Tank gave a tiny snort. “Since when do you care about the law?”

Xander shrugged. Cracked open his beer and took a swig. “I used to.”

Tank opened his own beer and took a long pull. Didn’t say anything.

“How’d you find me?” Xander asked.

“How do you think? Flynn was tracking you.”

Of course he was. Flynn acted like he was the head of the fucking CIA. He had trackers on all their vehicles. Hell, he probably snuck in while they were asleep and injected microchips under their skin.

Tank went on, “When I saw where you were, I asked to be the one to come.”

Xander knew he was supposed to ask why, but he was out of fucks to give. He watched a t-ball kid take a tumble running to second. He got called out at the base, and got up, knees and hands scraped, crying. Third out.

One of the coaches went over and leaned down, hands on his knees, talking low to the crying kid. The kid nodded, wiping his tears away and sniffling. The coach put his hand on the little kid’s shoulder for a second, then ruffled his hair. He scooped the kid’s baseball cap off the ground and plunked it on his head backwards. He said something else, and the kid laughed through his tears.

Watching that, Xander felt an ache in his chest. Longing and loss. “I always wanted to be a dad,” he said.

Tank didn’t say anything, just took another swallow of his beer. He was standing close enough that his thigh was just touching Xander’s knee. The way he and Flynn did, when they were comforting each other but being all manly shifter about it.

Xander hadn’t grown up with that shifter touchy-feely shit, but he was getting to like it—not that he ever told his crew. It really did make him feel better, somehow.

“I had this whole chick-type fantasy going,” he said. “About getting married and having three kids and a house in the suburbs, with a lawn and a dog and a fucking hamster.” He took a pull at his beer. “Now, if I saw a hamster, I’d probably just want to pounce on it and kill it.”

The silence drew out. He felt the pain well up inside him, all the way from his guts, pressing the air out of his lungs and stinging the backs of his eyes.

“I was going to be the best dad,” he said, the words coming out hardly more than a whisper. “I was going to teach my kid to throw a baseball, and coach t-ball and Little League.” He paused, trying to take a breath. “Or soccer or hockey or whatever the fuck they wanted to play.”

He tried again, but the air just got caught someplace behind his breastbone. “I was going to be the grillmeister and have neighborhood barbecues. I was going to help my kids with their science projects and make bottle rockets and baking-soda volcanoes and shit. We were going to go camping, and drive to the fucking Grand Canyon, with them whining about when we were going to get there, and me asking them why the hell they didn’t pee before we left the house.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one side of Tank’s mouth lift in a tiny smile. He couldn’t look. His eyes were burning, but the tears wouldn’t come. His whole chest was burning. “I really wanted to do that,” he said.