Baden, page 6
I am an utter failure and have been from the very start of this ordeal. I wasn’t paying attention when I parked my car, putting myself in an area too far from the mall entrance. I always park the farthest away to get steps in. I wasn’t thinking of potential danger.
And when I was attacked, I didn’t fight back. I let them throw me around like a rag doll, and had it not been for Baden’s interference, God knows what they would have done to me.
I was absolutely no help to Baden, running away as fast as I could, thinking of my own safety first and foremost. I failed him miserably.
And when it comes to helping the police catch these horrible men who ruined Baden’s life, I can’t even help there. I couldn’t identify the first person they brought in a few weeks ago, and yesterday, I was inept at pointing out the perpetrators.
There were two suspects, which meant two separate photo lineups. One of the suspected attackers was in each set of photos—six in all, mixed with other males of similar appearance—but none stood out. They all looked mean and dangerous, and it could’ve been any one of them. I was only able to say—and not with any certainty—that the attackers were white.
And that was the extent of my help in finding justice for Baden.
I recognize that I’m spiraling into a depressive episode. While I’m still paralyzed with a fear of being attacked again, my most debilitating trauma is in what happened to Baden as a result of his heroic efforts. He saved me. When I can’t help but think of how I ruined his life, I run the risk of withdrawing too far inward, and sometimes it’s hard to come back out.
But as I said, I’ve worked diligently on myself. I recognize what’s going on, so I push up off the couch. I know I need to focus on something else that brings me joy.
I love to cook, but there’s nothing to cook, as I already have chili simmering on the stove. Going for a walk would be nice, but it’s dark and freezing outside. Besides that, I’m too chicken to walk alone.
I consider watching a rom-com, and just when I’ve about talked myself into that, the front door motion sensor goes off and then the doorbell rings, causing a moment of panic before I push it away. I have security in place.
I don’t bother looking at my security app but rather move to the front door where I take a quick peek through the peephole.
I’m stunned by what I see.
The fish-eye lens distorts the image a bit, but I can clearly make out Baden Oulett standing on my front porch.
He’s a gorgeous man with dark hair and light brown eyes. His face is beautiful, despite the thin, red scar extending from his temple along the side of his face, disappearing into a trim beard he wears very well.
Most surprising of all is that he’s standing.
No paralysis of the legs. No wheelchair. No crutches. No unsteadiness.
He looks absolutely healthy and normal, and I blink several times because I must be dreaming.
The doorbell rings again, and I physically jump backward. My hand presses against my chest, heart thundering in disbelief that Baden is here at my house, and he appears whole.
I put my eye back to the peephole. He stands there casually with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, curiously looking to the left at my neighbor’s front yard.
It’s only the frown upon his face and a quick glance at his watch that shocks me out of my stupor. He starts to turn to away, presumably thinking I’m not home, and I spring into action. I unlock the dead bolt and pull open the door.
Unfortunately, I forget to disengage the security system, and the minute the contact sensors break, my alarm goes off. The good folks at Jameson Force Security persuaded me to get a package that not only shrieks a blaring alarm but also has a deep male voice that booms over the speakers so loud it can be heard up and down the block.
“Intruder alert. Warning. Step away from the house. The police have been called.”
Baden moves back in shock and almost tumbles down the stairs, but he manages to catch himself with the rail.
“Shit,” I exclaim and scramble for the alarm panel. I frantically push in the code and hit enter, but nothing happens.
“Shit!” I yell again and try the code one more time.
The alarm silences, but I can’t give Baden my attention just yet. I scurry back around the couch for my phone, and right on cue, the monitoring company calls as they’ve been notified of my triggered alarm.
I glance back at the door to see Baden standing hesitantly at the threshold. I connect the phone and put it to my ear.
“This is Cindy from your security monitoring company,” a female voice says with crisp efficiency. “We have a report of your alarm going off. I’m checking to see if you are safe. Can you give me your security password?”
My cheeks flush over this whole embarrassing fiasco, and my gaze drops from Baden’s as I whisper into the phone, “Scrappy Doo.”
The woman confirms that is my password and asks once again if I’m safe.
“Yes,” I assure her. “I mistakenly opened my door before disengaging the alarm.”
“No worries,” the woman says. “It happens all the time. Have a great day.”
I disconnect and toss my phone onto the couch, blowing out a huge huff of frustration. Pivoting to face my open door, cold air tinged with the smell of snow blows in, and I realize I’ve forgotten my manners.
“Please… come in.” I wave at Baden as I scramble toward him. He smiles and enters, and I shut the door behind him. Without thought and more by rote habit than anything, I reset the alarm at the panel before properly greeting him.
I don’t know this man at all. I’ve only met him twice—once in a dark parking lot where he saved my life, and the other in his rehab hospital room as he lay paralyzed.
But it’s without hesitation that I welcome him into my home. I don’t know this man, and yet I implicitly trust him not to hurt me by the virtue that he saved me from great harm already.
“You’re walking,” I say stupidly, an understatement if there ever was one.
“I’m walking,” he confirms, holding out his arms and grinning.
“What are you doing here?” It sounds rude to my ears, but I’m unable to fathom the fact that he’s standing in my living room.
Baden pushes his hands into his pockets. “It’ll probably hit the news tonight, but I’ve accepted the position of goalie coach with the Pittsburgh Titans. I just got into town this morning, but I wanted to come check on you.”
And I swear, someone above has the quirkiest sense of humor because at that moment, the local sports reporter comes on and starts talking about the Pittsburgh Titans.
Both of our heads swivel that way, and I stare dumbfounded at the TV as Chuck Holderness reports that the Titans are working hard to put the team back together. He mentions the new coaching staff, as well as the general manager hire, and pictures of each appear on the screen.
Sure enough, there’s Baden.
The Titans’ new goalie coach.
While the coaches are all in golf shirts or suit jackets, they’ve got Baden’s Arizona Vengeance picture up. Probably because it’s his most recent professional picture.
My mouth drops open in shock, and I turn to Baden as if I need additional confirmation, even though it’s on the news.
Sensing my confusion, he nods. “It’s true.”
The reporter continues, and my attention is caught by the name Gray Brannon.
While I’m a die-hard Pittsburgh sports fan, I’m pretty knowledgeable about the other teams, particularly when they have an interesting story. Gray Brannon happens to be the general manager for the Carolina Cold Fury—and the first female general manager in the league. She’s also still the only female GM in the league.
Chuck Holderness leans forward with one forearm on the desk, gives a smarmy smile, and talks directly to the camera. “It appears Gray Brannon has reached out to the now sole owner of the Pittsburgh Titans, Brienne Norcross, and has offered her assistance to help get the Titans organization back up and running. Ms. Brannon held a press conference earlier this afternoon, calling on all team owners to adopt an immediate resolution for a points freeze in the standings. As you’ll remember, Gray’s father, Brian Brannon, owns the Carolina Cold Fury.”
The camera cuts away from Holderness and flashes to a previously recorded press conference with Gray standing at a podium emblazoned with the Carolina Cold Fury logo. She’s a beautiful woman, but I admire her for her accomplishments.
Gray Brannon has upended the hockey world by taking over the Cold Fury and leading them to back-to-back championships.
She looks straight into the camera and says, “My father and I believe it is our duty to protect and maintain the stellar reputation of this league. The truth of the matter is, at the time of the crash, the Pittsburgh Titans were top of their conference with an astonishing eight-point lead in the standings. I’ve talked to Brienne Norcross, and while she’s working diligently to rebuild the Titans team, they need at least another week before they can reenter regular season play.
“My father, as CEO of the Carolina Cold Fury, is calling on owners league-wide to join us in adopting a resolution to put in place a points freeze, retroactive to the date of the Titans’ plane disaster. This will continue up through the end of next week when points earnings will resume. This is the only way to ensure the integrity of the points standings and give Pittsburgh a fair chance to compete.”
Chuck Holderness comes back on, and I look at Baden. He’s staring at the TV in shock, which means this is news to him as well. “How about that,” he murmurs in awe.
“Will it pass?” I ask curiously. “The resolution?”
His eyes meet mine, and I’m struck by how hypnotizing they are. They’re almost golden, and they convey so much warmth. I don’t remember that from when I visited him at the hospital. He wears his dark hair longish on top, shorter on the sides but swept back. His beard, trimmed to the contours of his face, accentuates his full lips. I don’t remember any of this.
Then again, that day I wasn’t really paying attention to his looks. I’d stared instead at his lifeless legs under the hospital sheets.
Baden shrugs. “I have no clue, but it’s awesome that Gray Brannon is calling for it. She’s a pioneer and a rule breaker if there ever was one.”
And all of a sudden, it seems weird to be standing here talking about hockey. I feel like we missed something monumental—namely, how is he walking again? When did this miracle occur?
In my mind, he was a broken man, huddled in a wheelchair and maybe drinking himself into a depression. I purposely avoided reading anything about him because my heart couldn’t take the worst-case scenario, and I could only fathom the worst case given how brutally he was injured.
My brain wouldn’t let me consider the best case, though, so it’s bewildering to see him looking so healthy.
“Can we sit?” he asks hesitantly, nodding toward the living room furniture.
Shit. So freaking rude of me. “Yes, of course, you’ll need to sit down.”
“No,” he says, and it’s not exactly harsh but it causes my eyes to flare in surprise. His expression gentles. “I don’t need to sit. I’d just like to.”
“I’m so sorry.” It comes out as more of a piteous moan than actual words, and I realize I’m making all kinds of assumptions about him. “I’m just… it’s just…”
“Overwhelming?” he guesses.
Tears well in my eyes. “I didn’t know you could walk. I’d assumed your paralysis was permanent.”
Baden frowns but makes no comment. He’s probably thinking I’m the biggest asshole for not checking up on him and knowing more than I do.
I’m frozen, caught in a hell of self-imposed guilt and a general inability to say the right thing.
Perhaps it’s the deer-in-the-headlights look I know I’m wearing, or maybe the slight sheen of tears, but Baden becomes gallant—although I suspect that’s inherent in his nature. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I called Detective Gilmore and got your address, and please, don’t be mad at him. I bribed him with Vengeance tickets, and I know your information is private, but I really wanted to see you.”
“Of course, I’m not mad,” I reassure him. “I showed up at your hospital unannounced, and that was totally awkward. I guess I deserve this.”
Baden chuckles and nods at the furniture again. “May I?”
“Damn it,” I curse at myself for my continued rudeness. I walk around the opposite end of the couch and gesture toward a chair. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I’m so discombobulated.”
Moving with what appears to be relative ease, although I can clearly see now that his steps are a bit cautious and calculated, Baden settles into one of the chairs.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
“Oh, okay.”
Baden stares at me and finally asks, “Will you sit down too?”
Shit. I’m totally losing it.
I scramble for the end of the couch farthest away from his chair. I grab the remote, mute the TV, and flop down awkwardly.
Baden graces me with an understanding smile. “Would you like to hear how my last seven months have gone?”
I nod.
“Good. Because I want to hear the same from you.”
CHAPTER 6
Baden
I don’t remember a lot about Sophie Winters, and what I do remember is wrapped in negativity, so I try not to think about it. The first time I saw her came after I heard her scream, and it was so bloodcurdling, I knew something major was wrong. She was at the far end of a dark parking lot, on the ground between a curb edge and a large pickup truck. Two of three men then hauled her up while the third went through her purse.
Sophie came to visit me at the hospital not long after my attack, and while the visit was short, she stood right beside my bed. But it wasn’t until she opened the door just moments ago that I realized she had blond hair, a detail that hadn’t stuck with me.
I don’t remember it being that color of butterscotch, or being long and curly. I don’t remember her green eyes or the freckles over the bridge of her nose.
I certainly have no recollection that Sophie Winters is gorgeous. It wasn’t important back then, and truly… it shouldn’t be important now, just merely an observation.
No matter what, though, I’m absolutely not surprised to find her a hot mess. Detective Gilmore told me she was suffering from PTSD, although he didn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t need to. I remember the look on her face that night. As I was taking in the scene, I knew those men wanted more than her purse. What I didn’t know was if they were contemplating rape, or would their evening have ended with her murder?
Not knowing is what prompted me to act. I caught the men by surprise by jumping into the fray, elbowing one of the dudes and somehow pulling Sophie free. I actually flung her away, and I remember her stumbling across the parking lot a few feet before righting herself.
Her eyes met mine, and they were so inundated with fear, my stomach rolled violently.
I yelled at her to run, and she did.
Thank God.
I once admitted to Riggs that sometimes I regret my actions, but the feeling never stays long. Now that I’m looking at this woman, and I can see she’s still deeply affected, I no longer have a single regret. Better her to be alive and traumatized than very, very dead.
Also better for her to be alive and me paralyzed than very, very dead.
“You’re surprised to see me walking,” I say, initiating the conversation on a light note.
It doesn’t work, and her eyes cloud over with pain and guilt.
Scooting forward to the edge of the chair, I lean slightly forward, fixing my eyes on her. “I’m fine, Sophie.”
Her eyes drop to my legs and then move back up slowly. “How fine?”
I grin and settle back in the chair, lifting my ankle and propping it on my knee, a deliberate attempt to show her a normal move. “My doctors call me a fucking miracle. But honestly, they’re the miracle workers. I just busted my ass to get strong again.”
“How strong?” she asks in a low whisper.
“Very strong,” I say, playing up my recovery a bit. She clearly needs the reassurance.
Some of the tension eases from her shoulders, but her gaze drops. “I’m really sorry I didn’t keep up with you.”
“I didn’t give you any reason to,” I say. Her head snaps up, expression filled with surprise. “You came to visit me, and I was an asshole. I didn’t talk, and it was awkward. When you left, I knew I’d probably never hear from you again, and that was my fault.”
“No,” she exclaims, straightening against the cushion. She shakes her head vehemently. “That’s not on you. You were the one seriously injured. You’re the one who saved me from certain…”
She trails off, and I don’t blame her for not being able to use words like rape and death.
“I owed it to you to be more aware of your recovery,” she murmurs, gaze once again falling away from me.
“You owed me nothing,” I assure her.
“I owe you everything,” she counters.
Sophie then puts her face into the palms of her hands and weeps.
I have no experience with this. Not sure I’ve even been around a crying woman other than my mother when she first saw me in the hospital after I came out of surgery. All my relationships—though there haven’t been many—have been too casual for tears.
It’s instinct that has me moving to the couch. I sit beside Sophie, and she doesn’t shrink away when I put my arm around her shoulders.
She doesn’t lean into me either, but rather keeps a stiff posture while she cries.
When she starts to settle, I tell her the only thing I know to be true. “You have to learn to let that stuff go, Sophie.”
She sniffles and raises her head. Her green eyes glow through her tears. “Am I allowed to feel guilty that you’re here comforting me when you were the one who was so hurt?”
