Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Tacker maneuvers the Gator around the big barn, past my metal shack office, and over to the main house. As he brings it to a stop, he turns slightly in his seat. “Maybe I could get a couple of the guys from the team to come help on a day off. We could knock out the entire job in one day.”
Surprised, I blink at him. “Really? They’d do that?”
“I’m sure they would,” he replies, not sounding all that sure. I suspect that’s because he’s just not clear on what type of relationship he has with his team at this point, but I love he doesn’t seem afraid to ask. That’s a huge step. “Also… I’d like to invite someone else out to see the horses.”
“Sure,” I reply easily, especially since he’s offering all that muscle to help.
“My teammate, Erik Dahlbeck, is dating this girl… Blue. And her brother, Billy, has cerebral palsy. He’s wheelchair-bound, but I know he’d get a kick out of coming here to see the horses.”
“He’s more than welcome,” I say with excitement. “Anyone from the team is. If you get a group out here, I’ll fire up our BBQ pit at the barn and feed everyone. You could make it a fun get-together.”
Tacker seems distinctly uncomfortable at being thrust into the helm of a social event. “Well, I don’t know—”
“Relax,” I assure him, giving a soft pat to his forearm before moving out of the Gator. Bending to see him, I wink. “I’ve got you covered. I’ll handle all the hosting. You just provide the backbone for the work, okay?”
I don’t wait for him to answer, not wanting him to overthink things. The last thing I want is him to get inside his head and figure out a way to back out of this. Tacker needs connections. I mean… he genuinely needs this, and I know he’s ready as well.
After he gets out of the Gator, he follows me inside the house, through the living area, and into the kitchen. I point at the round kitchen table. “Take a load off while I whip us up something.”
Tacker sits heavily in one of the chairs. I pull a bottle of water out of the refrigerator for him, along with cold cuts and condiments.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask from where I work at the counter by the window bordering the front porch. I opened it this morning because it’s a nice day out, and the fresh air smells good.
“You’re my therapist,” he replies blandly. “That’s your job.”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “Yeah, but we’re not technically in a session. I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”
Tacker shrugs. “Go for it.”
I return to my task, stacking turkey slices and ham on thick pieces of white bread. “What’s your family situation? Who do you have for a support system?”
“No one really,” he replies. His answer makes my heart ache a bit. “Mom died when I was thirteen. My dad remarried pretty quickly, but I wasn’t overly close to him. It’s not a bad relationship. It’s just… nonexistent.”
“Did he try to be there for you after the crash?” I ask, which is a potentially sensitive question.
Tacker doesn’t answer right away before finally admitting. “Of course. I mean… he’s my dad. He flew to Dallas, then stayed through MJ’s funeral. But—”
“But then it was back to normal?” I guess.
“For him, yes. For me, nothing’s been normal.”
“What about friends?”
“Funny you should ask,” he says, honest-to-goodness humor in his voice. It startles me so much I swivel to face him. “My best friend from Dallas just got traded to the Vengeance. Aaron Wylde. He showed up on my doorstep a few days ago.”
“Wonderful,” I exclaim, knowing how helpful friends can be to someone like Tacker who is trying to reestablish his life again.
Tacker shrugs, letting his finger play with the saltshaker on the table. “I haven’t been a good friend to him since the crash. Or rather, I wouldn’t let him be a good friend to me.”
“It’s terrifying to talk about your losses,” I say, moving a few steps to reach the table. I merely put my hands on the back of the chair that’s perpendicular to him. “But if you avoid it due to your fears, then you avoid ever thinking about the person you lost. You risk losing all the good memories along with the bad.”
He nods, my words clearly striking something deep within him, but his tone sounds slightly flat. “I have to look at MJ’s pictures more often than I used to. In my memories, her face is starting to lose focus.”
I take a moment, wondering if I should wait to broach this until our next session. But Tacker is open and talking without hesitation. I hate to lose the moment.
Leaning over, I put my forearms on the back of the chair, which brings my face more in line with his so I’m not looming over him. “Have you properly grieved for MJ?”