Brady

I looked up from my phone and the text she’d just sent to where Brooklyn sat across the dining hall, wishing I could get up out of my seat and pull her into my arms.

To kiss her was asking too much, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about it.

Actually, just hobbling over to her on my one good foot was probably asking too much. But I’d crawl over a mountain on my hands and knees if it meant I could be with her.

On paper, she wasn’t what anyone would consider remarkable: brown hair and eyes, average size and frame.

But just looking at her made me breathless. I wanted her so badly I’d almost thrown everything away for her. More than once.

I’d already been coaching at Rosewood for a year when I’d met her, so I was used to girls looking at me that way. At first it was flattering—what guy wouldn’t want a school full of girls showing interest and flirting with him—but it got tiresome really quickly. I wanted to do my job and they were only interested in staring at me and whispering about the sexy coach, the hot Olympian.

It sounds stupid, but it made me really uncomfortable that they looked at me like a piece of meat. I’ve had days when I really hated being there. And it’s not like I’d ever respond to their advances; even if my mother hadn’t warned me she’d toss me off campus if I messed around with one of her Rosewood girls, it was against my own code of ethics.

Plus, I may not have had a ton of experience with dating, but I knew getting involved with girls like that was the path to a heap of trouble. Most of the time, I wouldn’t even speak to them on a personal level just to make sure none of them could ever misunderstand my intentions. On campus, I was all business.

Until this girl. God, this girl made me suddenly not care about my code of ethics.

She was so different than the others. That day I’d met Brooklyn, she hadn’t known me as the coach or a future Olympian or anyone other than Brady who works at the stables. She’d looked at me like just a regular guy and fellow horse-lover. I knew even from that first meeting—and confirmed it on our second—that she liked me for me. Not because I was the coach; if anything, she was mad when I hadn’t told her about that. And I couldn’t blame her for being pissed; it was a dick move, but I liked that she didn’t know who I was. I guess I let her keep thinking I wasn’t anyone special so she would get to know me for me.

But yeah, if I tried to pinpoint exactly what it was about her, I couldn’t nail it down to one thing. It was everything about her: the way her lips turned up when she smiled, the sparkle in her eyes, the way she said my name kind of breathlessly. I loved how she didn’t take herself too seriously (something I’d been told I could work on myself) and could make me smile. Also, more than anyone, she understood what my horse meant to me—I’d seen it in her eyes when I’d taken her to meet Albatross. She got it. She got me. It was all those things together and more that I couldn’t even identify on a conscious level.

Though the kiss we’d shared, now that I thought about it, that was definitely part of it, too.

I exhaled, realizing I needed not to think about kissing her while sitting at Thanksgiving dinner next to my mother in the Rosewood dining room.

I texted Brooklyn back with what I knew she wanted to hear, but was only a fraction of what I wanted from her: Friends?

She locked eyes with me again and nodded. But even across the dining room, I could see conflict on her face. She needed reassurance, which I gave her, even though it nearly killed me to back off.

But in my own defense, at the time, I never could have imagined what her leaving would do to me.

The term was wrapping up at Westwood and while I was only a part-time student, I still had exams to worry about, so after Thanksgiving I buckled down and threw everything I had into studying. At least it gave me something to do to keep me from going insane while my life fell apart. I was literally hobbled while my ankle healed and Jerry had taken over my job at the stables.

Not that having something to focus on kept me from being a dick to everyone around me, like fellow students while I was on campus during the week and my mother on the weekends when I stayed in her cottage at Rosewood so I didn’t have to move around as much.

But the stress over the pain and helplessness along with not knowing if I’d make it to the Olympics was pressing on me like Albatross was standing on my shoulders. My mother had taken me to a sports injury clinic and the doctor had said it could be several months before I could return to training. Even then, it could be years before the bones healed completely. I didn’t feel like I had that kind of time to miss out on training, but if I rushed it, I could do permanent damage.

My mother was trying to be understanding, but after a couple of weeks of dealing with me, she’d had enough. Hell, I’d had enough of myself.

One Saturday morning at breakfast, she handed me a plate of eggs and an ultimatum.

I froze, holding the plate in the air as I stared at her. She almost never spoke to Dad anymore—they didn’t have to make joint decisions about me now that I was an adult—so this had to be something big.

“Why?” I asked, putting the plate down in front of myself, despite my sudden lack of appetite.

“You’re going to spend the holidays with him. I bought you a ticket for after your last exam.”

Not a question or even a suggestion. Since when did I become ten years old again?

“I’m not one of your students,” I said, not looking at her as I squirted the ketchup on my plate. “I’m over eighteen, you can’t tell me what to do.” Big talk for a guy sitting at his mother’s table about to eat the breakfast she’d cooked for him, but...

She went on anyway, even though I kept my eyes on my plate. “Brady, yes, you are a grown man, but you’re still my child. Something I’m reminded of when you act like this. Look at me.”

“You’re not doing yourself any good moping around here. Look at you, you haven’t shaved, you need a haircut...”

“Moping around with Dad in Sacramento isn’t going to do me any good, either.”

“You need a change of scenery and he’s already spoken to a local sports medicine doctor about you. Your cast will need to come off around Christmas and you should be monitored and be prepared to start your rehab. He’s worked everything out.”

“That’s very flattering,” she said drily, fully aware she wasn’t the reason I wanted to stay. “But you need to go. I think staying here when you can’t coach is making things worse.”

That was part of it. But I wasn’t about to admit to my mother that not seeing Brooklyn every day was harder than just not coaching.

“When you come back, you’ll be able to take up your coaching again, even if you can’t start up your own training yet.”

She shook her head. “I spoke to your coach and she’s working him. This is about you, Brady. I need to make sure you get well. I’m concerned that you’re too much in your own head right now and I really think getting away is the best thing for you.”

I looked toward the window, suddenly unable to look at her. Every part of my life was falling apart and my mother had a front row seat for it. I hated that it was so obvious. I hated that she might be right.

“Honey,” she said in her mom voice, the one that still had the ability to undo me.

“It will be good for you. You know I hate not having you with me for the holidays, but you need the break. And your father hasn’t had you at Christmas since you were twelve—this will be good for both of you.”

“You’ll be alone for Christmas?” I asked, realizing what it meant for her to send me away for the holidays.

“So you’re getting rid of me to go on holidays with your boyfriend?” I said, raising an eyebrow. I wasn’t really mad about that; Fred was a good guy.

I thought about how Brooklyn had asked me if I had a thing going on with the dean before I’d told her she was my mother. I shivered involuntarily.

I snorted. “Some of the girls saw me coming here one day and thought I was your boy toy.”

We looked at each other for a very long, very awkward moment. We both shivered before, without a word, she turned away to make her own eggs.

The night before my flight, I sat at my computer, staring at the screen so long my eyes were blurred. It shouldn’t be this hard to compose an e-mail to say Merry Christmas to a friend, I thought. Unless it was a friend you wanted to see more than anything, but had avoided since Thanksgiving when you promised you wouldn’t pester her anymore.

Now, the cursor blinked after her name, which is as far as I’d gotten on this draft.

“Screw it,” I said and hunched over to type what I really wanted to say because I realized no matter how many times I deleted it, that’s what I’d end up saying anyway.

To: brooklyn.prescott@the-rosewood-academy.com

From:brady.fleming@the-westwood-academy.com

Subject: Merry Christmas

Message: Brooklyn, I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas and hope you have a great time in London with your family. I’m going away for the holidays, which I’ll be spending with my father in Sacramento. I miss our training and would like to see you before I leave tomorrow at three.

Brady

I waited for a while, since she was usually pretty good with returning e-mails in the evenings, but nothing came back, so I shut down my computer and hopped over to bed.

In the morning Brooklyn still hadn’t responded, which was something I hadn’t anticipated. But I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without seeing her. I couldn’t have missed her, could I? But no, I’d looked up her classes and knew she had an exam the next day, so she’d still be on campus.

Maybe she was ignoring me. The thought that she might be intentionally avoiding me hadn’t even entered my mind until that moment, but not only did I have to admit it was possible, but probable. She’d been very clear about where we stood and it needed to be at arm’s distance. If not more.

Then there was Davidson, too, the guy she’d started dating before Thanksgiving. He probably wouldn’t like me trying to meet up with her, but he could go screw himself as far as I was concerned. She and I had agreed to be friends and I wouldn’t try anything with her if she was committed to him. I wouldn’t do that to her.

So was she ignoring me? I didn’t really think so, especially since I hadn’t tried to get a hold of her since that Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe she just wasn’t in her e-mail.

It sounded immediately and I looked down to see her response, but it wasn’t from her: my message to her had bounced. Her phone was disconnected.

Thankful my mother was at her office in the school and would stay there until it was time to take me to the airport. I hobbled out of my room and down the hall to her study and her computer.

I pulled up the campus directory and called Brooklyn’s direct dorm room number.

No answer. I debated leaving a message, but what could I say? I’d already sent an e-mail and a text, I didn’t want to seem like a stalker.

I looked through the window toward the school as I thought about what to do next, who to contact. The most direct route would be to ask my mother, but she already had her suspicions about me and Brooklyn, so I wasn’t about to shine a light on that.

I could ask Brooklyn’s roommate, Emmie, but obviously she wasn’t in her room and I didn’t have time or the physical ability to track her down on campus.

I swore as I realized it, wanting to contact him as much as I wanted to run a marathon on crutches, but I didn’t have much choice. I called over to the Westwood campus and asked for him at the switchboard. They put me through to his room, but again, no answer. Here I did leave a message, giving a lame excuse that I wanted to send a message to everyone on the equestrian team before holidays, but that her phone seemed to not be working and could he get back to me with the right number.

I hoped he didn’t think about it too hard, because if he did, he’d know I could get her number from the registrar’s database, but as I hung up the phone, I realized it was too late to worry about that.

Then it occurred to me I could have just asked her brother. I cursed again at my own stupidity. Though I guess no matter who I asked, someone was going to be suspicious. Maybe it was better to play dumb with Davidson than try it with Brooklyn’s brother, who looked at me in a way that told me he knew exactly what I was about.

Before I left my mother’s study, I looked around her desk and my eyes fell on her red binder. Bingo. It was a printed list of emergency contacts and an action plan for all the girls at the school in case of any major disaster. I opened it up and flipped through to the P tab.

Prescott, Brooklyn. There was her home address in London and a number in an area code I didn’t recognize.

There was no local number, which wasn’t surprising, but I scribbled her street address down on a scrap of paper, thinking I could at least send her a card if I didn’t get a hold of her before I left campus. I shoved the paper into my pocket and glanced up at the clock; almost time to go. I pushed myself up and hopped back to my bedroom to collect the last of my things for my trip.

I stared up at the screen, reading the listing a third time to confirm that it was, in fact, my flight that was delayed by five hours. With a sigh, I turned to the luggage cart and hopped behind it as I pushed it toward a bank of chairs.

My mother had offered to help me inside and get settled, but after she’d loaded my stuff on the cart, I’d given her a kiss on the cheek, wished her a Merry Christmas and headed inside the airport, suddenly needing to be alone after she’d given me the lecture again about why my leaving was such a great idea.

Now I had over five hours to sit in the airport by myself and think about Brooklyn and wonder why I couldn’t get a hold of her.

God, I just hoped everything was okay. I could deal with her ignoring me, but for her phone to be discontinued meant something was wrong.

I dropped into a chair with an involuntary grunt, trying to maneuver around my cast, frustrated at how much a simple thing like getting around an airport with luggage was now a giant proposition.

“You all right?” I heard and turned my head to see if the words had been directed at me. Sure enough a guy about my age was looking at me expectantly. A glance down told me this guy was going on some sort of backpacking trip; his pack was massive and seemed filled to bursting with gear.

London. Which inevitably started me thinking of Brooklyn. Like I’d ever stopped.

I glanced over toward the bathroom. It felt like a really long way from my chair. Maybe I should just go through security and get my bag checked, I thought, except that as soon as I went through security, I was stuck there and with that long delay...

I looked at my bag, mentally working out the logistics of navigating the cart into the bathroom. I should have stuffed everything into a backpack, I thought, not realizing when I’d packed how much of a pain dragging luggage around was.

“I’ll watch your stuff if you need to go,” the guy said, nodding toward the bathroom.

I glanced at him. He didn’t look like he would run off with my stuff, but at this point, I really didn’t care much. “That would be cool, thanks,” I said, sticking my hand out. “Brady Fleming.”

“Clayton Henshaw...Clay.” He added, shaking my hand. “Wait...you’re at Westwood, aren’t you? I’m sure I’ve seen you there.”

I nodded. “Only part-time. I’m a coach at the girls’ school. I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. We don’t have any classes together, do we?”

As I reached for my crutches lying on the cart, my phone rang. I left the crutches to dig for my phone in my pocket and answered it, recognizing the Westwood number. Davidson.

“No problem. But I’m surprised you hadn’t heard; she’s gone back to London. Her dad had a heart attack.”

“Yeah, man. She left the day after Thanksgiving. Emmie told me; I had no idea either.”

How was it possible that the guy she was dating had no idea she’d left the country?

“No idea. We haven’t been in touch since then. Though I’m sure Emmie would let me know if something really big happens.”

I couldn’t help myself. “I thought you were dating,” I asked through gritted teeth.

“No,” he said, though the tone in just the one word told me it wasn’t his choice.

What is going on with you, Brooklyn? I thought. But I wasn’t going to ask him. Not that I thought he would tell me even if he knew. We could be civil, but we weren’t exactly friends. Especially after that little chat we’d had at the costume dance.

Glancing over at him, I nodded automatically, even though everything wasn’t good. “My...my friend...her father had a heart attack and I have no way of getting a hold of her.” I wanted to talk to her, to see how she was doing, to make sure she was holding up okay. Though if I was being honest, I wanted to do more than talk to her; I wanted to put my arms around her and comfort her, make her feel safe. I had no idea where the urge came from; I’d never wanted to do that to any girl before, but Brooklyn was all new territory for me.

Then I thought about the address. I pulled it out of my pocket. “Actually, I do have an address. She’s in London.”

My girl. Not quite, but I didn’t correct him. “I have a better idea,” I said, looking up at the departures screen. “What flight are you on?”

Twelve long hours, one exchanged ticket and two text messages later (one to each parent who both sent very angry responses back that I chose to ignore), I was in London.

Thanks to Clay, mostly, because I never would have been able to manage on my own. The combination of his thirst for adventure, lack of itinerary and two good arms, made him the perfect travel companion for someone with a busted ankle and a not-so-easily repressed sense that he was being reckless in chasing a girl halfway around the world to wish her Merry Christmas. He not only pulled my luggage, but told me repeatedly that surprising Brooklyn in person to deliver my holiday message was exactly what every girl would want.

A card would have been enough. Well, it would have, if I hadn’t heard that she’d blown Davidson off. What did that mean?

More importantly, how was she doing? The thought of her suffering while her father was sick was what really got me on that plane. I couldn’t bear to think of her hurting. I wanted to be there in person to tell her it would all be okay, to pick up the pieces and put her back together if it wasn’t.

Why hadn’t she told me? Maybe she was trying to keep her distance, thinking that’s what I wanted so I could focus on my training. Not that I was in training. But I still wished she had told me.

She’d asked me if I was willing to risk it all to be with her. At the time, I’d hesitated because it meant risking everything I’d ever worked for. My whole life had been focused on that one goal: to compete in the Olympics. To maybe bring home a medal.

But now, as I made my slow way through the airport, it felt obvious. She was worth the risk. Everything else felt like nothing compared to her.

“I don’t think shocked is the right word,” I said, trying to picture what she would say, how she would react. A tiny part of me was terrified she’d slam the door in my face, but a bigger part said she’d be happy to see me. It was also convinced she’d blown off Davidson because I was the one she wanted and she couldn’t be with him knowing that.

I glanced over at my new friend. I wasn’t the type to make friends easily; I’d never really had any friends at Westwood, what with my training and being only a part-time student. Even if I’d had the time, I probably still would have been mostly a loner. But Clay was easy to be friends with and hours on end next to someone on a plane when you’re about to embark on the risk of a lifetime had a way of bonding you together. I felt okay with it when I nodded. “Yeah, I think I do.”

It wasn’t quite as simple as that. Collecting our bags and then getting out of the busy airport and into a taxi would have been time-consuming at the best of times. But with my injury, it seemed to take ten times longer. Or maybe I was just impatient that all this was standing in the way of me seeing Brooklyn. With each passing moment, my nerves got even more frayed. Thankfully, Clay didn’t seem to notice, something I was thankful for.

But finally, we were traveling the streets of London toward the address I’d handed the driver.

He chatted with Clay, pointing out some places of interest as we passed them by. I might have paid attention if I hadn’t been so nervous, but my focus was on what I was going to say to her. How could I possibly explain showing up in London after I’d promised her I’d back off?

“What’s wrong?” Clay asked, giving me a friendly pat on the back. “Having second thoughts?”

Clay grinned. “Love makes people do stupid things, all right. But she’ll love this. Oy, cabbie, what do you think? Brady here’s traveled halfway around the planet to be with his girl after he learned her father had a heart attack. But now he’s worried he made a mistake.”

“What?” Clay said as the cabbie looked up and caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

The cabbie’s eyes widened in the mirror before he trained them back on the road.

I cursed, dragging my fingers through my hair, struck by the stupid thought that my mother had been right about my needing a haircut. I laughed and shook my head.

“You sure you want to do this?” Clay asked, making the cabbie look back again. I guess my answer affected him if it meant a change of destination.

I looked out the window at the London skyline. “No, but I will anyway. I have to know.”

Twenty minutes later, we were standing on the curb in front of Brooklyn’s address. There was a chill in the damp, winter air, but I barely noticed it.

“You didn’t have to come with me,” I said to Clay, though for the first time in my life, I felt glad of another guy’s company. That he seemed to get why I was doing this meant I wasn’t completely crazy.

He shrugged. “I have nowhere else to be. And I’m invested now; I need to know how this plays out.”

As I thought about that, I took a breath, doing the calming exercise my coach had taught me to do before getting in the ring. But I wasn’t about to get into a ring, nor was I on a horse.

My heart pounded, half from nerves, half from excitement because I was about to see her. It had been a month since I’d laid eyes on her and I couldn’t wait to see her face.

The stone building in front of me had a ground-level storefront with three levels above. I looked up and noticed curtains in windows that had to be residences. I moved toward the door that seemed to lead up to the apartments but stopped short when I noticed it was number sixteen. I glanced down at the paper I’d written her address on. “Twelve,” I said out loud. I looked up again at the sixteen.

I frowned. “That can’t be right.” I turned and looked at the corner, but the street sign told me we were in the right spot.

As I stood there, Clay took the paper from my hand. “Maybe there’s another door. Her last name’s Prescott?”

“Wait here.” He went inside the store as I stood there, wondering what the hell was going on. First her phone had been disconnected, now this. Something was definitely wrong.

He shook his head and handed the paper back to me. “That shop is a post office. Maybe she used the address for mail. Though they didn’t recognize the name.”

“That can’t be,” I said, staring down at the paper as though I’d read it wrong. Not possible: I’d read it a hundred times. Could I have written it down wrong?

“Dude, I’m really sorry,” Clay said, his hand landing on my shoulder. “It’s been a long day...two days. Why don’t we grab something to eat and figure out what to do next?”

I turned and looked at him. “What can I do? I have no way of getting a hold of her.”

“Come on,” he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulders and reaching down for my bag. “I’m starving. Maybe we can Google her or something.”

Everything hit me then; the exhaustion, the throbbing in my ankle and the ache in my chest over not finding Brooklyn. I suddenly felt like just laying down where I was, that’s how spent I was, physically and emotionally.

“Brady?” Clay said gently. “Siri says there’s a pub around the corner. You’ll feel better once you get some food in you. Come on; let’s go.”

The pub was noisy with a boisterous lunch crowd, but Clay and I ate in relative silence between us. I kept my eyes on the television behind the bar, even though I had no idea what I was watching. It was something to focus on while I tried to figure out what to do next, mostly because I knew Clay wanted to talk. Also, the afternoon sun was streaming in through the front window and my dry, tired eyes couldn’t deal.

I dragged my eyes from the TV and stared at him like an idiot. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

He rolled his eyes. “You didn’t think you’d be able to stay with her and her family, did you?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t think past seeing her.” And it had never occurred to me that she wouldn’t be there. “I’ll go back to the airport and go home. Well, to my dad’s place.”

“No,” he said, looking determined, like he was invested in the outcome of my little soap opera. Like he hadn’t met me less than two days ago. “Sleep on it. Figure it out. There’s got to be some way to find her. Stay at least a night or two.”

Maybe it would be for nothing, but it did seem stupid to turn around after coming all this way. And I was so exhausted, going back to the airport now felt like the worst kind of hell.

“I booked tonight at a hostel so I wouldn’t have to worry about my first night here.” He shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and chewed while he took a small notebook out of his backpack. He opened it to a page in the middle, pulling out a map of the city that had been tucked inside. “I’m sure we can find you a spot.”

I nodded, not really caring at this point as long as it meant a hot shower and a bed. Other than a short doze on the plane, I’d been awake more hours than I could bring myself to add up. I had to think I’d have a better idea of what to do after a shower and good sleep.

As I ate and absently listened as Clay pointed out some of the hostels around the city on his map, a shadow moved across the front window, the break in sunshine catching my eye. I turned and looked to see someone standing there, almost against the window pane. A girl, with short, light hair, holding a Starbucks cup. She was silhouetted by the sunlight, so I couldn’t see her features, but she faced inside the pub, maybe looking for a friend.

“I thought you only had eyes for your Brooklyn?” Clay said. “Though from what I can see, this British girl looks cute. I’d fight you for her, but with that ankle, you’re at a disadvantage. I guess you can have her.”

I looked back at him and laughed. “You can have her,” I said. “I’m still holding out hope.” Though it felt like very long odds.

I took a breath and nodded, squinting as I looked back toward the window. The girl was gone, so I could see out onto the street.

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