About Time (Broken Vows #4)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Charlie Past- Age 26

The Harriston Community Athletic Pavilion houses all of the outdoor sporting events in town, at least the ones that aren't offered through the public schools. It's where I have been able to recapture some of the glory I felt when I was a star of the high school baseball team. Not that softball is the same thing, but at least it gives me a chance to be on a team again and not become one of the overweight old men sitting at the bar drinking their days away.

In this town, you either find a way to kill time, or you slowly die from boredom. All of my favorite ways to spend a few hours leave me sweaty. Being balls deep inside of a woman is my first choice, but there are only so many single women in town, and I do not do repeat performances. There are also only so many hours in the day, so playing sports is a solid second choice. Safer too, especially since I don’t always know if they’re actually single.

Harriston has very limited sources of amusement, which if you ask me are pretty much limited to fighting and fucking. The law of averages pretty much guarantees that I’m eventually going to screw some dude’s girl, which is what often leads to fighting. Not my fault if some guy’s girl decides to stray. If he was doing a good job laying pipe she wouldn’t come looking for me. That’s another thing I don’t do, chase women. Why would I when they follow me around?

I guess there’s also church, but I’m pretty sure if I step inside of one the pastor would take it as a sign the apocalypse is coming. We have a bit of a history. If you are thinking I screwed the pastor’s daughter, you’d be wrong. The pastor is like thirty and doesn’t have kids. Now if your guess is that I did a little bedroom tango with his wife, you’d be correct. In my defense, I did not know she was married at the time, especially to the pastor. Like I said, I don’t go to church, and small town or not I don’t know everyone. Harriston is small enough that I absolutely could, but I’d have to give a shit to try. I don’t give a fuck about a lot of things. I care about my best friend, Griffin, his eight-year-old son, Liam, and Griffin’s garage where I work. Like I said, the list is short.

Another plus side to playing on a community team is that I get to play with my high school mentor, Martin Parker. I followed the guy around like a puppy dog when we were in school. He was a senior and I was a sophomore, and still, he tolerated my clingy ass. My talent put me on the varsity team but maturity-wise I was still very much an immature fifteen-year-old while he was practically an adult. Now we’re on even footing and have become pretty good friends.

Another game is in the bag and I’m hurrying to pack up my bag. Normally I’d loiter a bit, see which softball groupie wants to take me home. Like I said, Harriston is boring as fuck, so boring in fact, there are softball groupies. I shit you not.

I digress. This time I’m throwing my shit in my bag as fast as I can. We played the church team, and the pastor played like shit. Probably because I was pitching this time. I’m not proud of the fact I’ve managed to turn a man of God into a sailor, but if his new vocabulary sticks at least he could become a chaplain.

The vein in his forehead is doing that pulsing thing that usually happens when some guy tries to beat my ass. The operative word there is try. I can count on one hand the number of men who’ve accomplished that task, and have four fingers left over. My father is the only one, but to be fair he started before I hit puberty. It ended after I turned sixteen. Another reason I refuse to be one of the bums eating up space at the bar.

Even though Pastor Greg doesn’t scare me in the slightest, I don’t think my reputation would be well served by beating up a man of God. I actually have a pretty good rep around Harriston. I might be a bit of a slut, but people here love me. Compared to Griffin I’m a ray of freaking sunshine. Since I’m almost always with him, I always come across as the easygoing one. I should send him a fruit basket for the good PR.

I look around me for my glove. Not the best time to lose my equipment when it looks like Greg the Good is talking himself out of turning the other cheek.

“Fuck!” I’m spinning in circles looking for it, but it’s just gone.

The chain link fence in front of me rattles and I look up to see a young girl with braces and wearing overalls standing in front of me. I give her the smile I reserve for old ladies and babies because she’s definitely close to the latter.

Her cheeks blush a bright crimson. I exhale and try and dial back the sexy, not that it ever works. I’m pretty sure Dolores Howell, who’s got to be pushing seventy, pinched my ass last week. I might need to work on being less…me around some ladies.

“Hey, Charlie,” she says in a sing-song tone.

I clear my throat and manage to refrain from calling her sweetheart or any other term of endearment, barely. Some habits come out even when you don’t try. “Hey…you.”

Her smile dims slightly. “My name is Harriet, but everyone calls me Hattie. You’re friends with my brother-in-law, Martin.” She shoves my glove toward me. “You left this in the dugout.”

I see a knockout in a pair of tiny cutoff shorts and a crop top wiggle her fingers at me over Hattie’s shoulder. Time for me to wrap up talking to the kid and go have some grown-up fun. Hopefully, this one is actually single. I make a mental note to actually check her finger for tan lines this time. Women aren’t the only ones who need to do that. I’ve met my fair share of bored housewives to have learned that.

I turn my attention back to Hattie. “Thanks for bringing that over, kiddo. You saved me.”

She steps back like she saw I was one impulse away from ruffling her hair. “It’s Hattie, not kiddo. Whatever, you have your glove now so I’m done here.” She spins on her heel and gives me a dismissive wave over her shoulder as she walks away.

I fight the urge to laugh. Her surprising rise in temper distracts me. It’s been a while since I’ve been amused by a woman, or in this case a girl. I decide the little brat is going to be my friend. I look over at the redhead still giving me fuck me eyes, and back to Hattie. She’s a bit of a tomboy in her Chucks, overalls, and high ponytail. Her face was noticeably clear of makeup, and the only color was the blood making her cheeks burn bright red.

Somehow irritating her is more fun than I expect I’m going to have with the woman whose name I don’t even plan on learning. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to go home with her, but I’m not sure why at the moment.

Every Sunday our team gathers in the Parkers’ backyard for a barbecue. He’s the captain, which doesn’t necessarily mean he’s in charge of all of our team-building activities, but Martin has always been a take-charge kind of guy.

He’s a success story in Harriston. No, he didn’t go off to a big university with his baseball talent. He wanted a quieter life, and by everything I’ve seen, he’s very happy with it. He married his high school sweetheart, Elisa, months after graduation. Then they both went off to the community college one town over. He’s a radiology technician and makes enough money to have a house and support his family.

Elisa stopped working as a bookkeeper when she got pregnant with Wren at twenty-one. She’s pretty much the gold standard of mothers. She volunteers for the PTA, bakes brownies for fundraisers, and chaperones field trips.

As teenagers, we were all lusting after Elisa Reynolds. Her blonde hair, green eyes, and curvy figure had us all following after her. She only ever had eyes for Martin though. They were the “it couple,” and while some of the guys poked fun at them getting married so young, me included, I get it now. When you have a woman like Elisa, you have to lock her down fast. If you don’t, some other guy out there won’t be a dumb ass and realize the perfect woman is right in front of them.

Elisa is the real reason the Parkers’ barbecues are so popular. While Martin mans the grill, Elisa whips up some of the most amazing dishes to go along with it. She can turn simple potato salad into something you’d sell your left nut for. Don’t even get me started on her pies. It’s a good thing they only do these once a week, or our winning streak would go down while we try to lug our fat assess around the bases.

I contribute beer. No one wants me in the kitchen, so I’ve been designated beer bitch. Well, me and a few other guys, because this is Harriston and what else is there to do on a Sunday? Go to church? Yeah, that’s not going to happen. If I stepped one foot inside I can’t swear that the building won’t spontaneously go up in flames. I can’t have that on my conscience, now can I?

“Beer Bitch!” They shout as I stroll into the backyard with a case in each hand. It’s the cheap stuff, but we aren’t snooty assholes here talking about the flavor of hops in our microbrew. We proudly drink weak-ass beer as long as it has alcohol in it.

Immediately I spot a woman who is neither on the team, nor the wife or girlfriend of someone who is, which can only mean one thing. I send up a silent prayer that she’s here for Rick, the only other single guy on the team. I doubt anyone would bother setting him up though, because he’s hopeless. I might be a bachelor by choice, but he’s one because even in Harriston women don’t want a dude who’s still living with his parents at thirty. Not only that, but his mom makes his lunch and does his laundry still.

“Martin—” I use his name like it’s both a statement and a question.

He holds his hands up. “I know, Charlie. It’s not my fault. Elisa wanted to introduce you.”

“Lis,” I whine. “I’m very happy being a slut. I don’t want a wife.”

She puts her hand on her hip and gives me a look that makes me want to go clean my room. “What makes you think she wants marriage?”

I shake my head. “Who else wears a sweater set to a barbecue except a woman longing to join you on the PTA.” I pause for a second and a chill rolls down my spine. “Wait, you didn’t meet her on the PTA did you? I am far too irresponsible to be set up with a single mom. I’m better equipped for a play date with the kid.”

I hear a burst of laughter behind me and turn around to find Hattie sitting in the shade by the house. “At least he’s self-aware.”

I glare at the kid. “At least I know that overalls are for toddlers or old men.” I regret the words the second they are out of my mouth. She’s not even wearing the offensive garment today. I hold my breath waiting for tears, which will make me feel like shit. I don’t make girls cry, just cry out in pleasure.

Hattie’s green eyes spit fire. “It’s actually a trend, TLC even wore them in a music video. You’d probably know if you paid attention to women other than those who think bras are outerwear.”

Elisa laughs, then tries to cover it with a cough. I’m ignoring her though and focusing on her brat of a baby sister.

Hattie’s lips twitch and my eyes narrow. “You’re funny kid.” She does have a point though. The women I’ve hooked up with recently have been low on substance.

The sound of a car honking interrupts whatever she is going to say. She stands up, and she’s definitely not wearing overalls today, nor does she look like a kid.

“That’s Donovan and Mandy. We’re going to Mandy’s to watch movies,” she says as she tries to hurry from the backyard.

“The Miller kid?” I ask, stepping in front of her.

“Elisa,” Hattie says instead of answering me.

Martin puts his hand on my shoulder. “He’s a good kid. They’ve been friends since junior high.”

“Is he a sixteen-year-old boy?” I ask him.

He gives me a puzzled look, not catching on to what I’m saying. “They’re all sixteen.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Do you remember being a sixteen-year-old boy?”

Martin’s mouth falls open, and he turns to Elisa with a horrified expression. “Did you ask if Mandy’s parents are home?”

Elisa rolls her eyes. “Nah, I gave her a box of condoms, some wine coolers, and told them to live it up.”

Hattie groans. “You’re all weird. Yes, her mom will be home. No, I’m not having sex with Donovan. We’re still just friends. Can I go now, or do you want to say or do anything else I will share with my future therapist?”

Elisa waves her off. “Go before they come up with any more problems to delay you.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she says and walks off before Martin or I come up with anything else.

As far as I see it, having kids is entirely too stressful. I’m definitely not doing it.