Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) Read Free Page A

of today, Mike Connor—centerfield for the Chicago Wind, Triple Crown winner last season, a man thoroughly confused and disgusted with himself—would live life properly. No mistakes, no regrets, no looking—
    Shouts from the crowd broke into his vow.
    Might as well start with a few autographs. Giving back to the fans and all that. He veered toward a section of the wall packed with people waving pens and baseballs and hats. A little fan love wouldn’t hurt, either. And if everything he signed ended up on ebay, well, today he didn’t care.
    “Mr. Connor!” a child called.
    Someone had manners. He searched the crowd. Had to reward that.
    “Mr. Connor!” A blond kid waved a baseball at him. “Will you sign this please?”
    Please? “Sure.” He took the boy’s ball and pen and scribbled his signature.
    “I’m Terrell,” the kid said. “Mommy says my name means powerful.”
    Well, that was wonderful. Mike handed back the ball and pen. What made someone pick a name like—
    Behind the boy, a woman with honey-gold, wavy hair and green eyes pushed through the crowd and grabbed the kid’s shirt. “Terrell, don’t you run off like that.” Her eyes met his. She froze.
    Mike blinked. She had to be a hallucination. That’s all. Just his frustrated conscience morphing her face with…
    She remained real, just feet in front of him.
    He swallowed. “Meg?”
    “That’s my mom,” the kid said.
    She grabbed the arm of a man beside her. Spoke to the guy. “We shouldn’t have—we need to go.”
    Mike couldn’t lose her a second time, not on his own opening day. He lunged forward, his knees banging into the brick wall of the stands. “Meg, wait!”
    She pushed against the people behind her, and she and the boy vanished into the crowd.
    The man she’d spoken to—the man she’d grabbed—hesitated. A sad smile covered his mouth, and his eyes… There was no victorious arrogance in them. No swagger, no puffed-out chest.
    Who was this guy?
    Who was he to Meg?
    The man slipped into the crowd, and the sounds of fans crying for attention rushed into Mike’s ears. Someone waved a baseball card in his face. Blindly he scribbled his name on it, searching the stands above him. Someone shoved a ball at him, and he took it and a Sharpie. Signed his name. Handed them back. Took another ball while he scoured every honeyed head above him.
    After a minute, he gave up.
    Meg had disappeared. Again.
    His teammates walked by, and Mike followed them to the dugout. So much for his personal opening day. Meg was a mother—a mother of a little boy who wore a miniature of his own jersey.
    How ironic that his ex-wife’s son had chosen him as his hero.

Chapter Four
    Somewhere in the seventh inning, between his second and third strikeout, Mike decided he would go see Meg right after the game.
    The drive to her office took over an hour, thanks to rush-hour traffic. Mike exited the highway for her suburb where condominiums and townhouses gave way to large, older, single-family homes with tall, mature trees lining the road.
    Evidently she worked from home.
    He found her house and parked along the curb in front of her yard.
    For several minutes, he didn’t move. He took in the large brick house, a two-story with five windows across the upper level and two on either side of the wooden door, its front step covered by a small overhang. A chimney extended from each end of the house, and a well-manicured lawn curved up from the street, the bushes that lined her yard flaunting spring colors.
    A small weight lifted. At least she hadn’t been hurting. She must have met that dude right after their divorce, judging by the age of her son.
    What was the kid’s name?
    Her business card sat in his cup holder. Stifling a yawn, he picked it up and ran his fingers over the raised lettering.
    Meghan Connor .
    Whoa—Connor? She still went by his name?
    How had he missed that detail? And what did it mean? Was she dating that guy?
    Then who was the boy’s