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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Love’s Learning Curve

  Copyright 2016, Felicia Lynn

  ‘You're known by the company you keep.’ – English Proverb

  Harper Sloan has more love, compassion, and generosity flowing through her blood than most could ever hope for. She's funny, kind and humble. I see her support and dedication to her family, her friends and the community, and I’m in awe of her ability to accomplish so much in a normal day (I’m not convinced there aren’t more hours in her day, yet). She’s an advocate and a cheerleader for many, and she makes a difference in the world in big ways. I couldn’t be happier or more proud to be ‘in her company’ and call her my best friend.

  This book is dedicated to my cuddle hating best friend.

  Harper Sloan, you'll never fully understand the impact you have on others. You're more genuine and amazing than you'll ever give yourself credit for, but don't worry, I'll always be here to remind you of it.

  *FYI* I'll also still remind you that you're still insane as often as necessary and when you look like crap or are having a bitchy day, I'll make sure you know it. What would you ever do without me?

  Little Miss ~ Sugarland

  I’m A Mess ~ Ed Sheeran

  Define Me ~ Brett Young (Katie Ohh)

  I Met A Girl ~ Sam Hunt

  FLY ~ Maddie & Tae

  Don’t Let Me Let You Down ~ Jamie Lawson

  Almost Home ~ Alex & Sierra

  One More Chance ~ Ira Wolf

  Don’t Worry About Me ~ Frances

  Sad ~ Maroon 5

  Distance ~ Christina Perri

  Breathe Again ~ Sara Bareilles

  Poison & Wine ~ Civil Wars

  You Got Me ~ Gavin DeGraw

  Runnin’ ~ Gabrielle Taryn & Joshua David Evans

  Out of the Darkness ~ Erin Willett

  Little Do You Know ~ Alex & Sierra

  Chariot ~ Jacob Lee

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Thank Yous

  (4 years prior)

  Sitting in the chair in front of Coach Jacobs’ desk is nerve-racking, to say the least. I clasp my sweaty palms together and hold tight before realizing how tense I appear. I release them and place the palms of my hands on my knees out of his direct sight. I don’t want him to know how nervous this impromptu meeting is making me feel. I have no idea what I’ve done.

  The door closes, and he strolls casually into the room. He doesn’t look mad, but I can see he’s feeling some pressure. Coach Matthew Jacobs has been a big part of my life for a few years now. He coached the All-Star team I played on before high school when I became his star player, or so he says. We have a history, and I always thought it was a good one. He has never called me to his office on an off day before, so maybe I shouldn’t be so sure of myself here.

  He sits behind the desk and dissects my posture before speaking, which only amplifies my tension. His eyes go to my shoulders then back to my face. Jacobs is a good man. He’s older, probably pushing close to fifty, and his life is all about baseball. His entire family—wife, daughter, and two sons—breathe the sport with him. Passion doesn’t begin to describe his devotion to the game.

  For the past four years, he and his wife, Leslie, have treated me like their own kid even though I don’t live under their roof. Their kids are all younger than I am and look up to me. I take that responsibility seriously and have always worked hard to be a good role model and give them positive footsteps to follow. It was the least I could do for this man sitting in front of me who’s gone above and beyond his duties to do right by me. Even now, if he’s found something deserving of a reprimand, I’ll respect him and work my ass off to make it right. I want to make him proud.

  His face softens before he speaks. “Ty, relax. This isn’t bad stuff, son. We need to talk so I can give you the heads-up on what’s been brewing.”

  Hearing those words, I fall against the hard back of the chair with a sigh of relief. He chuckles lightly at my response while he peers over his large callused hands tented in front of him. His elbows are resting on the desk as if he were praying. I don’t doubt he is praying, actually. I know he’s a God-fearing man.

  “Good things are happening. I’ve been getting some calls. I wanted the privacy to talk with you and see where your head is. That’s why I called you in today while the office would be empty.” He looks at me proudly as he speaks. “I knew you’d be scouted when the time came. I knew it when I first met you over four years ago. Well, that time has come. You’re going to have options. Matter of fact, you have some of the best damn options I’ve seen yet, but that doesn’t mean you’re a shoo-in. Got me?” he asks.

  I nod my head, even though I’m not positive that I do ‘have him.’ I kill myself to do what I do every season and while training during the off-season. I do it right and to the best of my ability every time. I’m not sure I have any more to give, if what I’m doing isn’t enough, but knowing him, he has a plan. I know he has my best interests at heart. He’s proved that time and time again.

  He slides a piece of paper in front of me. I take the spreadsheet and look at the list of colleges with the coaches’ contact information who have all expressed interest in having me join their program. Shit. I guess I’m not shocked; we’ve talked about this a few times. But this list is longer than I expected.

  It’s the bottom of my junior year of high school. Many people didn’t believe I’d make it this far, but I love nothing more than to be able to prove doubters wrong. It’s among my favorite things in life, all which come after the white ball with red stitching.

  I lean up, looking down the list while he begins to explain. “You’ll be getting offers from these schools, Ty. That’s a good list, son. You need to think long and hard about what’s right for you. I know you don’t have a lot of support at home to help you think through your options, so I want you to know I’m here.” I look up from the paper to meet his eyes and see that his gaze is serious. He stands behind the desk, reaching over to the paper in my hand, and flicks it with his middle finger. “This is great, but I knew this would come. The reason I’m here is because of this.” His finger goes to my shoulder poking me.

  It’s no secret I don’t do emotional stuff. I don’t do feelings and heart-to-heart chats, and Coach does
n’t either—usually. It’s why we get along so well. This is out of the ordinary and makes me really fucking uncomfortable, but he already knows that.

  “Boy, here’s what I’m saying. You’re going to have some big opportunities. You’re going to need some support. You’re going to have to do interviews with the team staff at these schools. They’re going to want home visits and detailed information on your history, things that most kids we know have parents to help with. You don’t have that shit, and I want to fix it. I want you to have the best chance possible.”

  I shake my head, not believing what I’m hearing and not understanding if I actually know what he’s saying. “Coach, what are you talking about? Just tell me what I need to do to make this happen. I want to go to college. I want to play ball. I’ll do what I have to in order to make that happen, even without a mom or dad. I’ve done it this long. I can do it a while longer,” I tell him with confidence. I’m not afraid to make a decision. This has been my dream for a long time, and I know I’ll make a good one.

  Not having a mom or dad who gave a shit about their four-year-old son was a curse that’s followed me through every day of my life, but I survived it just like I survived the four years of lack of care and concern before CPS stepped in. I wouldn’t even consider asking my foster parents for direction or support in making this decision. I’ll make it on my own just like most things.

  “I got this, Coach. I’m smart. You’ve said it yourself. I’ll come to you to talk this through if that makes you feel better.” Attempting to convince him that I’m capable.

  “Ty—son, I know you got this, and I know you’re smart for reasons you shouldn’t have to be. I’d never doubt that. I’m talking to you about the process that you’ll have to be ready for to make this”—he takes the paper out of my hand and waves it in front of me—“happen. It’s not a done deal. You’ll have to jump through hoops, and boy, you can do a lot, but you can’t do that alone. So we’re here to make a plan.”

  I nod realizing I don’t know anything about this process. I only know the big picture that ends with me accepted into a school and welcomed on a team. I do need him. I sit back in the seat once again and give him my full attention as he continues to talk.

  “You can stay in your foster home. I don’t want to make any waves by legally changing your guardianship, but I’ve contacted your social worker since you’re a guardian of the state. Ty, even though you’ve been taking care of yourself for a long time and doing a damn good job of it, they’ve agreed to allow me to be a sponsor and speak on your behalf as it pertains to college choices and scholarships for baseball. The next steps are going to be a little crazy—making you feel like a clown jumping through flaming hoops— but it’ll be worth it in the end. I just need you to stick with me through this. You hear?”

  With a smile, I nod. I knew he was a good man, and even though he’s told me more times than I can count over the years to come to him if I’ve needed him, I’ve never abused that offer. But I did allow him with his sneaky ways to weave me gently into his personal life outside of school while pretending not to notice. I noticed right away, but I liked it. “Yeah, Coach, I hear ya. Tell me what you want from me, and I’ll do it. You don’t need to ask twice. Just give me my orders.”

  He moves around the desk leaning back onto the edge of it in front of the chair I’m sitting. His grin shows he’s relieved before his serious tone sets in.

  “I know you aren’t going to throw this away, but your last year of high school matters. I need your head in the game. I don’t want you distracted by outside influences. Focus, Ty. You’ll need to keep up your game. Don’t screw up by goofing off and getting injured. No new friends who don’t have your best interests in mind, and I know I don’t need to remind you what a criminal history will do. Don’t even FUCKING think about doing any stupid shit like that! I know you don’t take many careless risks, but don’t decide to try now. Any extracurricular choices you get a wild hair to make, ask yourself if the coaches of these teams would approve if they saw it on your resume.” With all seriousness, I just nod. He’s on a roll.

  “Ty, every girl in this town has eyes for you. You know it and so do I. I don’t know how you seem to swing having different dates every week without ever having a steady girl. You’d think they’d get sick of being strung along, but I’m telling you right now, cut that shit out. You don’t have time for it anymore, and more importantly, you can’t afford to get one of these girls pregnant and tie yourself here. This is bigger than someone to keep you cozy for a little while. That sort of thing will only cause you to lose focus. Stay away. Keep your head on the field.”

  He waves the paper in front of me again. Hell, I didn’t realize how closely Coach had paid attention to my time off, but apparently, he has. I like girls, I admit, but I don’t have plans to commit to anyone. I didn’t before this talk, and I really don’t now. I don’t need the distractions of love. Love isn’t permanent, anyway. People fall in and out of love so easily, but not me. I close myself off from that torture because not only is focusing on my game a priority I know no one will ever come before, but also because I have no desire to allow someone in that closely. They could destroy me from the inside out. No FUCKING way.

  “Charlotte, smile. Sit up straight and try to look like you’re happy to be here with your family. People are watching,” my mother sneers in a hushed tone while taunting me with a well-practiced smile plastered across her face. This conversation appears to others as pleasant. However, it’s anything but.

  I sit up, pushing my shoulders back, and give it my all to smile through the torment of having to fake the appearance of our perfect little American family. I know better than to challenge my mother’s almost constant critiques. Doing as I’m told for the next two hours is a far more effective use of my time than engaging her and enduring the several hours of lecture on the importance of my role in this campaign.

  I look up at the antique wall clock hanging in the ballroom of the Plantation Golf Club willing the time to pass more quickly. The second hand moves ever so slowly around the face, and without the ability to lose myself in the distraction of my iPhone under the watchful eye of my mother, I’m dying.

  I sit up smiling pleasantly to those walking by. In the distance, I see my best friend, Morgan, laughing and socializing by her parents’ side. I watch as she laughs at the perfect times in conversation and shines her endearing smile as others remind her parents how fortunate they are to have such a lovely daughter. She is far better at this routine than I am. I’m not sure how she does it, but I wish it came as easily to me. You’d think since she was my best friend, it may have rubbed off on me a little. Wrong. She’s still my best friend, though. She’s my only real confidant and the one person who knows the ins and outs of my whole life. Without her, no one would really know me both inside and outside of this family showcase that equates to my personal hell.

  My mother's voice impedes my thoughts as if she’s reading my mind. “You know, you could take a lesson from Morgan there. Look at her. I wonder where her mother got that beautiful dress? She looks marvelous in plum. It complements her features so well.” I look at my mother giving her my full attention as she takes advantage of the couple of hours I’m forced to be here to chastise me instead of using this quality time to grace me with her love and affection. I hide the need to laugh at the idea that my mother could or would spend any time with me doing anything other than criticize, but I nod anyway hoping that will suffice until something else distracts her. However, she continues before I have a chance to feel a reprieve. “I’m going to call Libby at the boutique next week and have her work on your wardrobe for the campaign trail. You’ll need to look a little more pleasant and be in something other than the all black you currently wear, given your lack of personality. The least we can do is have you look happy and vibrant.”

  The pang of her comment hits the core of every self-esteem issue I’ve ever had, but it’s truly all old news. I’ve heard this all b
efore, time and time again, so it doesn’t take much effort to sweep it under the rug into the graveyard of other insults from over the years.

  She’s a complicated woman. Having a backbone and defending myself is not a character trait that she’d accept, and definitely not one she’d use to define a proper young woman. So, like always, I stay quiet and wait for the moment to pass, as it hopefully soon will.

  My mother, Sandra Jacqueline Baker, is the modern-day political equivalent to a gold digger. She knows exactly how to behave and what to say to impress my father’s political supporters, which results in men and women opening their wallets to throw money at the campaign. She plays this game well. She’s my father’s most valuable tool during this process, and thus, I am hers. I am here for appearances, to be the proverbial perfect daughter of the future president, the daughter who says and does all the right things, yet I fail her no matter how hard I try.

  The membership catalog for this golf club remains one of the most elite in the country. Tonight’s dinner in my father’s honor will be one of the most lucrative fundraising events for his just-announced presidential campaign. Money is pledged here discreetly with secret promises of favors when my father’s election is successful and he finally takes office. The hidden contingencies behind each of these donations leave me with a sickening feeling.

  The room filled with beautiful women on the arms of very influential men would likely impress most people, but I’m not one of them. Growing up in this world, I quickly learned these events are more of an ego shakedown hidden among the façade of perfection than anything else. The well-dressed men in hand-tailored suits and women wearing the latest fashions from couture designers appear as though they’ve stepped off the pages of a society magazine. They live for these events and relish the opportunity to be put on display and for others to feel less than they are. It’s no more than a Keeping up with the Jones’ reality pageant.