shrugged. “I guess so.”
A familiar restlessness coursed through him. A mixture of confusion and frustration that churned in his stomach the minute someone inquired about his future plans. Maybe it was because it usually wasn’t an inquiry at all. People assumed that just because he was a Hamilton he’d naturally follow in his siblings’ footsteps and stay in Davis Landing, becoming another efficient cog in the powerhouse that was Hamilton Media.
His dad, the incredible Wallace Hamilton, expected it, too. Instead of the usual bedtime stories most kids heard growing up, the stories Chris had been told were about the early Hamiltons and how they’d brought a small weekly newspaper through the Depression and World War II. When Wallace eventually took control, he’d turned the Davis Landing Dispatch into the successful media corporation it was now, which included not only the newspaper, now a daily, but also Nashville Living magazine.
So far his older brothers, Jeremy and Tim, and his sister, Amy, had already begun carving out their niches in the company. Even Heather was counting the days until she would be there full-time, planning to attend a local college and work at the magazine when she wasn’t in class. Not him. The closer he got to graduation, the more pressure he felt. Pressure to take his rightful and expected place at Hamilton Media. The only trouble was, he had a sinking feeling there wasn’t a place for him there. He had no desire to sit in an office and tally numbers all day and no one with an ounce of concern about the future of the company would want him writing for the Dispatch or Nashville Living.
Maybe that was why he was still in the school gym lifting weights instead of going home. The tension between him and Wallace had been escalating lately. Not a day went by that his dad didn’t casually mention him “coming on board.”
And not a day went by that everything inside Chris didn’t tell him that Hamilton Media wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
Maybe if he had a Plan B, something he could present to his parents, they’d be willing to listen. He knew his mom would. A lot of his friends complained about their moms. That they were overprotective. Worried too much. Not Nora Hamilton. She was a quiet but steady force in their family who’d taught her children that God had a unique plan for their lives.
So what was the unique plan for Chris Hamilton?
A heavy hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder and Chris met Coach Swanson’s knowing gaze. Had his coach seen a glimpse of the conflict raging inside him?
“Your dad will be proud of you no matter what you decide to do with your life,” he said.
But Chris wasn’t so sure. He turned down the coach’s offer for a ride home and once outside, hit the sidewalk at an easy lope to work the kinks out of his muscles.
God, if You have something in mind for me, I hate to rush You, but You better move fast. Dad has his mind made up and I don’t know how to tell him that I’d rather ask people if they want to upgrade their order of fries than balance accounts or write articles.
He took a shortcut through the back of the parking lot and that’s when he heard it. A faint yelp. He eased his pace and then stopped when he heard it again. Only now he heard words. Shrill with fear.
“Just leave me alone! I have to get home.”
“Did you hear that? He has to get home. Maybe his mommy will ground him if he’s late.”
Chris didn’t hesitate. He followed the voices and when he stepped around the corner, two guys who looked to be in their late teens had backed a boy he recognized from study hall up against the building.
“Everybody knows kids from your side of town got money,” Chris heard one of the guys growl. “Give it up or we’ll have to beat it out of you.”
“Two against one.” Chris took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows. “Doesn’t look like a fair fight to me.”
Not to mention that the kid pressed against the brick wall was a freshman and probably wouldn’t tip the scale at a hundred pounds.
“Think you’re going to even things up?” one of the guys sneered, lifting his fist. Which just happened to be wrapped around a baseball bat.
For a split second, fear skittered up Chris’s spine. The boy they’d lined up as a target took advantage of the distraction Chris had offered and sidled up behind him.
What have you gotten yourself into, Hamilton? The thought raced through Chris’s mind but he held his ground.
The guy with the bat took a menacing step closer. “This isn’t your business, man.”
“It is now,” Chris said, forcing his voice to sound calm. Guys like this could probably smell fear. He had his doubts he was going to be able to talk his way out of this. Bat Boy didn’t look like he’d be big on negotiations.
“Thanks, Chris.” The boy hovering in his shadow barely breathed the words, but Chris heard him. For some reason, the quiet words gave him an unexpected dose of strength.
He was going to get them out of this. With both their limbs intact. He just wasn’t sure how….
“Man, get out of here. There’s a squad car,” Bat Boy’s friend suddenly hissed.
The glare of the headlights from a police car chased away the shadows and momentarily disoriented them. Chris’s eyes adjusted quickly, just in time to see the guy with the bat pull it back in a broad arc. Chris guessed his intent immediately. To buy himself some more time to get away, he was going to let it fly at the two officers who’d jumped out of the squad car and were heading toward them.
Chris instinctively dove for the guy’s legs, taking him out in a tackle that Coach Swanson would have been proud of.
“First down,” he rasped at Bat Boy, who struggled to get away from him.
In less than five minutes, both the guys were handcuffed and sitting in the back of the squad car.
“Pretty quick reflexes.” The cop, who looked to be in his forties, looked at Chris and grinned. “Don’t you think so, Jason?”
“Not bad at all,” the other officer, Jason, agreed. Given the height and build of the younger officer, Chris knew Coach would’ve loved to recruit him as a line-backer for the football team.
“We’ve been having some trouble with kids being harassed lately and I have a feeling these might be our guys,” the officer who’d complimented Chris said. “Could you boys come down to the station and give us a statement? We’ll give you a lift home afterward.”
A half hour later, Chris was in the break room listening to the officers’ easy banter as shift change approached. Rich, the boy who’d almost been attacked, had finished writing his statement and his parents had already picked him up. Jason had taken the two guys to the jail for processing while Chris waited for Sergeant Evans, who’d made the arrest, to finish up some loose ends.
“The sergeant said you made a pretty gutsy move tonight,” one of the officers said, sliding a can of soda over to Chris. “Handled yourself pretty well.”
Chris shrugged at the unexpected praise and felt his face grow warm as the other officers shifted their attention to him. “I didn’t have time to think about it.”
“Ever
