Home Field Advantage

By Bonnie Gardner

Young athlete scores big win for high school football team. For Bo Bohannon, single and loving it sports reporter at a small Alabama TV station, the news is a golden opportunity. The boy's father is stationed overseas at a remote air force base. He should see his only son's moment of triumph. Bo sends him the footage. Little does she realize that her personal human interest story is about to be rewritten as a personal victory.

Widower Mitch Thaggard believes in his heart that he has become immune to charms of the opposite sex. But being back on home soil brings him back to his senses. All it takes is one look at the kindhearted woman who's taught him that family matters. Now Mitch just might have to teach the down-to-earth Bo a lesson of his own ... about love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonnie Gardner
• Release date: Feb 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311573278

Bonnie Gardner

After spending most of her life as either an army brat or a military wife, the last people that Bonnie Gardner expected to find herself writing about were military men. After all, she'd looked forward to the day she could put that spit and polish and moving around behind her. Then she sold her first book. Her hero was ex-military. Then she sold her second book. Her hero was retired military. You get the picture. When her editor suggested that she use her military knowledge and background, she resisted. She really did. But common sense won out. After all, they say to write about what you know, and that's what she knew. Bonnie grew up on army bases around the world. According to her parents, one of the first homes she lived in was a converted World War II army barracks. She lived in Hawaii before it was a state, and has either visited or lived in almost every state of the Union. During six years in Germany in her formative years, Bonnie developed her love for reading and movies. (In those days, there was no American television to watch overseas, so books and movies were her entertainment.) Even at the tender age of 12, she was a critic. If she didn't like the ending of a book or a movie, she'd spend half the night rewriting it in her mind. Though she didn't actually write any of these ideas down, she honed her skills by writing long letters to friends she'd left behind. Finally, when she was almost 16, her father retired to his home state of Alabama, and there, Bonnie met her husband. Wayne was the cutup sitting next to her in geometry class at Marbury High School, the last of 11 schools she'd attended while growing up. She tried to ignore him, but his clowning won out. They married at 19 and have been together for over 30 years. They have two grown sons, one of whom is now serving in the air force - the third generation in their family. Though Bonnie swore she would never marry a military man, Vietnam intruded and Wayne was drafted. He joined the air force because his father had retired from the air force. It was only supposed to be one enlistment, but...he stayed for 25 years, and Bonnie followed him whenever she could. And Bonnie wouldn't have missed a moment of it. She learned how to do things she never thought she could do - like repair a toilet - when her husband was away for weeks or months at a time. She learned how to be alone. And she learned she could handle anything if she set her mind to it, even Casualty Duty when she and her husband had the unpleasant task of notifying a friend that her husband had died in the line of duty. All those things made Bonnie what she is today, and all of that experience shows in her books. When she writes about her men in uniform, she knows them. She knows the joy and the pain of loving a man in uniform. She knows their wives, their girlfriends, and their mothers. She's been all of them.

Book preview

Copyright © 1999 by Bonnie Gardner

Originally Published as Perfect Ten by Bonnie Gardner by Kensington Precious Gems.

Published by Bonnie Gardner - at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE

Bonnie Gardner

Chapter One

Sidney Bo Bohannon shoved the tape of raw footage into the slot in the editing bay and prepared to copy the material onto a standard-sized videotape. It wasn't exactly within the rules at her small, Alabama television station to make copies and send them out, but this was a situation that called for an exception. Magic didn't often happen at small-town, high school football games, but last Friday night it had. And she would gladly break the rules to make sure a father saw that miracle. She'd worry about the consequences later.

Somebody banged on the door of the editing booth, and Bo jumped guiltily. Almost finished, she called over her shoulder as she watched the speeded-up footage fly by on the monitor in front of her. Thank heavens the machine copied faster than her VCR at home. The tape whizzed past the end of the game, and Bo hit the switch, backing up just far enough to check to see if she'd gotten a decent copy. Then she let the tape rewind at top speed. Another minute, and she'd be done.

The whirring stopped as the tape reached the beginning, and Bo quickly hit the eject button. Grabbing both raw footage and copy, she turned and opened the door. Stopping only long enough to return the master tape to its designated slot in the videotape library, she hurried back toward her desk. She turned down the short corridor toward her own cramped work space.

Tossing the tape to the top of her desk, one of three crowded into the small cubicle that constituted the sports department and was only marginally neater than a trash heap, Bo mumbled, Now, what did I do with the address? She pulled open the top desk drawer and rummaged through a collection of used flip-top note pads until she came across the right one. That's it, she murmured with satisfaction.

She started to shove the tape into a padded, brown mailing envelope, then stopped. She guessed she'd better, at least, label the thing. She ran her hand over the jumble on top of her desk until she lit upon a yellow, sticky note pad, half buried under yesterday's script. She plucked the pad out of the clutter and scribbled a short note. There, that should do it. Then she attached the yellow square to the front of the tape cartridge where the label should have gone and dropped it into the mailer.

Whatcha up to? Blackmail?

Bo whirled at the sound of the voice behind her and discovered one of the two evening news anchors watching as she completed her hasty project. She supposed her actions could have looked suspicious to someone with a suspicious mind, and Nedra Bower, known for her investigative prowess, had one very suspicious mind. Bo figured she'd better explain before she became the subject of one of Nedra's investigations. It's just some footage of a high school football game. One of the kids' fathers is overseas and has never seen him play.

Nedra crossed her arms across her chest and leaned against the flimsy wooden partition that separated the sports department from the rest of the newsroom. Never took you for a do-gooder, she drawled, a skeptical look on her face. Apparently satisfied with Bo's explanation though, she turned and walked away.

Leave it to her to lose interest once the mystery is solved, Bo murmured.

She adjusted the tape in the envelope, folded over the edge of the mailer, and whacked a few staples into the fold to close it. The effort with the stapler was satisfying, but it still hadn't served to cool her irritation at Nedra. Bo pushed the stapler aside and flounced into her chair. She scrawled the APO address onto the front and tossed the envelope into her OUT box just in time for pickup.

A warm feeling flowed through Bo as she watched the package disappear into the bin with the rest of the day's mail. Guess I've done my good deed for the day, she murmured as she switched on her computer to prepare her copy for the evening news.

Major Mitch Thaggard climbed down the ladder of the C-141 transport plane and drew in the acrid, fuel-scented air as he positioned his red beret on his head. After hours in the stuffy, noisy plane, hunched on a hard bench against a bare bulkhead, even the air of the loading ramp smelled sweet.

He flexed his jaw to depressurize his ears after the descent, hoisted his rucksack, and stepped aside for the throng of men who followed him off. Somebody said something to him and Mitch remembered the earplugs, mandatory equipment on the noisy transports. He signalled to the speaker to wait and pulled the foam cylinders from his ears, but the lieutenant had moved on. He shrugged; he'd probably catch up with him at the debriefing.

Mitch pocketed the plugs and trudged toward the Base Operations Building where the crew bus would take them to his unit compound. He hoped the required debriefing session would go fast. He hadn't been home -- if you could call an efficiency apartment in the Bachelor Officers' Quarters at Howard Air Force Base in Panama home -- in almost a month. And sleeping in a familiar bed was more appealing right now than anything else.

Checking his watch, Mitch amended that. Maybe, just maybe, if the debrief session were short enough, he'd have time to swing by the Post Office and pick up his mail. There'd surely be letters from home among the bills that even air force officers on remote duty had to pay.

He followed the throng of men, subdued with fatigue, onto the bus. Everyone found a seat in short order, and with a minimum of noise, settled down for the brief ride.

Once they were in the parachute packing shop, the only space large enough to accommodate the group, the pace picked up. Sensing the crew's fatigue, the Director of Operations was blessedly brief with his remarks, and his brevity set the tone for the rest of the debriefing. In what had to be record time, Mitch found himself free for a welcome seventy-two hours. His soft bed beckoned him, and he would accept the welcome invitation as soon as he stopped by the post office.

He stepped out of air conditioned building and into the muggy, tropical air of the Canal Zone. Blinking in the bright sunshine, he fumbled in the pockets of his battle dress uniform for sunglasses and put them on. A hand fell on his shoulder, and Mitch turned.

Hoot, the lieutenant who had spoken to him earlier, fell into step beside him. We're gonna hit the O Club. You in?

Mitch shook his head. At thirty-seven, with fifteen years service under his belt, he could no longer do a month in the field and then party hard until time to report to duty again. Hell, he never had been able to do that! Naw, I'm getting too old for that stuff.

The lieutenant shrugged and pivoted, heading toward the club. Later, he called as he strode away.

The car was where he'd left it in the secure lot next to the packing shed. Mitch unlocked the door, tossed his gear onto the passenger seat, and slid inside. The engine started on the first try, and Mitch steered it toward the post office.

There was once a time when he didn't think mail was a big deal, but since he'd taken this remote assignment, and left Mickey behind, Mitch had done a complete one eighty. Since his wife Nora died, his son Mickey had been his life, but dependents were no longer allowed in this part of Panama. The job had been another duck in the proverbial row, and since he wanted to make lieutenant colonel, he'd had to go. So he took the assignment, leaving his seventeen-year-old son in Mom's care back home in Alabama. Letters and the occasional call were his lifeline. His one link to the real world and all that mattered.

He found a parking spot right in front of the post office and knew immediately that it was not a good omen. Please let it still be open, he prayed silently as he unhooked his seatbelt. Mitch checked his watch once more and left the car. He loped up the steps and pushed open the door. A quick glance showed him he'd arrived not a moment too soon. The clerk was already wrestling with the metal rolling door to the pick-up window.

Wait, Mitch called, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. I just got in from a month-long exercise. Don't close up till I've picked up my mail. Please, he added when he noted the annoyance on the clerk's face. Not allowing the man to protest, Mitch gave his name and box number and waited.

You just made it, the clerk said as he went to retrieve Mitch's mail. I'll be right back.

Mitch drummed his fingers on the high counter. Though it seemed like forever, the clerk returned quickly.

Looks like you hit the jackpot, Sir the clerk said as he handed the pile to Mitch. Before Mitch could respond, he pulled the window closed.

Yeah, I did. Mitch stepped back tucking the stack under his arm. Thanks, he said to the pleated, aluminum window covering.

Mitch glanced absently through the stack, mostly magazines. He was more interested in four envelopes from Mickey. The sooner he got to the BOQ, the sooner he'd get to read them.

He hurried outside to the running car and slid inside, tossing the stack of mail to the other seat. As he fastened his seatbelt, an edge of brown caught his eye. That's odd, he mused. He hadn't ordered anything, and he couldn't imagine what the package could be. Tempering his curiosity, Mitch backed out of the lot and headed for his quarters.

The ease with which he found a parking spot at the post office did not repeat itself at the Q. All the slots were filled, everyone already off early to take advantage of the long crew rest weekend. He pulled into the overflow lot, parked, and grabbed his gear and stack of mail. His curiosity about the brown envelope increased with each step toward his quarters.

Balancing his unwieldy load, Mitch fumbled with his keys, then unlocked the door. Shouldering his way in, he dropped the duffle just inside and kicked the door shut. He flipped on the light and deposited the stack of mail on the table by the door. After a quick survey of his quarters, he shrugged out of his hot BDU shirt and picked up the mysterious package.

The envelope bore the call letters of the television station that serviced his small, home town, and that made him even more curious. He tossed the package onto his bed and stared at it while he unlaced his high-topped, jump boots and peeled off his socks. Then he sat down on the bed, cooler in bare feet and brown tee shirt.

Finally, he could stand it no longer, and he ripped into the envelope, tearing at a lethal-looking row of staples. He reached inside and encountered cold, hard plastic with a piece of paper attached. Mitch drew it out and discovered it was a boxed videotape. Stuck on the box was one of those sticky note things that cluttered everything these days.

Mitch scanned the scrawl on the note and froze. The inscription made no sense.

Mickey Thaggard -- winning play -- Mattison Consolidated vs. Pitt County High Aug 27, 1998

Staring at the note, Mitch tried to interpret the meaning. Mickey had suffered from asthma all his life. There was no way he'd go out for a sport. Much less make a winning play.

He looked at the note again. I don't know who you are, Sidney Bohannon, but if this is your idea of a joke, nobody's laughing.

But what if it wasn't a joke? another part of his mind reminded him. Don't you want to see?

Mitch inserted it into the VCR, the only amenity his quarters claimed.

It became apparent very quickly that it was not a joke. There in front of him on the small screen was his only son kicking the winning field goal for Pitt County High School.

Mitch rewound the tape and watched it again, eyes stinging with unaccustomed tears of pride.

His son was playing football, and he was stuck here thousands of miles away. Every man dreamed of the day his son would take the field and he could revel in his child's glory, and he was missing it. He'd never had a chance to see Mickey play anything more stimulating than computer golf. And, there Mickey was making game-winning points in football. And he had missed it.

Pitt County High was a small, country school where most of the kids got a chance to play if they wanted to, so it was highly unlikely that his son would ever get a chance to compete on the college level. If he was going to see his son play ball, this was his only chance.

Mitch reached for the stack of mail and picked up the letters from Mickey. Scanning them quickly, he discovered that Mickey's making the team had been intended to be a surprise. He had that right. Mitch drew in a deep, ragged breath, and swallowed a lump the size of a C-141. He vowed then and there that he'd find a way to see Mickey play at least one game. If he had to go AWOL.

And he'd thank Sidney Bohannon, he reminded himself as he reached for the phone and dialled the colonel's number.

Bo scanned the assignment board again and uttered a very unladylike curse. Damn, just once I'd like a shot at something other than 1-A games, she muttered to nobody in particular.

She flushed at the sound of a low chuckle behind her.

You're the one who insisted you wanted to start at the bottom, Connor Black, the evening meteorologist reminded her. Television in central Alabama is about as low as you can go.

Thanks for rubbing it in, Bo mumbled ruefully as she brushed past Connor. "Network color commentating was fine, but I wanted to work more than once every four years.

What do you have that I don't have? But, Bo reminded herself as she glanced at Connor's male-model face, she knew what he had. He was drop-dead-gorgeous, and she was ... well, skinny would be a kind way to describe her. Her six feet had been an advantage in college volleyball and later when she'd made the '92 Olympic team. But it hadn't served her since.

What's the assignment that's got you so upset anyway?

Pitt County at Holtville High.

Not exactly a dream match-up, huh?

Bo grinned. "No, Holtville's undefeated, and Pitt has won