Short Sighted: The Buchanans, #4

By Rose Fresquez

She needs a job. Her enemy is hiring.

After losing her job as an elementary school gym teacher, Laura Buchanan is thrilled to find work at a nonprofit organization—until she realizes that her new boss is the smug boy who crushed her dreams in middle school. He's more handsome than ever and loaded with an attitude that could extinguish her again if she's not careful.

Growing up in a group home, Ray Mbolino needed to develop a tough, confident shell to survive. Winning on the basketball court was all he had. Now a pro basketball star, he's trying to get his new children's foundation off the ground. Nothing is going to drain his confidence, not even the opinionated brunette, who's sort of gorgeous when not scowling.

Despite their constant bickering, the chemistry is undeniable, but love's not a possibility. Can they set aside their friction-filled battles to achieve a common goal?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Fresquez
• Release date: Jun 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215639818

Rose Fresquez

Rose Fresquez is the author of First Site and two other family devotionals. She's married to her prince charming and a proud mother of four amazing kids. When she's not busy taking care of her family, she's writing. Follow her on facebook at https://facebook.com/rosefresquezbooks/

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All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Short Sighted is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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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CHAPTER 1

Perspiration drenched Ray Mbolino’s face as he intercepted the ball. Its familiar thwack hitting the gym flooring, the squeak of sneakers, and the shouts of fans surrounded him as he dribbled the ball up the floor; the pressure mounting with Dree King in pursuit. Man, he thrived on this. He then dribbled left. If he could pass it to Craig Lee, he would drive it to Marv, but that would be a gamble. Not when Craig Lee’s pursuer toppled over him. With just forty-five seconds before the buzzer, one wrong move, and the Nuggets lose. Even if it was their last game, it was honorable to end the season with some dignity.

He dribbled to the right. Still no opening for him to pass to Marv. Maybe he could risk the shot since he was already at half-court. Tossing the ball into the hoop would earn them the three points they needed to win.

Go for it, Rambo! He could almost hear his buddies at the fire station cheering him on with the nickname only family and friends used.

With King on his neck, Rambo’s heart raced, his adrenaline kicking up as he planted his foot to lift the ball in the air. Almost to the three-point line, but tension rose, the crowd cheering and chanting twenty-three, his jersey number.

What a clutch moment. The moment he’d trained his for his whole life for as he shot baskets to prepare for the game’s final seconds.

Focus. Tune out the noise. It was just him in an open gym—his favorite place in the world, his first refuge. This is for you, Big Mama. If not for her, he wouldn’t be on the court. God, please thank her for me.

He angled the ball, and it slid through the hoop.

Yes! He leaped in the air with a victory punch.

Cheers rose from the Pepsi Center, and as the Greeners got the ball back in possession, the buzzer went off. The announcer shouted, Nuggets lead by one point. 46–45!

Rambo pumped his fist, high-fiving his team members and opening his arms to embrace his trainer as the man’s shouts blended in with the stadium uproar.

A championship game was always better, but any win to end the season was a victory.

The Nuggets seldom made it to the NBA finals, but this year, finishing early meant a head start for the kids’ sports camp—a nongovernment nonprofit organization he was starting this summer.

He’d planned a summer of friends and giving back to the community. Fans chanted and tossed streamers, but they were conditioned upon his status as a pro. Thank goodness he had real fans—the Fort Rock Firefighters from Fire Station 15. They knew his weaknesses, and they’d become brothers. They would stick with him after the season was over. Even if they couldn’t make it to the game tonight, Rambo could hear their voices and cheers. You’ve done it again, bro!

He couldn’t wait to see them on Saturday.

TWO DAYS LATER, HE stopped by one of the group homes he supported. The foster parents, Sheila and John, needed help having an antique piano picked up and moved to the basement. So, Rambo called up three friends. He’d come to know the firefighters through his interior designer, who was Ezra’s sister and was crushing on Ezra’s best friend Jake, at the time.

Rambo, you’ve got this? Jake hefted his side of the piano, his dark skin similar to Rambo’s.

As I’ll ever be. Rambo hoisted one side.

As Jake held one end and led the way down the stairs, the piano shifted, and the other end almost slipped out of Ezra’s hand.

Wait! Red blotched Ezra’s face, and his forearms strained as he repositioned the monstrosity. Dalton, drop the legs and hold this end with me.

We should toss this piece of junk and buy them a new piano. Dalton, two years younger than Rambo, the youngest firefighter at their station, slid into place.

Ezra lifted a brow in Rambo’s direction. All the money you make, we should hire professionals to carry this thing.

Thought I’d put all your muscles to good use. Even though Rambo worked out, his buddies literally worked out throughout the day on the job. Plus, I’m gonna need all the funds for this foundation. The Big Mama Organization he’d started to help foster and underprivileged kids.

Speaking of the foundation. With his free hand, Dalton tugged at his blond hair, indicating how little he was helping. Did the agency find someone yet?

Having no time or patience for the task, Rambo had left hiring a manager to the employment agency. With two weeks to go, he didn’t need to stress. Haven’t gotten any emails yet.

Let’s roll! Jake started moving, and Rambo squeezed against the wall in the narrow hallway. Since he didn’t feel the monstrosity’s weight, the others were doing all the work. The wooden stairs creaked as they descended. You guys let me do all the heavy lifting, he teased.

Looks like you’re doing lunge sit-ups by the wall, Ezra said when they got to the room.

Dim light filtered through the plastic blinds. Thick and heavy, the air smelled as oppressive as the dark walls, which could use a do-over. Rambo tightened his grip on the piano, clenched his jaw, and resisted the urge to back toward the stairs and get out.

I hate basements. Dalton shivered, adding a story of a recent call they’d gone to and where they’d given CPR to a woman who had fallen down the stairs.

I thought you loved Halloween! Grateful for the distraction, Rambo loosened his grip, but seriously, the guy carried candy around as if it were a prescription.

The only thing I like about the holiday is the candy. Dalton stepped sideways so they could set the piano in the corner. If you saw the creepy decorations in this woman’s basement, you’d understand my point.

Jake wiped sweat from his shiny forehead. Who keeps Halloween decorations all year long?

People are crazy about certain holidays. Ezra started up the stairwell. They followed his heels climbing the stairs of the ranch-style home.

Kids’ noises rang out in the backyard, and beyond the window, a football whizzed back and forth. Rambo had no idea how many children Sheila and John had taken in since last month, but he was grateful for people like them. People who barely had anything, yet offered kids a safe place.

Let’s work up an appetite for lunch. Ezra swung open the flimsy screen door.

Rambo followed him down two steps into the grassy yard and tipped his face to the open sky above him. Sun on his face, he closed his eyes and breathed in. Whew, it smelled good out here. I don’t play football. He was the only one in the group who thrived on basketball, the main reason they’d enrolled him on their firehouse basketball team. He reopened his eyes and winked at the nearby nine-year-old. All kids need to know their basketball.

If we’re going by seasons, it’s baseball time. Dalton elbowed him.

The younger kids shouted and lunged into the guys. What are we going to play? the nine-year-old asked.

Can we play soccer? the seven-year-old boy asked.

Baseball! shouted another.

Anything you want. Jake pretended to punch the seven-year-old in the chest.

Whenever Rambo brought the firefighters to help fix something or carry heavy furniture, they played soccer, catch, and baseball with the boys at the group home. With the yard two times bigger than the house, the kids spent most of the warm days outside.

As soon as Ezra kicked the soccer ball, all the boys except one joined him. Jake and Dalton played with them, too.

Before Rambo could decide whether to help Sheila in the garden or play a game he was terrible at, a football hurtled over his head, and he ducked. When the unapologetic thirteen-year-old glared back as if daring Rambo to say anything, Rambo jammed his hands on his hips, standing there in his trainer’s favorite stance. Kris! Is that a way to greet guests?

What did you bring me? Entitlement echoed in Kris’s words. A guest? He cocked his head, his face tan from playing in the sun, and scoffed. What does that mean?

With anger like that and the size advantage of being the oldest, Kris better not bully the younger kids. Maybe he’d taken their talk about respect last month seriously. Rambo crossed his arms over his chest. Hope you’ve not been sassy with Mr. and Mrs. Heffer.

Kris snorted. What brings you here anyway?

The kid had been at the group home for almost a year, but his attitude hadn’t changed a bit.

Yet Rambo could relate. He’d been the same way.

He inhaled, unsettled by the boy’s attitude. Even though he didn’t have to answer, he responded. We brought a piano. Sheila had gotten it for free from Craigslist.

Groaning, Kris yanked at his choppy brown hair. He kicked a loose rock in the golden grass. I thought Sheila was kidding. I’m not doing piano.

His husky build boasted his athletic abilities, but a piano might teach him a dose of humility. It’s Mrs. Heffer, and you should be with her pulling weeds in the front. These kids needed to learn to contribute to their stay.

She didn’t ask. Kris shrugged.

Rambo would have to suggest Sheila had the boys help her with simple housework.

Despite the urge to put Kris to work, Rambo picked up the football. Think fast! He tossed it to Kris, who was quick to leap for it. A grin released the anger from his expression as he lobbed the ball back, and Rambo’s heart warmed while they passed the ball back and forth.

No doubt Kris was a good kid trying to find his place in this world. Kids like Kris were Rambo’s inspiration to start the foundation, a place where they could have counselors and meet coaches who could become their role models.

As he’d done in the past, Rambo utilized their time alone to remind Kris to be a gentleman.

His age made things hard enough. Adding attitude only further complicated things. This was already his third placement. Practicing your manners can make things easier for you and your next foster family.

I don’t need fostering anymore. My mom’s coming to get me.

He’d said the same for the last six months. Kids always dreamed of reuniting with their parents, but only 6 percent succeeded. When is she coming? Rambo pitched the ball back, and Kris caught it, squeezing it tight.

Soon... I think. The boy ducked his head, his hands whitening on the ball as he whispered, I hope.

Rambo’s heart tugged. From what he knew, Kris’s mom was struggling to stay sober. She’d been in and out of jail. He could only hope and pray she overcame her addiction better than Rambo’s mom had. He couldn’t drown the boy’s hope, though. You gonna throw that ball?

Kris nodded and hurled it higher. Rambo leaped off the ground to catch it.

Your throws are getting better each time. Although Kris played any kind of sport, he was passionate about football.

Three other boys—one eight- and two nine-year-olds—showed up with John, Sheila’s husband. He’d taken them to Lowes to get timber for Sheila’s raised bed vegetable garden.

Rambo and his friends split up into two teams with the kids, and they played football and then basketball on the side of the house. He’d had a hoop installed last summer.

They were panting and hungry when Sheila called the adults inside for lemonade. I better make you guys sandwiches.

As she smiled, her plump cheeks bunched up around her eyes—weary eyes, their tiredness accentuated by the gray already overtaking her black hair. No doubt taking care of foster kids for twelve years showed on her.

We don’t need lunch. Ezra’s stomach growled as he sipped the lemonade.

We have to get going. Leaning forward, Jake rested both hands on the mahogany table that sat fourteen. Rambo had bought it last year, when Sheila took in five more kids, adding to the seven she’d had then.

The kids’ pizza will be delivered in twenty. Rambo drank his lemonade more slowly, a twinge of bittersweet still clogging his throat from his time with Kris. Whenever he came by, he tried to order food to give Sheila a break from cooking. You should train those kids to fix their lunches, though.

His foster mom had always made him fix his lunch, and it made him feel a sense of belonging, as part of the family.

Sheila tugged at her floral skirt. They only make a mess and waste all the food when they cut off crusts.

She made sense.

She rested a hand on Rambo’s shoulder. Are you staying and eating pizza with us?

Dalton glared at him, obviously wanting to stay for pizza. But it was for the kids. Good thing I always have my snacks. He then pulled a pack of Skittles from his pocket and slammed a handful in his mouth.

Rambo used the glass to point at Jake. His fault.

Dalton rolled his eyes and spoke with a mouthful, revealing a rainbow tongue. Even the greatest trainers break their eating habits from time to time.

I could fix you some salad. Sheila addressed Jake. I don’t have to make lunches for the kids.

Jake gripped the back of his neck, probably thinking of how to decline politely. Knowing how picky he was with his salads, Rambo saved him from answering.

We’d better head out. He drank the rest of the lemonade, pushed back from the table, and stood with the glass, taking it to the dishwasher.

Let us know when you want us to get those drawers replaced. Ezra put his glass in the dishwasher. Jake and Dalton did the same.

Thanks for giving up your day off. Sheila walked them to the door and shook their hands. You have wives you could be spending the day with.

I don’t. Dalton raised a hand, then pointed between Jake and Ezra. These two are the losers with hearts floating on their foreheads.

One of these days, you’re going to fall in love. Ezra slapped him on the back as they walked to Jake’s truck.

From your mouth to God’s ears. Jake pointed up the clear sky before sliding into the driver’s seat of his F150. Can’t wait to see that day.

Dalton sped past Rambo, shouting Shotgun! He then swung open the door and claimed the seat.

You’re giving up that easy? Ezra opened the back door and settled in.

Dalton’s statement had earned him a front seat. I gotta give the kid free candy from time to time. Rambo would normally fight with Dalton for the front, but his earlier statement of floating hearts crowded his mind as he climbed in back with Ezra.

A slight pang pierced him. He was twenty-eight and didn’t have anything close to a girlfriend. His fault for shoving any serious relationships aside, treating potential girlfriends like second-string players relegated to the bench. When he met Dinara, a firehouse EMT, he’d hoped their love could last forever, but she wanted things to get serious faster than he did. By the time he wrapped his mind around the idea, she’d moved on with someone else. Apparently, the guy had been too serious. They got engaged within three months and married four months later.

By the way, Ezra interrupted his thoughts, my mom wanted to know if this Sunday works for your party.

The woman had treated Rambo as part of the family ever since the firefighters befriended him. Slouching back in his seat, he smiled, grateful for the love extended by his friend’s family and excited about the combo end-of-season and foundation-opening party. Don’t you guys get together every Sunday, anyway?

Yeah, but since you like the spotlight, she wants to utilize all the people who come from church to celebrate with you. Humor warmed Ezra’s tone. And she also wants to know how many people you’re inviting.

He preferred his homies. Yes, to the spotlight. Rambo pumped his fist. He used to demand attention, but the firefighters had shown him what was more important than seeking people’s approval. He still joked though. As long as it’s people who want me to autograph a basketball or a jersey, you know?

Took care of that by inviting all the seniors from church who never miss your games. Dalton spoke from the front.

You guys are coming, right? It wouldn’t