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Devoted to Drew
Loree Lough
They were worlds apart, connected by a boy…Why would a football star like Logan Murray pay attention to her? Bianca Wright was a far cry from the beautiful women she'd seen him with in the tabloids. He was just being kind. Or even worse–felt sorry for her. He knew she was a widow with an autistic son. That had to be too much baggage for any man, and Bianca wouldn't accept anything but the best for her child. But if Logan could use his connections to match her son Drew with a therapy dog, she’d swallow her pride and accept his help. And his visit to their home. Anything for Drew.And yet, after fifteen minutes with Drew, Logan seemed to “get it" better than Drew’s own father ever did. Had Bianca misjudged him? Maybe he had hidden depths. She would've liked to find out, but that was a risk she just wouldn't take…not when her precious boy was involved.A Child to Love
“Mom. What’s that TV guy doing here?”
Bianca pulled the boy into a sideways hug, attempting to finger-comb his sleep-tousled hair. A loving, motherly gesture, but her furrowed brow made it clear that the kid’s sudden appearance had caught her off guard.
So he answered for her. “I’m Logan Murray, and I just dropped by to thank your mom for helping me at the station the other day.”
“Logan Murray, Logan Murray. From the commercial about tires. And the bank with the big green M.” The boy held up a forefinger. “And Dogs for Kids, where they match kids like me with helper dogs.”
Kids like him. So Drew was aware that his brain functioned differently from other kids’.
Drew quoted the commercial almost verbatim, explaining how the agency spent many months training dogs to open doors and pick up dropped items for kids in wheelchairs, act as the eyes and ears of children who couldn’t see or hear … “and keep autistic kids from wandering off or engaging in dangerous activities.”
Bianca shrugged one shoulder. “He only needs to hear a thing once, and he can recite it word for word.”
“Took me four takes to get it right,” Logan said. “And I was reading from a teleprompter.”
Bianca hugged Drew tighter and sent Logan a silent message with her eyes: Thank you.
Dear Reader,
As you may know, autism affects one child in 88 (one in 54 are boys…including my ten-year-old grandson), and it’s the fastest-growing serious developmental disability in the U.S., Canada and Europe today. There is no known cause or cure, and studies conclude that more children will be diagnosed with the disorder than cancer, diabetes and AIDs combined, at an average annual cost per family of $60,000…yet autism receives less than five percent of the research funding of many less prevalent childhood diseases.
According to a recent article in Psychology Today, more than 50 percent of parents surveyed believed autism was a contributing factor in their divorce. More often than not, it’s the mom who continues to care for her autistic child and, in most cases, other children, as well.
With statistics like that affecting literally thousands of children—and their families—around the world, I couldn’t help but wonder if it’s possible for the single mom of an autistic child to ever find love again.
In Devoted to Drew, I attempted to show a realistic—sometimes stressful, and always challenging—picture of the life of such a mom. If you enjoy the story, I hope you’ll be moved to find ways to help an Autism Society in your area.
Until then, here’s to happy endings!
All my best to you and yours,
Loree
Devoted to Drew
~ A Child to Love ~
Loree Lough
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LOREE LOUGH
With more than four million books in circulation, bestselling author Loree Lough’s titles have earned hundreds of 4- and 5-star reviews and industry awards. She splits her time between her home in Baltimore and a cabin in the Alleghenies, where she loves to show off her “Identify the Animal Tracks” skills. Loree has 100 books in print, including reader-favorite series such as the First Responders, Lone Star Legends, Accidental, Suddenly and Turning Points. She loves to hear from readers and answers every letter, personally. Visit her at Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and www.loreelough.com!
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my daughter, the best mom any on-the-spectrum kid could possibly have, and to all the kids and families struggling to find their path to normal.
Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks to B.J. Surhoff, who during his 18-year baseball career, played every position except pitcher, earning just about every award a major leaguer can win. After retiring from the Orioles, he and wife Polly cofounded Pathfinders for Autism. Now a special training assistant for the team, he agreed to a “walk-on” part in this story, so that he could explain what Pathfinders is, and what it does. Thanks, too, to Shelly McLaughlin at Pathfinders, for some great “what it’s like to parent a kid on the spectrum” information (www.pathfindersforautism.org/).
To Rosemary and Burton from National Capitol Therapy Dogs (www.nctdinc.org/new/index.php), to Karen with 4Paws for Ability (4pawsforability.org/), and to Kati and Lauren with Autism Service Dogs of America (autismservicedogsofamerica.com/) for invaluable input that allowed me to provide accurate info about service and therapy dogs.
Thanks to the National Autism Society (www.autism-society.org/) and Judy at the Howard County Autism Society (www.howard-autism.org/). To Kelly Case and Kelly Higgins-Lund, for sharing personal experiences with their own on-the-spectrum sons. And last, but certainly not least, a hearty thank-you to Marty Bass, weatherman at Baltimore’s WJZ-TV (baltimore.cbslocal.com/personality/marty-bass/), for insights that helped me write the opening scene. (A rabid Ravens fan and stellar newsman, he knows a few team secrets!)
You’re all amazing, and I couldn’t have written this novel without you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u324e5b93-9a32-5e91-be35-1db498250b78)
CHAPTER TWO (#uf2cb9211-b5b2-5880-83d6-c69ed33f572d)
CHAPTER THREE (#u383f1526-e177-58c2-a990-5f95eee5aaee)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u2985e433-2ff0-5a97-968c-5fd27156ad32)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u27e7af8c-45d6-5523-a98e-2e54ad32c4e5)
CHAPTER SIX (#u35721685-1563-5eb9-b3d3-99e8b0940b5f)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ua30d69ff-2a2b-5c9f-9e2f-d3d817d2e8e6)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
LOGAN’S STOMACH HAD been in knots since the day before yesterday, when the general manager’s executive assistant had called to schedule this appointment. Now, as he walked through the door, the receptionist’s smile—something between pity and dismay—told him contract addendums and codicils had nothing to do with the meeting.
“I know I’m early,” he said, “but any way Fletcher will see me now?”
Mandy’s I-feel-so-so-sorry-for-you expression intensified. “Sorry, Mr. Murray, but he left explicit instructions that they weren’t to be disturbed.”
“They?”
She shot a glance toward the door. “Just the coaches and the doctors.”
Just the coaches and doctors. Plural. His heart beat a little harder as he admitted that he had no one but himself to blame. If he hadn’t gone ballistic when that last concussion put him on the injured list, they might not feel it necessary to gang up on him this time.
“It shouldn’t be much longer,” she added. “Can I get you something to drink while you’re waiting?”
In other words, sit tight and keep your mouth shut, like a kid sent to the principal’s office for acting up in class.
“Thanks, but I’m fine.” In truth, he was anything but. He couldn’t remember a headache this bad. Couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t hold down anything heavier than soup. Couldn’t admit any of it to the guys on the other side of that door.
The phone on Mandy’s desk beeped, startling him. Logan added “jumpy” to his list of complaints.
“Yessir, right away,” Mandy said. Then, “You can go in now, Mr. Murray.”
He was halfway to the door when she added, “Can I at least bring you a bottle of water?”
Logan wondered what sort of Logan Murray gossip had prompted her concerned tone. “Sure. Sounds good,” he said. “And please call me Logan.”
As he entered Stan Fletcher’s office, the five men who’d gathered to decide his fate stood: the general manager, head coach, doctor, team psychologist and offensive coordinator. Logan hoped, as he shook each extended hand, that they wouldn’t notice the tremors pulsing from his hard-beating heart to his fingertips. His agent was in New York, celebrating...wedding anniversary? Wife’s birthday? Logan only knew that he’d walked into this meeting alone and unprepared.
The GM pointed at the chair nearest his own. “Take a load off, son.”
Logan sat in a buttery leather wingback and did his best to look at ease, despite a strange new empathy for Daniel in the lions’ den. Three quick knocks cracked the prickly silence, and Mandy joined them, carrying a cobalt-blue water bottle.
“Here you go, Mr. Mur— Logan.”
“Thanks, Mandy,” he said, taking it. Once the door closed quietly behind her, Doc Dickerson broke the brittle silence.
“So. Logan. How’s the head?”
He nodded. Smiled. Pretended the team doctor’s bedside manner didn’t need fine-tuning.
“Good,” he lied, propping an ankle on a knee. “Fine. Never better.”
“I’m surprised to hear that, frankly.” He got up and handed Logan a large manila envelope.
He willed his hands not to shake as he removed CT scans and X-rays. “Might as well be reading hieroglyphics,” he admitted, holding the films up to the light. He’d seen enough of these things during the course of his career to know how to read and interpret them. But this time, his eyes refused to focus.
“This is your third Grade 3 concussion,” Gerard continued. And, as if to soften the blow he was about to deliver, the doctor added, “That hit you took when we played the Steelers? One of the worst I’ve seen in my career.”
No one, not the men on the field or fans in the stands that day, would deny it. Neither would anyone who’d seen replays on the news. The ensuing pressure had compelled the Knights’ high muckety-mucks to call in a neuropsychologist. Logan wondered why he wasn’t now present to reiterate the results of the California Verbal, Rey Auditory, Benton Visual Retention and the Stroop Cognitive tests. Clearly, the sole purpose of this summit was to use the test results to sideline him for a couple of games. Much as he hated the idea, it beat the heck out of the alternative. Logan decided to take it on the chin, without complaint.
Gerard returned to his seat as Fletcher said, “I know it seems coldhearted, dumping the decision on you this way, but I’m afraid that Steelers game was your last.”
Logan’s heart pounded harder. He sat up straighter. Surely he didn’t mean...
“Last game of the season, right?”
The GM slowly shook his head.
His mouth went dry. What’s with the dramatic pause? Logan wondered, uncapping the water bottle. Giving me time to let the inevitable sink in?
“You’re welcome to take the films and test results to outside specialists for confirmation,” Fletcher said, “but you should know, we’ve already consulted with the best in the area...”
Logan took a sip of water as Gerard put in, “...and they all concur.”
Logan swallowed. Hard. His powers of concentration had been off since the hit. Had he missed a sentence or two? Because surely they weren’t trying to tell him that his days as an NFL quarterback were over. He had two more years on his contract. And he’d bounced back from Grade 3 concussions before. Twice before, to be precise.
He faced the head coach, a man he’d come to think of as a friend. “Are they saying what I think they’re saying?”
Hildebrand exhaled a shaky sigh. “’Fraid so, pal.”
Now the offensive coordinator chimed in with, “Believe me, Logan, this isn’t something we want to do.” A furrow formed on his brow. “You’re the best QB in the league, and it’s gonna kill us to lose you.”
He’d gone toe to toe with Richards nearly every play of every game, all three of his years as the Knights’ first-string quarterback. The man was stubborn, but his straightforward honesty had earned Logan’s respect. It was the only thing that kept him from lashing out, the way he had last time when they’d put him on the disabled list.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Logan told the team psychologist. “Waiting till I blow my stack before you put in your two cents?”
O’Riley quirked an eyebrow. “Are you feeling the need to blow your stack?”
Groaning inwardly, Logan ran a hand through his hair. “Save the shrink-speak for one of your other nutcases, and give it to me straight.”
