eyes homed in on the boy with the ball ten metres away, and at that moment, his life was changed forever.
The little fellow with the ball was wiry, his limbs tanned, his dark hair thick and wavy.
Instinct told Ben the truth.
Or maybe it was simple rationale: the boy was a dead ringer for Ben’s sister’s little boy.
You’re mine. My son.
A wild surge of joy and sorrow threatened to engulf him, and he had to fight the compulsion to rush over and scoop up the boy in a big bear hug.
A Father at Last
Oblivious, Dylan was laughing, carefree and happy, his feet toying with the ball.
Then he looked up, and kicked, but his aim was way off, and instead of heading straight for the other boy, the ball was coming to Ben.
Like an arrow to my heart.
Ben stopped the ball with his foot, but didn’t kick it back because at that moment, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, pushed a button and put it up to his ear.
“I’m listening,” he said, then, “yeah, yeah, will do. Hang on a minute, will you?”
Dylan had run after the ball, and now he was standing in front of Ben, looking up at him.
Trusting, innocent, his faith in human beings well and truly intact. Ben took off his sunnies and for a long moment, he and the boy made eye contact. The colour of the little boy’s eyes, the shape—the fall of the lashes—told Ben the truth.
He thought his heart might break. And then it filled with the brightest light when Dylan smiled.
“Hey, mister,” he said. “Do ya wanna play too?”
Too trusting maybe.
“No, you’re okay, buddy. But your mate over there’s waiting for the ball.” Ben inclined his head towards the boy standing on the seaward side of the grass strip, watching and waiting, and Dylan’s eyes followed.
“That’s my friend Lachlan. He’s real good at soccer ‘cause his dad’s our coach and he knows all the good moves. I’ve only got a mum, and she’s a real nice mum, but she doesn’t know anything about soccer.”
Ben felt a surge of emotion—hot and searing and so totally painful it threatened to take his breath away. Walk away, he told himself. Walk away now, before you do something really stupid.
But first… “If you want to improve your aim when you kick, you need to have a good look at where you’re kicking, fix that spot in your mind, then stroke the ball with the side of your foot—don’t just boot it.” He pushed the ball to Dylan with his foot. “Here, matey, you try it.”
“Thanks, mister.” Dylan flashed a grin at Ben, then his face was a picture of concentration as he lined up the ball and kicked, straight and true. An instant later he was gone, sprinting after the ball, laughing in delight as it shot directly to Lachlan, and calling back over his shoulder, “Hey, it worked. Thanks, man.”
Ben put the phone back to his ear.
“Sorry about that,” he said to the caller, “you were saying?” For the space of thirty seconds, while he listened to a fresh set of instructions, he allowed himself the luxury of standing and watching the boys play—Dylan, Lachlan and two others, kicking, tackling, Julie Mac
running, laughing.
Doing what boys should be doing. One of them booted the ball too hard and it shot off the grass and down the bank onto the sand. The other boys shouted good‐natured abuse at the kicker, then they all swarmed down the sandy bank and onto the beach.
Ben made himself a vow. One day he’d play soccer at the beach with Dylan and his friends. One day, when Dylan could call him Dad ; when he could be Dylan’s dad. But not today. Not now. Not till all this was over, because right now, being Dylan’s dad could put the boy at risk, and he’d rather die than do that.
And then reality kicked in, hard and excruciatingly painful. He, Ben Carter, was never going to be a dad. Not now. Not when this gig was over. Never. He’d made a promise to himself a long, long time ago. He squared his shoulders, mentally getting a