The Time Traveler's Christmas - Amy Jarecki Page 0,2

where he earned the gold and now he also held three world titles.

But the Olympics had earned him a knighthood. He’d nearly earned a fourth world title in Brussels right before his world had crashed around his ears. Nothing like a vindictive almost-ex-wife to cause a man to lose his edge two minutes before the final fight of the most important match in the world.

Fuck.

“You all right there, sport?” asked Walter, swinging his satchel over his shoulder.

“Sure.” Lachlan scratched his head. “My mind wandered for a moment.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected.” The old fella grasped Lachlan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Just remember you mean a great deal to your mum and to me.”

“Thanks.” Lachlan wished he felt like he meant a great deal to anyone at the moment—or anything positive to take away the black chasm filling his chest.

“And remember your history, son. Though you may not realize it, Scotland’s history is in your blood.”

“Aye, Mum never lets me forget it.”

“I’ll wager she does not.” He pulled up the handle on his suitcase and looked at his watch. “Well, there’s a taxi waiting.”

Lachlan opened the door. “You need some help?”

“Nay, I’ll take the lift.” He hobbled through, leaning on the cane in one hand and rolling along the suitcase with the other.

“Very well.” Lachlan waved. “Don’t worry about anything here. The cat will be fine.”

“Crumpet.” Walter strode into the hallway and pushed the button for the lift.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Crumpet—it’s the furball’s name.” The doors opened and he stepped inside.

“I suppose that will come in handy—see you in a fortnight?”

The old man regarded him with owlish eyes made enormous by the distortion of his lenses. “Perhaps.”

“You always did talk in riddles.” Lachlan laughed as he watched the metal doors close until Uncle Walter’s careworn, slightly comical face completely disappeared.

With a long sigh, he picked up his duffle and headed back to the guest room. “Hiya, Crumpet,” he almost shouted. “Don’t even think about sleeping on the bed with me. I’m allergic.” Cat dander made his nose itch.

Walter had left a towel on the bed for him and a gift bag with a tag that read “To the champ”. He tossed his duffle against the wall, then stripped off his jeans, pulled on a pair of black karate pants and his favorite grey zip-neck sweatshirt with a picture of man’s evolution across the chest, ending with modern man performing a classic side kick.

He took in a deep breath and the chasm in his chest stretched, making his head swim. He wished the pain had been caused by his concussion. The sounds of the empty flat intensified his misery—the hum of the refrigerator, the tic-tic of the radiator attached to the far wall.

So this is where I’ve landed?

Yeah, Lachlan had lost a match or two, but he’d never completely lost everything—at least that’s how it felt. His knees gave out as he dropped to the bed. He’d lost his townhouse—only five blocks from the dojo he’d started up with his best friend. He’d lost the only woman he’d ever loved. He’d taken his time dating Angela, getting to know her, learning everything about her, living with her, sleeping with her, waking up every morning beside her.

He tried to hold it in, but his gut erupted making a sob strain through his throat. Curling into a ball, he gnashed his teeth, squeezed his fists and clamped every muscle in his body, but the pain in his heart hurt even more.

What had he done wrong? Yes, he’d noticed she’d grown more distant, but figured it was her work. Being a schoolteacher always had its ups and downs for her, especially at the beginning of a school year.

John?

Fuck.

Lachlan had never wanted to beat the shit out of anyone before, but he just might risk going to jail if only to smash his fist into the turd’s face—break the bastard’s knee with a kick—cripple him for life.

Shoving the heels of his hands against his temples, he tried to meditate on something good, something warm, something happy—the sun. Lachlan never used karate for vengeance. He taught his students self-control and defensive moves to avoid attack. He preached the need to use peaceful tactics to diffuse arguments and only resort to a fight when there was no other option.

But he’d make an exception.

After the onslaught of toe-curling anguish, Lachlan rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. If only he could hide in Uncle Walter’s flat for the rest of his life, he might survive. He could