So . . . Miss Rooney played football. That had to be a first. In this profession, he’d met people from all walks of life—D-1 football players, ultra-marathoners, prima ballerinas, heck, even a lumberjack—but a female professional football player was something new. Different. Intriguing. She didn’t look anything like what he’d expect a female professional football player to look like, which was much bigger, burlier, even—dare he say—man-like. That was kind of ignorant wasn’t it? But it was the truth. Stereotypes existed whether one liked to admit to them or not.
Tag spent most of his life trying not to admit the negative things.
Reaching into his front coat pocket, he pulled out his reading glasses and then his phone so he could type “Rooney Cleveland Clash” into the Google search window. The image results showed a woman who was as stunning in pictures as she was in person.
He tapped on the first picture, one of her in full equipment with her helmet wedged against her hip. She wore her chestnut-color hair long and loose over one shoulder, which was exaggerated by pads, while the other shoulder touted an embroidered “C.” Those clear, blue eyes pierced the veil of reality, making him feel like she was staring back at him.
An unexpected rush of adrenaline quickened his heartbeat.
Shaking his head, Tag took another bite of his pizza. Miss Rooney was attractive, but she wasn’t his type. Not even close. The don’t-mess-with-me look on her beautiful face told him she would chew up and spit out anyone who stood in her way. Way too much trouble. He liked his edges clean.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Howard.”
Anastasia Croft, a department administrator, stood in the doorway dressed as flawlessly usual in a pastel, monochromatic suit, with her blonde hair pulled tight into a bun. Clean edges . . . and great legs, too.
“Anastasia.” Tag smiled and dropped his phone into his pocket as he stood. “This is a nice surprise. Could I interest you in a slice of pizza?” He held up what was left of his and pointed to the box. “I owe you a rain check on our lunch the other day.”
Her smile was warm but small, the picture of poise. “You’re sweet, but no. If I let you tempt me with pizza today, I’ll have to forego cake at my nephew’s birthday party. So, you see, caving would make me a terrible aunt.”
“It would also make you human.”
She laughed, the sound brief but perfectly pleasant. He liked her. This was the uncomplicated kind of woman he was looking for, and she’d be a great distraction over the weekend when he was worried about seeing Jordon and Grey on Monday.
“Could I tempt you with drinks on Saturday night?”
“I’m sorry. Saturday is the party, but . . . Friday I have tickets to a little ballet fundraiser. Could I tempt you into accompanying me?”
“I have game coverage,” he said, sincerely disappointed. It was too bad her weekend schedule couldn’t be flipped around.
“That’s terribly sad.” But she didn’t look upset. “Another time.”
“Definitely.”
He’d seek her out again, because polished, professional Anastasia Croft was exactly the kind of woman he imagined bringing home to his polished, professional parents.
As he watched her walk away, Tag succumbed to more thoughts about Jordon and Grey. He could cancel the appointment, but he wouldn’t. Professionally, there was too much at stake. He’d been looking for the perfect, high profile candidate to carry his research into the spotlight, and Grey could be that man. Tag would look at the injured hand, and he would treat it if possible, but he had no intention of acknowledging their genetic connection or opening up his personal life to his brothers.
Tag was a Howard. End of story.
Stuffing the crust into his mouth, he snatched the glasses off his face and returned them along with his phone to his pocket. As he stood for another piece, Dave Ridge stopped him.
“Whoa. How many have you had?”
Tag chuckled. “You wish. The rest of this is mine.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I suppose I can share.”
“Pizza, but not patients, right?” Tag asked, remembering Dave’s joke while they were in the room with Miss Rooney. “I’ll have you know I saw her first.”
Dave stood on the other side of the exam table lined with food and picked up a breadstick. “I don’t think so, chief. I’ve been seeing M. J. Rooney—in a completely clinical sense,” he smiled, “since the season started. That’s long before she fell over the railing and onto your precious baseball field.”
M. J. Maya Jane. The night of her accident she’d told him she hated the long version of her name. He had the sudden urge to know why.
“Is she still here?” Tag asked.
“Nope. She’s asymptomatic, so I gave her the progressive return-to-play plan and sent her on her way. She’s the trainer’s trouble now, and believe me, she’s trouble. Hates a man with ‘doctor’ before his name. Thinks he’s out to get her off the field.” Dave stuck the breadstick between his lips and let it dangle from his mouth like a cigar.
Under different circumstances Tag wouldn’t mind being “out to get” M. J. Rooney. He bit back the completely inappropriate words. “She plays football, huh?”
“Football.” Dave gave his head an emphatic nod, setting the breadstick wagging.
Tag grinned. “Is she any good?”
“Shit.” He ripped the breadstick from his mouth. “Rooney has a rocket for an arm, I’m telling you. You should come to a game. Whatever you’re thinking it will be like, I can guarantee you’d be wrong.”
Tag didn’t mind being proven wrong when he was wrong, and he was curious enough to make him interested in the idea. “When’s their next home game?”
“Saturday,” Dave said, backing toward the door. “Come keep me company on the sidelines. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get to see a shoulder dislocation.”
It wasn’t like Tag had other plans . . . and he wanted plans. Still, sideline coverage was something he could take or leave. All those raging emotions and yelling coaches weren’t appealing.
“We’ll see,” he said, although his mind was ninety-nine percent already in favor of passing on the opportunity. The other one percent wouldn’t mind seeing Miss Rooney in a pair of football pants. His phone vibrated, and holding it at just the right distance from his face he saw it was his office calling.
“Hello.”
“Dr. Howard, it’s Tammy. I wanted you to know we’ve added a patient onto your end-of-day next Monday. Grey Kemmons. His agent said he spoke to you this afternoon.”
Tag knew this was coming, so why did it knock the wind out of him?
He dragged a hand over his face and nodded. “Sounds good. Thanks.”
Seven days until he saw his brother again. How much could one man obsess about one thing in one week? Tag didn’t want to find out.
Stepping out of the exam room, he saw Dave about to walk into the room across the hall. “I’ll go,” Tag said, even though he still wasn’t convinced he wanted to stand on the sidelines, but whether he liked it or not, he’d be coming face-to-face with his past next Monday. Facing another piece of that past by stepping foot on a field again, making it twice in one week, would be good practice—and a chance to see the blue-eyed enigma up close and personal again.
Dave smiled. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”
Maybe something good would come of it.
• • •
Even though M. J. managed two full-contact practices before game day, she was abnormally nervous. What if she hadn’t gotten in enough snaps? On that first on-field day after the concussion, dropping back to pass and scrambling had rattled her brain and hollowed out her stomach, but she’d powered through it, and, more importantly, she hadn’t told the trainer. She wasn’t stupid. If she complained of the slightest thing, nobody was going to let her set foot on the field today.
Fortunately, by the end of the week, she was really and truly symptom free, much to her father’s dismay. In a rare phone call made to specifically talk
about football, he’d begged M. J. to reconsider playing this season. A brain is a terrible thing to waste. Maybe it would’ve been touching had it come from a place of concern for her health, but she knew better.
In her own last-ditch effort to stop her from playing, Felicia had taken her to lunch yesterday. “Honey, women just shouldn’t play football,” she’d said. “We’re not supposed to be that aggressive.” Really? Tell that to Tanya’s family, who’d had flowers delivered to the locker room before the home opener with a card that read: To our beautiful barbarian. Kick some ass.
Must be nice to have support like that.
M. J. slammed her locker shut. Use it, Rooney. All that bottled frustration was good motivation to tear up the field.
“It feels like a record-passing day,” she said to her favorite target, wide receiver Jillian Bell, swatting her ass as she passed.
“I like it,” Jillian yelled.
The exchange charged them up, and the locker room chatter spilled out onto the field, which was good, because the crowd was sparse, and there was nothing worse than taking the field to the sound of crickets chirping. A championship would put more people in the seats, and maybe someday they could move out of this rinky-dink, former high school stadium.
Running across the field to the sideline, she embraced the pressure to make it to the playoffs.
“How you feeling, Rooney?” Coach slapped a large hand atop her right shoulder.
“Like the D. C. defense doesn’t have a chance.”
“Thatta girl.” He patted her arm twice. “But, you might want to come up with something more convincing for Revis. He says he’s keeping a close eye on you.”
M. J. rolled her eyes. As far as trainers went, Kyle Revis was a good guy who knew his stuff. He also happened to be a stickler for regulations.
“Be straight with him,” Coach said. “He takes his job seriously.”
“So do I.”
“Hey, Rooney.”
Speak of the devil. M. J. turned to see Revis flanked by Dr. Ridge and the man with the sexy smile that waltzed into her clinic exam room, Dr. Sexy. He grinned, and she had to look away before she grinned, too.
There was no room for grinning on a pre-game sideline, especially at a potential enemy. They stood in a straight line like a veritable threat of medical power. Three of them! All with the authority to pull her from the game.
“How’s the head?” Revis asked.
“Still attached to my shoulders.” M. J. lifted her helmet and with a tug on the earpieces to widen the base, and slid it on.
“I’m watching you,” he said, creating a “V” with two fingers and pointing them at his eyes. “Dr. Ridge and Dr. Howard will be watching you, too.”
So that was his name.
“Watch away, boys.” She glanced at the other men, careful not to linger too long on Dr. Howard. Even the split second she devoted to him heated her face, making her thankful she had a substantial facemask for cover. “It’d be a shame to miss a moment of my record-breaking game.”
Revis laughed. Maybe the others did, too. M. J. didn’t hang around to find out. She turned and trotted onto the field for warm-ups, determined to silence them all with her performance.
After the coin toss and a twenty-yard kick-off return, M. J. took the field for the first play of the game.
“Postman,” she said to the faces staring her down in the huddle.
Nobody blinked, and moments later, when the ball hit M. J.’s hands and she dropped back to pass, enough electricity rocketed through her to light the whole damn city.
Her release was quick, but not quick enough to spare her from the freight train hit to her left side. CeCe. She smiled as she hit the ground, knowing instinctively that the pass had been good and Jillian was already in the end zone.
When M. J. returned to the sideline, Revis was waiting for her with his doctor cronies close behind. “That was a hard hit,” he said.
“That was a perfect pass,” she countered.
“M. J., look at me.”
Yeah. Yeah. He wanted to see her eyes and have a meaningful conversation that included questions to flush out a concussion. Not today.
She pushed past him and looked at Dr. Howard instead. His eyes were so wide she nearly laughed. Was he shocked by the way she was treating Revis, or was he impressed by the touchdown pass? Either way, the guy needed to get out more.
By halftime, the Clash was up 35-10, and M. J.’s arm was on fire—the good way. Better yet, Revis had stopped following her around the sidelines every time she wasn’t in play.
Then, with nine minutes left in the fourth quarter and M. J. just twenty passing yards away from breaking her personal best, she threw a thirty-yard bomb to Janie Prior. The final score: 56-17. Clash for the win.
Jacked up on adrenaline, M. J. returned to the buzzing locker room where she showered and dressed for her shift at the bar. Normally she didn’t work on game day, but the concussion set her back a few shifts, and she needed the paycheck.
“Now that’s what I call an ass-kicking,” Tanya said, taking the bouquet of roses off the top shelf of her locker. “You done good, girl. Despite your marshmallow head.”
M. J. gave her a loving punch in the upper arm. “My head is fine.”
“Debatable, but your arm is beastly.” Tanya leaned in for a hug. “Maybe we’ll stop by the bar after dinner.”
M. J. nodded. “That would be nice.” Spending time with Tanya’s sports-obsessed family was always a boost to her ego.
They walked out together, despite the little pang of jealousy M. J. always got when she had to face the lack of support from her own family. Sure enough, Tanya’s crew of eight, including her father, mother, sisters, brothers, and nephews, waited outside the field house door. All around M. J., Clash players met up with loving family and friends. With a roll of her shoulders and a lift of her chin, she walked through the crowd amid congratulations for a game well played. Those accolades felt good, so she focused on them.
Smiling back, M. J. said “thank you” every few steps, until she reached the outer edge of the crowd and came face to face with Dr. Howard. Maybe he was waiting for Dr. Ridge to finish up in the training room. But the flutter in her chest made her wonder.
“Miss Rooney,” he said, inclining his head in an old-fashioned way that broadened her smile.
“Dr. Howard,” she replied. Before the game, she refused herself permission to really look at him, but after a win like that she was entitled to a little perusal.
Letting her bag slide off her shoulder to the ground, she took him in. His long-ish hair looked like he’d pulled his hands through it a time or two. His green golf shirt brought out the gold in his eyes, and the fit was a bit more snug than what she was used to on a man—not that she was complaining. Underneath that shirt lurked a defined chest and flat abs. He was fit, but in a practical sort of way, one that said he went for quality workouts rather than lunkhead quantity. She saw way too much of the latter at the gym.
“That was an impressive passing display,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
“Recess.”
He chuckled. The sound played in the air between them, giving each breath an effervescent quality.
“What? It’s true. I got hit with a football in the side of the head, and when I threw it back, it was a perfect spiral. They wouldn’t leave me alone after that. I had to play.”
His eyes smiled, while his lips twisted into something so sexy her knees gave the slightest buckle.
“So now what?” he asked.
“We beat Baltimore next week—in Baltimore, which is no easy feat. They’re hard to read.”
His smile blazed. “Do you ever think about anything other than football?”
It definitely wouldn’t be appropriate to tell him she was now wondering what he looked like naked.
“I meant, what are
you off to do now?”
Was he asking her out? M. J.’s mouth opened and closed, before she could shake off the stupor. “I . . . have to work.”
“Isn’t this your work?”
“My life’s work, yes, but it hardly pays all the bills. Now see, if I were a man, I’d be worth millions. I hate that.”
“Where do you work?”
If he weren’t so pretty, she’d be annoyed by all these questions. “I’m a bartender at Mama Mary’s.”
He nodded like he didn’t have a clue where that was, which was probably true considering his social stature. Then again, maybe he was unimpressed by her lack of respectable profession. Bartending was a crime as far as people like her father were concerned. And Dr. Howard, as sexy as he was, looked cut from the same sort of privileged cloth.
None of it mattered. He might be hot, but she wasn’t looking for the slightest in-season distraction. She needed all her attention on the field if she wanted to break records and win championships.
“I gotta get going,” she said, returning her bag to her shoulder.
“Of course. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe.” Although, the odds might be better than “maybe” considering how many times she’d bumped into him since she fell.
“Can I call you, M. J.?”
“You can call me anything but Maya Jane.”
His smile unglued her. “I meant can I call you on the phone sometime, maybe take you out to dinner?”
“Oh.” It was hard to feel silly for the misunderstanding when he was looking at her like she was water for a parched man. He was so damn tempting. “I’m flattered. I am. It’s just that I don’t date during the season.”
“And you hate doctors.”
Well, there was that, too. Wait. How did he know that? Had she said that on the field after she fell? She wished she could remember. She hated being at a disadvantage.
“I avoid doctors,” she corrected. “They like to keep me out of the game.”
He stepped closer. “Maybe you’ve been spending too much time with the wrong doctors.”
She didn’t even know what to say to that. “Dr. Howard, I . . . ”
“Tag. Call me Tag. Then maybe you won’t be reminded I’m a doctor.”
Hearts Are Wild Page 44