Hearts Are Wild

by Synithia Williams

  “Rooney, you coming?” one of her teammates yelled.

  A few other people, strangers, milled around. This did not seem like an appropriate place to be having a heavy conversation.

  M. J. held up a finger over her head, signaling to her teammates that she’d be there in a minute, and then she stepped closer to Tag.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You should go. I shouldn’t be bothering you. Really, I just wanted to see you play. It’s a nice diversion.” He smiled again, but he still managed to look so damn sad.

  “Let’s go, Rooney.”

  “I’ll drive myself,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Go,” he said.

  How could she leave him like this?

  “Come with us,” she said, wondering why in the hell she actually said it.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  She wasn’t sure that even mattered, now that she’d offered. It wasn’t like she could add to his torment by taking the invitation back. Besides, it didn’t feel right for her to be so happy while he was so sad.

  “We can talk in the car on our way,” she said. “And then you can loosen up a little bit, because you look like you need it. Believe me, there will be no shortage of fun with this crew following a win like that.”

  She just hoped she could remain in control and impartial enough to not let things go too far again.

  Chapter Ten

  Tag drank a draught while he watched M. J. bend over a pool table. He couldn’t think of a better way to spend an evening.

  She knew about Grey’s hand, now, and Jordon’s son, too. After the car ride here, she knew everything . . . except that knowing those things made her indispensable to Tag. He couldn’t imagine not having her to talk to. She balanced out the extremes.

  Again he wanted more from her, much more than her last text allowed, which was nothing until her season ended. But she’d asked him to be here, and it gave him hope.

  “Doc, you want next game?” Tanya was holding the butt end of a cue stick toward him.

  Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the way M. J. smiled at him with her hip perched against the table. Whatever the reason, a man who avoided competitive games like the swine flu, grabbed hold of the stick and accepted the challenge.

  “Do you play?” M. J. asked, glancing at him through a flutter of thick lashes as she packed balls into the triangle.

  “Never,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, you poor, poor, man.”

  “I take it you play a lot.”

  She moved around the end of the table. “Nah, I’m just generally good at everything.”

  She sunk four balls on the initial break.

  Tag only had one chance to shoot. He failed miserably, sending the ball on a crooked path into the padded side. After that, he was relegated to watching M. J.

  There were worse things to do.

  He bore no hard feelings over the decisive loss, especially when she sunk the final ball and sauntered toward him to retrieve his cue. Their hands brushed as the stick transferred between them.

  “Impressive win,” he said, feeling the desire build inside of him.

  She nodded, and her soft smile erased. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should’ve let you win, considering the week you’ve had.” Her expression and words were serious, but the whole idea that she was considering placating him with a thrown pool game was enough to make him laugh.

  She must’ve caught on to the absurdity, because she laughed, too. The sound brought his desire to the overflow point, and the sparkle in her eyes threatened to ignite him.

  If she was in the mood to soothe him, he had a better idea.

  “I want you to come home with me.” He slipped a hand to her waist and pulled her closer.

  Surprisingly, there was no resistance. Their thighs met before her lips touched his, but then she pulled back, a few lines of concern on her beautiful face. “I don’t know about that.”

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was much better than no.

  An hour later, Tag was buying rounds for most of the team. A few, like M. J. and Tanya, refused to drink a drop of alcohol during the season, but they joined in by chanting and teasing. A couple times, M. J.’s hand smoothed across his back as he sat on the end stool and she stood behind him. It always seemed to coincide with her leaning forward to refill her water glass, but it still felt good to be close to her. It felt good to be close to all of them. Loud, lively, a few of them vulgar, such a change from the quiet, calculation he’d orchestrated for his life.

  These days, the only thing quiet calculation gave him was extra time to contemplate his next step—if any—as far as Jordon and Grey were concerned.

  “I bet Doc knows what this scar is. You know?” one of the players asked as she hiked up the sleeve of her blouse and shoved her elbow toward him.

  A long white line of thick, traumatized skin graced the inside of her elbow. Mesmerized, Tag leaned closer and lifted his hand. “May I,” he asked before touching her and bringing the arm closer for inspection. “Tommy John surgery.”

  “Bingo. When I was fourteen. I played a lot of softball.”

  “How about this one?” someone else asked.

  The next ten minutes were a veritable flash of scarred flesh from the women around the bar. Two knee surgeries, an Achilles repair, and a labral tear. He was rather enjoying himself, always eager to talk medicine, and professional athletes—men or women—were all the same, eager to talk injuries.

  “I’ve got you all beat,” M. J. said, working her way between his legs. His gut cramped as she lifted the hem of her shirt until he could see the lace of her bra. “Guess how I got this?”

  There were some moans of concession in the distance, but it was hard to know who they were coming from with his heartbeat echoing in his head.

  An inch-wide scar marred the taunt skin just below the curve of her breast. He ran a finger over it, feeling her muscles contract. “Surgical tube site?” he questioned. He honestly wasn’t sure. The heat from her body had him struggling to speak, let alone think.

  “Wrong,” she whispered. “Speared with a broken hockey stick.”

  “Damn.” He flattened his palm against her stomach and slid it to her waist, brushing his thumb over the injury site. “How long ago?”

  “Senior year of high school.” She looked down at the spot where his hand remained. “I thought about getting a tattoo to cover it up, but honestly, I kind of like it now. It’s a good conversation starter.”

  She was the strangest, most amazing woman he’d ever met.

  Somewhere along the line, everyone else had redistributed their attention, leaving them alone at the end of the bar. “Come home with me,” Tag said again.

  She shook her head, but one more brush of his thumb over her abdomen, and she smiled. “Okay.”

  • • •

  How bad would it be to sleep with him again after one abysmal game she attributed indirectly to the night she spent with him? She’d told him twice she couldn’t see him during the season, and here she was again—seeing him. How weak was that? Weak. But apparently she was also now too weak to care, because she was back in his house, and she knew she would be the minute she’d seen her teammates tempting him with some warped version of sports-medicine porn. She was too competitive for her own good.

  But it was more than that. What started out as genuine concern for the disheveled man standing outside the locker room turned into something less complicated during the course of the evening. It seemed like such a shame to not explore this resilient thing between them.

  “Sorry,” he said, as he tossed his cell phone on the coffee table and settled beside her on the couch. “There’s no true on-call in sports medicine, but there’s always somebody getting hurt and wanting answers.”

  M. J. wanted answers, too, like what would happen next, and was it possible for her to compartmentalize her life enough to have both a winning football season and a successful relationship? She didn’t get a chance to as
k the question, because his phone rang again.

  They simultaneously glanced at the vibrating object, and then made eye contact.

  Jordon Kemmons flashed on the screen.

  Tag didn’t make a move toward the phone.

  “Are you going to answer it?” M. J. asked.

  He shook his head.

  M. J. reached up and circled her fingers in the tight cords of his neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He looked at her with darkened eyes. “I don’t want to talk about anything.” His hand returned to her leg, sliding up her thigh as his body twisted toward her.

  She met his mouth halfway, letting her lips say what her brain couldn’t seem to piece together moments ago. She wanted to make him feel better. If only for the time being, she wanted to help him forget.

  Lifting the shirt over his back as their mouths intertwined, M. J. maneuvered until she straddled him. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the T-shirt to the floor and smoothed her hands over his sculpted chest. He returned the favor, ridding her of her blouse, her bra, touching her with wide-eyed reverence.

  Too much energy trapped in her chest cavity, pushing against her lungs, making her breaths short and wheezy.

  “When I wake up tomorrow morning, I want you to be there,” he said.

  At the moment, she wanted to be there, too. She wanted to manage both a man and a football career. It was something she’d never wanted before, because there’d never been anyone worth the risk.

  This man was a game changer. And after today’s game, she believed in her capabilities far too much to not give this a second chance.

  • • •

  Tag wasn’t alone when he woke. As he watched M. J. sleeping, facing him, hand curled beneath her chin, a sliver of brown hair fluttered in the soft exhales from her nose. How was it possible for one person to contain so many different parts? The brash and aggression of an athlete, the wit and caring of a woman, and the innocence of a child in her sleep. All parts combined to create someone fascinating, someone who proved he’d been striving for one-dimensional far too long.

  He stayed there, admiring her in the faint traces of morning sun, wondering how it was even possible a woman like M. J. wanted anything to do with him. Tag winced, because he recognized the hang-up. Underneath all the success, Francis Kemmons’s discarded son never thought he was good enough for anyone, and it was getting old. Finally.

  His phone buzzed, and M. J. stirred. Slipping out of bed, he pulled on his boxers and grabbed the phone off the clock where it had been charging. Not until he was in the hallway did he glance at the screen. Grey.

  Considering Tag had ignored Jordon’s call last night, maybe he should answer Grey’s call this morning. Maybe the hand wound had opened again.

  “Hello,” Tag said as he walked downstairs.

  “Hey.” The ensuing silence was more confusing than unnerving.

  “How’s the hand?”

  “Oh, fine. Great, actually.”

  “Good.” So why was he calling? Was he calling to chat? Tag leaned against the kitchen counter, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Listen, this is lame. I’m trying not to make it lame, but it’s not easy, and well . . . I wanted to call and ask you something. Jordon and his family are here until tomorrow evening. I thought this could be our only shot at, you know, getting all of us together. Would you come for a visit?”

  Pittsburgh was a couple hours from Cleveland, an easy day trip, but not so easy when a questionable family reunion was on the other end.

  Reasons why Tag couldn’t—shouldn’t—started lining up in his head until he remembered what he’d told himself before he’d climbed out of bed: the familial hang-ups were getting old. It was time to move on. Was this the way to once and for all put the demons to rest?

  “Nel, my fiancée, is a great cook, so we promise to feed you well, and Braydon is guaranteed to make you laugh. Between him and my dogs, I don’t know who gets into more trouble.” Grey quieted. “Am I trying too hard?”

  Apparently Tag wasn’t the only self-conscious Kemmons brother. “No,” he said, feeling his resistance melt to a more comfortable level. He sat in the nearest chair. “I don’t think I’ve been trying hard enough.”

  The exhale on the other end of the phone sounded a lot like relief. “So you’ll come?”

  “He’ll come?” a faint, female voice repeated on Grey’s end of the line.

  Grey shushed whoever it was.

  This was a group effort? The thought prompted an awkward smile. “I’ll come.” But he wasn’t at all certain he’d have the guts to actually get there.

  Tag was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at unopened emails, when M. J. woke. She crawled toward him and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.

  “I’m still here,” she whispered.

  Warmth flooded him, temporarily overriding his anxiousness about the day’s plans. He kissed her forehead. “You have no idea how thankful I am for that.”

  “You could show me,” she said, smoothing her hands beneath his shirt and over his stomach.

  “Oh, I will, but I need to ask you something first.”

  She stilled. “What?”

  “Will you drive to Pittsburgh with me today to hang out with my brothers?”

  He knew Sunday was her only day off from practice and bartending. He was asking a lot for her to spend it with him. “I really don’t want to go alone, and you’re the only person who knows this whole sordid story.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to the mattress. “I’d be honored to.”

  Four hours later, they were showered, dressed, and he was surprisingly calm as he followed the last directive from his GPS.

  M. J. reached out and covered his hand, resting on the gear shift. When he glanced at her, she smiled, a quiet show of support, an instant accelerant for his mood. He smiled back, flipping his hand so he could hold hers. He had to believe her being here made all the difference. He couldn’t imagine making this trip alone.

  “How are you going to introduce me?” she asked.

  His smile widened. “M. J. Rooney and her rocket for an arm.”

  She laughed. “That’s not bad.”

  The air stilled, and seriousness settled over them. “How do you want me to introduce you?”

  They were still holding hands, and he liked the warmth and solidarity in the union. It’d been a long time since he felt like a part of something intimate like this.

  “You can use whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  But neither one of them looked particularly comfortable. M. J. crossed and uncrossed her legs in the narrow space beneath the dashboard, and Tag’s palms began to sweat. He gripped the wheel with both hands and considered introducing her as his friend, but she was more than that, and he wanted more than that.

  “Can we say we’re dating yet?” Thank God he was driving, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to see her reaction.

  “I’d say that’s the least of what we’re doing.”

  He looked then, probably portraying more shock than he wanted to. He felt like he was seventeen again. “So what are you saying?”

  “We’re dating.” She laughed. “And that should help me get you naked more often.”

  “Trust me. You don’t need help with that.”

  They held hands as they walked up to Grey’s front door. It helped stabilize Tag’s churning stomach. But the minute M. J. pressed the doorbell, reality hit like a rug pulled out from beneath his feet.

  This wasn’t some leisurely Sunday drive with the fascinating woman he was dating. This was the first step in healing the hurt from his past. Tag wasn’t sure he’d given that part enough thought.

  But it was too late.

  The door swung open, revealing Grey. “Man, I’m so damn glad you came.”

  What followed was an awkward hug-like greeting, as Grey pulled him into the foyer. “Is this your girl?” he asked, smiling at M. J.

  T
ag nodded. “This is M. J. Rooney.”

  M. J. smiled back and shook Grey’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I put the dogs in the den,” said a petite blonde, striding toward them. “Braydon is none-to-happy, but I figured our guests could use some downtime after the drive. Nel Parker,” she said, reaching a hand toward Tag. “You’ve got Grey’s eyes. It’s so nice to finally meet you. Thank you for everything you’ve done to get him back on the field.”

  “I’m not there yet, babe.”

  Tag glanced at his brother who was gripping the woman by the shoulders, rubbing affectionately. The hand looked good. As much as Tag wanted to take solace in medical concerns, he’d wait to take a closer look at the hand until the introductions were complete. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Tag said.

  “This is Tag’s girl, M. J.,” Grey said.

  It sounded surreal, but it felt right, too.

  After the women exchanged handshakes, Nel waved them deeper into the room. “Maggie is feeding Braydon. Jordon is on a call. Enjoy the calm before the storm.” She shared a look and a laugh with Grey. “Can I get you something to drink? Beer, wine, margarita? We have some left from last night.”

  “Beer sounds good,” Tag said. It was something to quench his thirst and eradicate the small buzz of nerves. So far, things had been easy, maybe too easy. Certainly the pleasantries couldn’t last. Sooner or later, someone was bound to say something that dredged up old memories, halting this effortless forward progress.

  “I’ll have water,” M. J. said.

  “Are you sure?” Nel asked.

  “No alcohol in season.” Tag reached for M. J.’s hand on a burst of protective pride. “M. J. plays quarterback for the Cleveland Clash.”

  “You’ll fit right in.” The booming voice preceded the imposing man. Jordon emerged from the shadowed hall and extended a hand to M. J. “Sports are the Kemmons family religion.”

  Tag watched the greeting, knowing Jordon hadn’t meant any slight by the words. He felt it, too, when Jordon offered him a hearty welcome. But a little nugget of doubt and separation had been planted with that innocent statement. Sports are the Kemmons family religion.