Hearts Are Wild

by Synithia Williams

  She propped elbows on the wooden ledge and watched him drink. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s your job, and I’m a big boy. I know how to wait patiently.”

  She moved closer, until her fingertips traced the bony bump of his wrist, flaring the need already building inside him.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I’m sorry for being a hypocrite that night at your place. I called you out for wanting to pretend everything was okay, and then I realized I was doing the same thing with my dad. It was a rude awakening, and you deserve to know that.”

  He watched her pull her bottom lip between her teeth as her gaze wandered.

  “What happened with your dad?”

  She exhaled long and loud. He would’ve felt guilty about pushing her to talk if she hadn’t moved on to playing with his hand, tracing his fingers, up one side and down the other, lingering in the webbing before traveling up again.

  Tag’s breath was slow and low to prevent a shudder.

  “He came to the game,” she said. “And then, he took me to dinner. But in the end he made it abundantly clear he didn’t enthusiastically support my career choices, so I gave him an ultimatum, and then I walked out.”

  Tag didn’t get that guy. How in the world could the man who was half the creative team of someone as awesome as M. J. not brag about her from the rooftops?

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She shrugged. “Me, too, but I’m done wasting energy on it. I have better things to do.” She smiled as she squeezed his hand, but she was summoned by a customer a moment later.

  Tag sat there reeling, wondering what her words meant for him, for them. Nothing she said changed the fact she was still in the middle of a critical football season. Would she want to pick up where they left off in spite of that?

  By the time she came around again, Tag had decided it was worth a shot to be honest with her and find out exactly what happened next.

  “I should’ve never let you leave that night, not like that,” he said. “I should’ve told you everything about the interview, even before I talked to the interviewer. Maybe then I wouldn’t have made such an ass out of myself.”

  She looked speculative for a moment, and he expected meaningful, sentimental words to come out of her mouth. “You have a really nice ass,” she said, instead, and then spun around to fill another drink.

  Tag was smiling, an expression that lifted more than the corners of his mouth. In the midst of a gritty bar on the “wrong side of town,” there were no gaping holes inside of him begging to be filled. Just a quiet sort of peace he didn’t want to live without. When he was with M. J., he was complete.

  Again, he watched her work, pouring draughts, making change, and wiping the counter. Mundane tasks. But it didn’t matter what she was doing, he could watch her do it all day, every day.

  Maybe he loved her.

  Tag swayed with the thought until his elbows hit the bar. He’d never been in love before. Love was raw, messy, dependent, and the absolute last thing a guy who hated being honest with himself wanted.

  But he wasn’t that guy anymore, was he?

  “How are Jordon and Grey?” M. J. asked, when she came around again.

  “Good. I apologized for the interview, and I decided to back up my words with action.”

  She grinned. “I like action.”

  “Who do you think I learned that from?” This time, Tag reached for her, grabbing onto both of her hands. “I’m going to do another interview, but this time with Jordon and Grey. For Sports Illustrated.” Her eyes widened as she squeezed his hands. “They’re going to put us on the cover.”

  “Shut. Up.” She swatted his hands away, laughing the whole time. “That is so cool.”

  Tag nodded, again feeling stuffed with joy. He wished he could bottle it, and save it for the days and weeks following the magazine’s release, when everybody would want to talk about his past all over again.

  He wanted to believe he’d handle things differently this time, but how could he be sure?

  The rest of the evening unfolded in much the same way—stolen moments of conversation interrupted by drink requests. Somehow, Tag got away with only two drinks of his own, probably because he spent more time watching M. J. than he did drinking and staring at the overhead TV.

  When her shift was over, she left him briefly to sign out and grab her sweatshirt. He still didn’t know exactly where he stood with her, but he knew where he wanted to stand. She’d become an enormous part of his happiness, and he hoped to do the same for her—even if that meant keeping things friendly but contained so she could get through the rest of the football season without distraction.

  He never wanted to hurt her again.

  M. J. met him at the front door, and Tag fully expected her to bid him goodnight. She’d mentioned sparring with Tanya at the gym. Instead, after eyeing him up in a way that had his temperature rising, she said, “If you don’t have anywhere else to be, you’re welcome to come to the gym with me.”

  If he’d had somewhere else to be, he would’ve cancelled. Holding the door open for her, he smiled. “I’d like that. Maybe I’ll get to see Pop and Dante.” He’d also get to walk a block with her in those boots.

  That was the biggest bonus of all.

  Outside on the street with the evening sun highlighting everything in a dull red, Tag settled into easy steps beside her. In sync. Again, he thought about love.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking maybe we could try again.” She said, glancing at him, then quickly looking away.

  “What about football?”

  “What about it?” Her lips quirked. “It’s a part of me, and you’re the only man I’ve ever met who accepts that without question. I like coming out of that locker room and seeing you. So I think we should give it another try . . . if you want to.”

  This time when she looked at him, he was ready with a smile that held her gaze. “I want to.”

  She nodded. “Good. Because I figured since we’re both working through family issues why not work on them together? Teamwork, you know?” She grinned. “I like being part of a team as long as I can pretty much run it.” She lowered her shoulder and bumped him.

  He caught her and didn’t let go, winding his arm around her waist and holding her there, feeling her hip move in alignment with his, hearing the soles of her boots meet the pavement when his shoes did. Perfect synchronicity. Again, he thought about loving her, and this time, he knew without a shadow of a doubt he did.

  She liked being part of a team, which boded well for them as couple—if he didn’t screw things up again by holding things in. With one exception. It didn’t feel wise to tell her he loved her, yet. He needed to sit with it, and then sit on it. At least till the season was over. She didn’t need to know just how serious he was about her, about them, not with playoffs on the horizon. Agreeing to give this another shot was enough . . . for now.

  Tag hugged her tighter, until she dropped her head to his shoulder and he rubbed his nose against her silky hair. He loved her, and keeping that information to himself wasn’t going to be easy. He only hoped if he cracked—when he cracked—he didn’t ruin everything.

  • • •

  With two home games in a row, it already felt like the Clash had home-field advantage. That didn’t mean M. J. wasn’t nervous, especially when Tanya informed her that the swelling crowd included not only Tag, but her parents.

  Her gut churned. Her pulse raced. And every one of her senses twitched on high alert. She hadn’t spoken to her father since she walked out of their indigestion-plagued dinner, but by his appearance at the game—with Felicia, no less—M. J. couldn’t help but assume he was willing to make the attempt she’d asked of him.

  The jackrabbit tendency stuck with M. J. throughout the first quarter, making her passes hasty and woefully inaccurate. Fortunately, Toledo’s offense hadn’t found their rhythm yet, either.

  “Settle down,” Tanya said in the huddle, tapp
ing the forehead of her helmet against M. J.’s. “You got this.”

  “I got this,” M. J. repeated.

  In the end, she barely did, but a win was a win, like Coach had said. And lo and behold, it was sinking in. This was her lowest-yardage game of the season without a passing touchdown to her credit. The fact that she’d run into the end zone for the win soothed the sting a little bit.

  Once she was showered and changed, she waded through back slaps and “good games” to reach the locker room exit, knowing this time Tag would be waiting, wondering if her parents would be waiting, too. Suddenly, there wasn’t any thought in the world that could sooth M. J.’s anxiety.

  When she pushed outside, the three of them stood together like old friends.

  “Great game,” Tag said, taking her hand and kissing her on the cheek, the warmth of the action momentarily blocking her fear. “I met your parents.”

  And it was back, picking up the hair on her neck. Still, M. J. smiled. “Cool. My own personal cheering section.” Hadn’t she always wanted that?

  This one included a woman in blush linen pants and a silky tank top, her hair in a sleek bun, along with two men clad in golf course attire. M. J. didn’t want to see a single similarity between her father and Tag, but it was there, and she wondered what would happen if she looked closer. Would she find more?

  M. J. looked away. “Good game,” she called to Jillian.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were dating a doctor?” Felicia asked.

  It was ridiculous and annoying to think Tag’s profession had come up in a matter of minutes. The question added to the already-tense thoughts in M. J.’s overtaxed brain. Dad and Tag had more in common than taste in golf shirts. They had high-powered, professional careers and education up the wazoo—things her father wished she had.

  M. J. shrugged. “His profession’s not important.” At least not to her.

  “Good game,” Dad said with considerably less enthusiasm than Tag had said it with, but he said it—twice in one season—and it helped settle M. J.’s stomach.

  “Thanks.” The locker room door opened, and she stepped out of the way.

  Felicia wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “Sweat,” M. J. said, having heard the complaint before.

  “The smell of victory,” Tag said, squeezing her hand.

  And just like that the similarities she’d been worrying about a few minutes ago paled in comparison to the one glaring difference. Tag supported her—always.

  “Could we tempt you two with a dinner invitation?” Dad asked.

  He really seemed to be trying to meet her demand. How could she turn him down without giving him a fair chance?

  “What do you say?” she asked Tag with a bit of hesitation in her voice. She’d be perfectly happy if he had other plans. Her family had a way of bringing out the worst in her, and she didn’t want Tag playing witness to that.

  “I’d love to,” he said with a smile.

  Dad nodded. “Then, it’s settled.”

  Or it would be. There was a lot riding on this meal.

  • • •

  Tag sat at an extended dining table in the lavishly decorated Rooney house. The paisley wallpaper hurt his eyes almost as much as the blinding light from the garish chandelier. He glanced at M. J. every chance he got for a reprieve.

  She was busy frowning at her plate, picking at the salmon Felicia had served. Heck, after the way she’d fought to grind out a win, he’d have expected her to inhale whatever was on her plate. Then Tag remembered that M. J. hated fish. He was surprised her parents weren’t aware of that.

  “Dr. Howard, you’ll have to come to the ballet gala this year. Did Maya Jane tell you I’m chairwoman?” Mrs. Rooney stared expectantly at Tag.

  Tag cringed at her formal address. He was proud of his title and success, but in these surroundings, it felt pretentious. “Tag,” he said. “Please, call me Tag. And congratulations.”

  “Thank you. Even though I gave up dancing years ago, ballet is still a passion of mine. I tried to pass along the love to Maya Jane, but she . . . well, she didn’t give it a fair chance.”

  “I agreed to one year of lessons, because I read that Lynn Swann took ballet to be a better football player.” M. J. spoke directly to Tag.

  Mrs. Rooney rolled her eyes. “She had a natural talent. Don’t you think she should’ve stayed with it?”

  Tag was trapped in the middle. He looked at Judge Rooney, thinking now would be a good time for the man to level some judicial balance.

  “At least it taught her to stand up straighter,” the man said. “Remember how she used to slouch?”

  “Oh, heavens, yes,” Mrs. Rooney said with a laugh.

  “Because I was taller than everyone else,” M. J. snapped.

  He wanted to get up and go, and take her with him.

  “Nonsense, you have the most beautiful, long legs. What I wouldn’t give to be built like you!” Mrs. Rooney exclaimed. “You’re breathtaking, but you won’t even wear a dress to show off what you’ve got. It’s such a shame nobody gets to see those legs.”

  It was a compliment with a bite. If it hurt Tag to hear it, he could only imagine what it did to M. J. This was the most stressful dinner he’d ever had, and that put dinner with his brothers in perspective. He would break bread with Jordon and Grey any day, and he would enjoy every bite from now on.

  “I get to see her legs,” Tag blurted. “And I’m fine with being the only one who gets to see them.”

  Mrs. Rooney made a weird sort of gurgle in her throat, while M. J. chuckled.

  Judge Rooney cleared his throat. “Do you enjoy your work with the baseball team?” He enunciated every word of the change of subject with the command that came from professional success and impressive education. He set his shiny fork and knife on either side of his snow-white plate and dabbed his lips with an equally pristine cloth napkin before smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his designer golf shirt.

  Perfection. There was a time Tag would’ve admired the restraint, strived for it even. Now, it seemed uptight and uncomfortable.

  Tag nodded. “Yes, I do enjoy my work. I didn’t expect to end up in sports medicine, but a rotation proved I had a knack for the musculoskeletal system. From there on, I set out to find a place in baseball.” The words made him smile, because he’d done it. Like his mother said, he’d proved Francis Kemmons wrong.

  “Admirable.”

  “It must be so exciting to work with professional athletes,” Mrs. Rooney said.

  If exciting was diagnosing rashes and passing out allergy medicine, because that unfortunately was the norm, which was exactly why working with Grey had mattered so much in the first place. It was also why Tag had talked to Pop the other night about opening a training room in the gym where he could treat more kids like Dante. A change of pace. One that did much more than pad Tag’s resume and line his pocketbook.

  “It’s very satisfying,” Tag said, glancing at M. J. who was uncharacteristically quiet. He wanted to draw her into this conversation. “I have great respect for elite athletes. I guess you could say it was drilled into me at an early age.” Yeah, that probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say, because it caused a burning in his throat, and he reached for his water glass to hide his discomfort.

  Judge Rooney nodded, and Mrs. Rooney offered a breathy, “Me, too. Most people don’t look at ballet as a sport, but in my heyday, my endurance and muscle tone was second to none.”

  Tag agreed. “I see a good number of dancers in my practice. Their bodies take a beating.”

  “It’s brutal.”

  “When it comes to sports, anything worth achieving is, especially at the professional level. It takes a level of commitment many of us don’t have the guts to make, which is why I have great pride in and respect for M. J.”

  She looked up then, first at Tag, and then at her parents. She said nothing, but the lift of her chin conveyed some sort of challenge.

  Tag lo
oked at her parents, too. They sat stone-faced. “I’m sure you share my sentiments.”

  “I do,” Judge Rooney finally said. He had the most miserable, condescending delivery. If Tag didn’t understand English, he’d have sworn the man said something unpleasant just from the tone of his voice.

  M. J. tipped her head, seemingly focusing on her stepmother.

  “Doctor Howard . . . ” Mrs. Rooney started.

  It probably wasn’t worth his breath to ask that she call him Tag again. After all, M. J. hated her given name, and, yet, they refused to respect her wish to be called M. J.

  “We love our Maya Jane,” she continued. “We just wish she would recognize the fact that age and gender do come into play with things like this, and there does come a time when one should grow up, give up those tomboy ways, and move on to the respectable, responsible things in life. I’m sure a traditional man like you can understand.” She had this way of lifting her nose in superiority, and then batting her lashes to smooth over the snobbery.

  M.J.’s fork clanged against her plate, and a twisted smile curved her lips. “I should’ve known nothing could ever really be different. You couldn’t accept me unless you succeeded in changing me.”

  “Maya Jane, don’t be so dramatic,” Mrs. Rooney said, sighing with exasperation. “I was just giving Dr. Howard some background. You’ve asked us to make an attempt, and we’re making one. You have to give us some time to adjust.”

  M. J. snorted an exhale. “Fine. You know what? Take as much time as you want, but I’m done.”

  “Done?” her father repeated, and Tag thought he actually saw some emotion—perhaps even a bit of fear—flash on the man’s face. “And what exactly do you mean by—”

  “For years. I’ve been saying that I’m okay with who I am. And I am, but you’re not. And there was always that small part of me that wanted your approval. All the texts practically begging you to come to see my games. That’s done. From now on, if you want to see me, you’re going to have to make one-hundred percent of the effort. If you can’t accept me like this, then that’s your problem. I’m done trying to make you love me just the way I am.”