Hearts Are Wild

by Synithia Williams

  M. J. shook her head. He’d been giving her plenty of space, letting her control things, including conversation. He said he understood the mind of an athlete, and she’d thanked him with a wild night in bed. Now she was sad she’d missed an early glimpse of this. This was epic.

  “I can’t wait to read the article,” she said. He’d told her enough about the experience for her to know it went well—directly opposite from the radio interview. “I’ll ask him to sign this, but don’t you want to wait for the actual issue?”

  “Oh, believe me, I will. I’m going to sell that one.” She leaned into M. J. with a laugh. “Actually, I’m going to give this one to Dad, so he can hang it in his office.”

  M. J. nodded, feeling the tingle of tears behind her eyes. Tag had been working with Pop to establish a sports medicine clinic inside the gym. To see him take a genuine interest in the people and places she loved only solidified her belief they were meant to be together.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you alone so you can prepare.” Tanya wiggled her fingers in the air all goofball-mystical as she stood.

  M. J. smiled and settled against the window again, glancing at the printout on her lap. She should put it away, go back to daydreaming about X’s and O’s of the football variety—not the other kind. But, man, did she like life with a healthy dose of both.

  Looking at the picture again, she permitted herself a small sigh of approval before she stuffed her earphone buds back in place. She’d give it until the Ohio-Pennsylvania border before she rolled it up and put it away.

  The next day was game day. Tag had called during breakfast to say he was headed for Pittsburgh. He ended the call with a “good luck” and an “I love you.” In all the games she’d played, she couldn’t remember a smaller collection of words having such a spirit-boosting effect. She was pretty sure she could walk on water by the time the team bus reached the field.

  Too bad the playing field was made of hot, hard turf. M. J. hurt after being driven into it by any number of Mack trucks—over and over again. Halfway through the first quarter, she pleaded with her O-line in the huddle, “I can’t take much more of this.”

  Third and eighteen on the heels of false start and holding calls, M. J. settled under center and dropped back for a post route pass. On her sixth step, one before her release, something hard and relentless drove into her left flank followed by a helmet-to-helmet blow that rattled her brain and rang in her ears. She crumpled to the turf, taking the brunt of the fall on her right shoulder.

  Fuck. Everything burned.

  M. J. opened her eyes when she heard Dr. Ridge say her name. Focus. If she couldn’t answer his questions coherently, she’d be pulled.

  “What hurts?”

  “Shoulder,” she said, even though it was a drop in the pain bucket compared to the searing in her jaw and neck. The closer any of her aches got to the head, the more likely they’d be to suspect a concussion. Maybe they already did. She had no idea if she passed out after that hit.

  They poked and prodded her shoulder, helping her into a sitting position, removing her helmet. She fought the urge to close her eyes and curl up on the ground.

  “We’re going to observe her for a series or two,” Dr. Ridge said.

  M. J. didn’t like any downtime in a game this big, but she knew the rules and regulations couldn’t be argued with. Her best bet was to cling to normalcy on the sidelines and insist they put her back in to start the second quarter.

  Revis on one side, Dr. Ridge on the other, they helped her off the field. Her goal was to walk a straight and strong line with head up and eyes wide and focused.

  Her teammates rode the sideline, concern on their faces. M. J. looked away from them to the cheering crowd. She saw Tag first, standing alone in the center aisle against the front railing. If she thought her teammates looked concerned, Tag looked downright terrified. He pointed to his head. She shook hers slightly, mindful that balance would be an issue with a true concussion, and she didn’t want to wind up back on her ass.

  He dropped his chin and gave her a pointed look that said, “You better not be lying to me.”

  She forced a smile, because she didn’t need him hopping the railing and coming down on the field. This was supposed to be her big game, her big day. She wasn’t going to let a little headache stand in the way.

  M. J. was about to take a seat on the bench when something fluttered beside Tag in her peripheral vision. It was Nel, waving like crazy and then giving two thumbs up. Beside Nel was Grey, and then came Maggie with Braydon in a carrier on her chest, and Jordon, too. Behind them was Edna Dean. And what she saw next packed a bigger punch than any outside linebacker ever could. Dad’s face appeared over Jordon’s shoulder. Felicia was there, too. At an away game. It was the kind of undeniable support M. J. had only ever dreamed about.

  A blast of emotion numbed her face and dried her wide eyes. She finally had her own personal cheering section big enough to rival Tanya’s.

  Turning around without a worry for her head and keeping her balance the entire time, M. J. called out to Coach, “Put me in.”

  “Rooney, sit,” he said with his eyes on the field.

  She walked to him. “Put me in.” The harsh whisper scraped her throat.

  And when he did, she was determined not to let anyone down.

  This was going to be a day none of them would forget.

  • • •

  “She shouldn’t be back in after a hit like that. This is crazy.” Tag resisted Nel’s tugs on his arm in the direction of his seat and gave a death stare in Dave Ridge’s direction. “I hold you personally responsible,” Tag yelled.

  Dave shrugged, like he had no control over the woman. Under different circumstances, Tag would’ve vouched for that. But a team physician had to suspect an elite athlete in the biggest game of her career would lie like a rug to get back into the game.

  “Down in front,” someone yelled.

  “Relax,” Nel added, tugging him again.

  Fine. Tag sat, but he didn’t relax, and he didn’t take his eyes off M. J. “If she gets hit again or she looks off, I’m going down there.”

  “She’ll be okay,” Grey said, leaning across Nel and smacking Tag’s knee. “I face-planted on the outfield wall in Pittsburgh and played the whole game with a concussion, and nothing bad happened to me.”

  “Arguable, babe.” Nel’s chuckle did nothing to lift Tag’s spirits.

  He leaned forward, studying M. J. as she dropped back to pass and released a short spiral for a completion and an eleven-yard gain. She looked okay. When she dropped back and handed off, she looked good, too. But she brought Tag to his feet when she kept the ball and scrambled for a fifteen-yard gain, ducking out of bounds seconds before what could’ve been one hell of a collision.

  “Sit,” Mom said, swatting him on the ass. “She doesn’t need to look up here and see you worrying.”

  “I’m doing enough of that for all of us,” Mrs. Rooney shouted. Her investment in the game was even more shocking than her presence. Tag only wished he could settle down enough to enjoy her enthusiasm.

  Halftime came and went with the Clash down by fourteen.

  When Dave trotted to the sideline before the team returned from the locker room, Tag leaned over the railing to ask, “How is she?”

  “Mad,” Dave said, laughing. “Have you seen the score?”

  “I’m talking about her head.”

  “If the eloquent, vulgarity-filled tirade she just had in the locker room is any indication of her mental condition, she’s doing great.”

  Somehow, that put Tag at ease. Now, a couple touchdowns, a field goal and the end of the game would have him downright euphoric. He patted the ring box in his right pants pocket.

  He’d assembled all these people for more than a football game.

  The first sign of life from the Clash defense in the second half came from a fumble recovery returned for a touchdown. A thirty-two-yard field goal quickly followed. M. J. finally seem
ed to be getting the time in the pocket she needed to execute plays—and stay on her feet. Tag was finding it difficult to stay off his, which was funny, because football had never been his game. Other than caring for the injured athletes, he could take or leave the basic barbarism. But when M. J. played, it was frigging poetry.

  “I almost stayed out by the snack bar,” Maggie said as she returned to her seat after changing Braydon. “This is too violent and stressful for me.”

  Tag tweaked his nephew’s nose as they passed. “This is where it gets good,” he said to Maggie.

  His positive words belied the churning in his stomach. This was also were it got serious. With five minutes left, there was enough time for the Clash to score, but there was also plenty of time for Pittsburgh to return the favor.

  Clock management would be key. He’d seen M. J. play enough to know she was capable of controlling the pace of this game. He had faith in her—even when she threw an interception in the middle of an impressive forty-yard drive.

  “Crap,” Nel said.

  Tag cringed at that tone of resignation in her voice.

  “There’s lots of time,” Grey added.

  And Tag tossed an appreciative nod to him. If they lost, there would be more football games next year, and he would still find another way, another day to propose. But a win, and this—he patted the ring box again—today, in front of their families, would be perfect.

  Sometimes striving for perfection was okay.

  Again, the Clash defense stepped up, denying Pittsburgh the touchdown on fourth and inches, and softening the blow of the interception, but the clock flashed abysmally low digits.

  With under a minute left, Tag tucked the ring deeper into his pocket, acknowledging they’d reached longshot territory. But then a spark of denial balked at his lack of faith and insisted he correct it by pulling out the box and taking a good long look.

  The emerald-cut diamond set in platinum glistened in the sun.

  “You’re going to get to do it,” Nel said, looping her arm through his. “Keep your eye on the prize, just like M. J.’s doing.”

  The plays were hurried but accurate and effective with the wide receivers rushing out of bounds to stop the clock. An unproductive run play and an incomplete pass left time for one more attempt to score. The raucous crowd jumped to its feet, and finally Tag could stand without chastisement.

  The snap . . . the drop . . . the pass.

  The ball floated through the air in slow motion, eventually dropping into the center of a mass of players huddled in the end zone, all reaching for the same thing. M. J.’s usual target got a gloved hand on the ball, but a defender knocked it away.

  Tag’s breathing stopped.

  Again in slow motion, the ball drifted, this time toward the ground. The season, the proposal, all of it poised to shatter . . . until another Clash receiver dove out, snatching the ball from midair before it hit the ground.

  Touchdown. Game over. Clash win.

  • • •

  M. J. had been dog-piled before, but never after a championship win. As her teammates helped her off the turf, leftover adrenaline buzzed through her veins, making her feel like she was gliding toward the sidelines.

  Tanya and Mertz ran up ahead, grabbing the orange jug of water and dumping it over Coach’s head. Pure chaos—on the field and in the stands. M. J. looked up and made eye contact with a grinning Tag, hands in his pockets, belly pressed to the railing, looking like he wanted to leap to the ground. She smiled back at him—at all of them. It was still so damn hard to believe they were here.

  The team created a sort of tide around her, moving her toward the locker room, where there was cheap champagne and hot showers to be had. As soon as the adrenaline faded, her aching body would be in serious need of that last one. Any other time, she might even linger under the soothing spray, but not today. There would be people waiting for her outside the locker room. A lot of people.

  Come to think of it, the adrenaline might never fade. M. J. beamed. This day couldn’t possibly get better.

  “Rooney.” She snapped her head in the direction of Coach’s booming voice. He dabbed his wet head with a towel. “Somebody’s looking for you on the field.”

  Hopefully a reporter. It was about time this team got the recognition it deserved.

  M. J. turned around, bobbing her head for a better look as she made her way back up the ramp. The crowd of players before her parted, and through it walked Tag. His grin was wobbly. His eyes were wide. And something about the expression on his gorgeous face told her this wasn’t about saying a simple “good game.”

  The adrenaline surged, causing her to splay a hand across her chest to keep her heart from jumping out of her skin.

  Tag dropped to one knee.

  Her teammates cheered.

  “M. J. Rooney with a rocket for an arm,” his grin widened, “I love you.”

  Between the noises all around her and the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears, she could barely hear him, but she could read those beautiful lips, and she knew exactly what that fairytale posture meant.

  He held out a hand, reaching for her, and she felt a push from behind. In a flash, she was grabbing onto him.

  “Will you marry me?” He presented a brilliant ring in a little black box.

  M. J. laughed when a few of her teammates hollered, “Yes!”

  And then she dropped to her knees before him, wanting more than anything to make this moment last, to emblazon it on her brain so she’d never forget a detail of his beautiful, joyful face.

  “You look good on my field,” she said.

  “You look better.”

  When he smiled, an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu made M. J. woozy. They’d been like this before on a field. When she fell. It was like her heart had always remembered, even when her head couldn’t.

  “Answer him,” someone yelled.

  That was the right thing to do. She could ogle him later. In fact, for the rest of their lives if she wanted to.

  She leaned in, inches from his mouth, making it as intimate as possible. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  The crowd cheered, but for once, she didn’t care about their accolades or approval.

  Now and forever more, the only fan she needed was him.

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Women’s professional full-tackle football exists—and there is no lingerie involved. These amazing women are strong and determined to play a sport they love at a level that challenges them. But they need fan support to keep their leagues up and running. I urge you to check out The Women’s Football Alliance (http://www.wfafootball.net) or the Independent Women’s Football League (http://www.iwflsports.com/) to find a team near you.

  As always, I’m eternally grateful for the insider’s perspective my husband, a team physician, and his colleagues provide me with. Pro athletes are impressive, but the men and women who keep them on the field are extra-special.

  This book closes out the Kemmons Brothers Baseball Series, so I’d like to acknowledge Jennifer Lawler, who gave the first book in this series—and me—a chance. I’ve been blessed with wonderful editors along the way, but none more influential than Tara Gelsomino, who worked with me on this final book. Thank you.

  About the Author

  Elley Arden is a born and bred Pennsylvanian who has lived as far west as Utah and as far north as Wisconsin. She drinks wine like it’s water (a slight exaggeration), prefers a night at the ballpark to a night on the town, and believes almond English toffee is the key to happiness. Elley writes contemporary romances for Crimson Romance. For a complete list of Elley’s books, visit www.elleyarden.com.

  Copyright © 2014 by Elley Arden.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

&nb
sp; an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  57 Littlefield Street

  Avon, MA 02322

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7496-0

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7496-2

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7497-9

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7497-9

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Kalawin; iStockphoto.com/perkmeup; Antonio Guillem/123RF; boonsom/123RF

  Protecting His Heart

  Dana Volney

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To all those who are tenaciously following your dreams: Keep going.

  Chapter One

  Felix Ibarra threw his keys on the catchall surface by his front door. His new Wyn Security office in the Prince Industries building was comfortable, but he’d had to get the hell out of there. It had been a week of meetings, vetting locations, and setting up cameras around the perimeter. While he didn’t mind the bodyguard work, what he really wanted was some peace and quiet.

  He paused in the darkness of his apartment’s small entryway. The air was off; something wasn’t right. His eyes darted in all directions, but he couldn’t see anything. He wasn’t alone; he could feel it. This thief picked the wrong place and the wrong target to mess with. He drew his side arm and waited for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings.