by Lisa Rayne
Dash turned and glared at Gordon, his finger itching to flip him the bird. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Coach Waterman enter the locker room so he refrained. Dash spun back around and walked into a hot shower, letting the steam from the scalding water mist up to shield the steam rising through his angry pores.
When he got home the next evening, he stripped for bed and lay on his back, one arm behind his head and the other at this waist above where the white sheet bunched across his hips. All he could think about was Naomi. How could she have turned down his marriage proposal?
He figured marriage and family would be what she wanted. She’d spent years pining for the family unit her father had refused to give her. He’d have thought with him presenting her the full family option for Tallie, she’d have been hell bent on accepting.
Foolish him. As much as he’d shown up and proved himself the doting father Tallie deserved, Naomi still didn’t think he had what it took to be the man they needed. He wasn’t the kind of man she expected to provide her with a white picket fence around a suburban lawn for two point five kids and a dog. He should have known better. He shouldn’t have given in to the illusion that she would considered him a worthy knight in shining armor.
Who had he been kidding? He knew not to wish upon a star. He’d learned that lesson as a foster kid—don’t dream too big. In fact, don’t dream at all. That way, you avoided facing disappointment when you found out dreams weren’t for your kind.
No Tooth Fairy. No Easter Bunny. No Santie Claus.
No white picket fence. No wife and child. No family—once again—for Talon “Dash” Janssen.
He rolled onto his belly and folded his pillow in half. Strangling the down knot beneath his chin, he thought of Peyton. She’d been the closest he’d come to a family back in the day. They’d been thrown together via circumstances: her removed from her home because her mom constantly attracted men who found the preteen daughter more tempting than the mother; him shuffled from home to home because he had some unknown defect that had allowed his twin brother to be adopted instead of him.
He wondered what Peyton would say about his current situation. He’d been Peyton’s hero once upon a time, a role he hadn’t sought but had embraced nonetheless. Protecting her had come as second nature to him. By that fateful day of high school, they’d become closer than most siblings.
Peyton’s unfailing faith in him had scared him at first. The daunting task of being her hero had unnerved him at times. The thought of failing her when she needed him most had almost made him give up and look the other way. He’d truly considered turning a blind eye to the inappropriate looks his foster father gave her back then. Others had done so. The foster mother of the house had done so with practiced oblivion.
Then, Peyton had looked at him one day with big brown eyes that saw his knowledge. She’d seen his knowledge and been embarrassed, embarrassed because she’d blamed the old man’s sickness on a failing in herself. That had been the day he’d chosen not to fail.
His reward had been more than saving Peyton from abuse. His reward had come from a connection to another person in a manner he’d never had before. That feeling had made him feel larger than life. Sometimes, when he talked to Peyton, he still got that feeling. Even after all these years and from across the miles, she reminded him that where he came from had nothing to do with the man inside him.
Peyton saw him as worthy, as lovable. Why couldn’t Naomi see him the same way? Why couldn’t Naomi see him as the husband she needed and the father Tallie needed in her life on an everyday basis?
When she’d looked at him the other day with those sad emerald eyes, he’d sensed he’d failed her. Like with Peyton, he’d sensed her eyes saw something in him, a knowledge she chose not to share but decided to hold him accountable for. What was it?
He tossed and turned for several more minutes before rising and heading to the kitchen. He wasn’t sleeping so no sense continuing to hang in bed. He got down the blender and pulled miscellaneous fruits and vegetables from the refrigerator crisper. He loaded two handfuls of ice into the blender, added the fruits and vegetables, and topped it with plain yogurt and a scoop of protein powder.
The whir of the blades spinning entertained him while he waited for his concoction to blend. He sipped out of the blender pitcher for taste. Not satisfied, he grabbed unsweetened pineapple juice from the fridge and splashed some into the brew. He hit the pulverize button, starting the whir again.
When he felt the blending had gone on long enough, he poured the smoothie into a glass. He stood against the counter, congratulating himself on being smart enough not to keep alcohol in the house during the season. He had no doubt he’d be holding a fifth of gin instead of a smoothie, and he’d probably be three sheets in the wind by now.
He managed to pour the smoothie down his throat instead of toss the glass against a wall. That’s what he really had the urge to do. He didn’t understand why he was so broken up by Naomi’s rejection. He hadn’t consciously intended to get married. Yet, when the proposal had popped from his mouth, the desire for her to say yes had overwhelmed him.
He sat the glass down. The urge to toss it hitting him harder this time.
Damn her. He wanted her under his roof, under his bedsheets, under him. And he wanted Tallie in his house with her. It made no sense for her and Tallie to live on the other side of the city in a house of their own. They belonged to him. They belonged with him.
But his being Tallie’s father wasn’t good enough for Naomi. She needed more. She needed to be the one who spread his life’s tale through the media virtualsphere. He represented a story to her. She didn’t see him as a man separate from the thrill and intrigue his life brought to her readers.
Maybe that’s what this was all about—his refusal to sign off on her article on him and Tatum. It was a sad state of affairs when he couldn’t rate a higher priority to her than a byline. Just once, he’d like to come first with her, to rate higher than a career piece.
He looked at the time and cursed. He had to be at the stadium early tomorrow for the post game checkup by the team medical staff. They wouldn’t have practice, but everyone had to be evaluated for injury before getting the green light to while away their Tuesday. Most of the guys would use the day to do work with their charities of choice or volunteer with various organizations. He had a scheduled appearance himself in the late afternoon at Children’s Mercy Hospital on the oncology ward. He needed some sleep. Yet, here he was in the wee hours of the morning pining for some woman who didn’t want him.
Pathetic.
Dumping the remainder of the smoothie down the drain, he turned on the water to rinse the glass and the blender jar. Once both were stashed in the half-full dishwasher, he wandered into the living room and gathered the remnants of Naomi’s letters about Tallie. He shuffled through the pictures until he found the one he wanted.
The picture showed Tallie at her first birthday party. She’d dipped her hands into the cake icing and was holding them up on display. Her face and the front of her shirt were also covered with icing. It was the most adorable snapshot he’d ever seen. He smiled to himself, not naive enough not to recognize his own bias as the girl’s father.
He walked over to the fireplace and dropped the rest of the letters on the mantle in a pile. He propped the icing picture against the back of the mantle wall. Glancing up, he took in the empty wall space. Other homeowners would have filled that space by now with a family portrait. He could envision such a portrait of him, Naomi, and Tallie filling the spot, but it wasn’t to be.
Not good enough. The mantra kept playing over and over in his head. He hadn’t been good enough to say yes to, not good enough to pass on a story for.
Not. Good. Enough.
Dash grabbed the sonogram of Tallie off the mantle and took it with him to the couch. He sank into the cushions. He studied the sonogram in the dim light, not motivated to do much of anything, not even sleep.
Time passed and he li
ngered on the couch feeling sorry for himself. He mulled over the sad state of his life until gravity pulled his head back against the backrest. Eventually, he fell asleep in the same position into which his head had fallen.
He awoke a few hours later in the same spot, and he felt every inch of it. Getting through today was going to be hell.
*
The next evening, Dash responded to his doorbell wearing baggy sweats and an old wrinkled t-shirt. They were the same clothes he’d slept in last night, again on the couch. He opened the door and looked into his own face. Well, the face of his twin. Surprise registered on his own. Not exactly the person he’d expected to see.
“What are you doing here?”
Tatum stared at his brother. “You called me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did. You just didn’t use a phone.”
Dash rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.” Tatum shouldered past him and dropped his duffle bag against the entry wall.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“Thanks,” Tatum replied, intentionally ignoring Dash’s sarcasm. He turned towards his brother and gave him the once over with his eyes. “You look like crap.”
Dash shut the door. “Gee, thanks.”
“So what’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
Tatum cocked an eyebrow.
Shaking his head, Dash pushed away from the door and headed for the living room. He wasn’t in the mood for this voodoo twin connection thing.
Tatum followed, taking in the surroundings as he went. “Nice place. Who’s your decorator?”
“Naomi,” Dash said without turning around.
“Ah. How is the lovely Naomi?”
Dash didn’t respond. He flopped down on the couch and picked up the iced coconut water he’d abandoned to open the door. He raised his glass towards Tatum. “I’d offer you a beer, but I don’t keep alcohol on the premises during the season. But I do have just about any type of water or juice you could want.”
“I’m good,” Tatum responded. Not missing his brother’s failure to answer his question, he placed his hands on his hips and repeated himself. “So, how’s Naomi?”
Dash took a long drink. He stared at his brother over the rim of the glass. When he lowered the glass, he said, “I don’t want to talk about Naomi.”
Tatum shook his head. Running his hand down his face, he swore then took the overstuffed chair opposite Dash. “You idiot. What happened?”
“I do not want to talk about this, Tatum.”
“Tough. When you hurt so bad I can feel it halfway across the continent, you’re going to talk to me whether you want to or not.”
“I think I liked it better when I didn’t have a brother.”
“You always had a brother. You just didn’t know it.”
“Okay, fine. I liked it better when I didn’t know I had a brother.”
Tatum smiled. “Like hell you did. I’m the best thing to happen to you since you learned to throw a football.”
Dash’s lips tilted left in a sarcastic grin. “Yeah, whatever.” Strangely, he realized having Tatum here was oddly comforting.
“Actually, I take that back. I’m the second best thing to happen to you since you learned how to throw a football.”
Dash gave him a questioning frown.
“The best thing to happen to you, I suspect, you recently screwed up by making her leave.”
“I didn’t make her leave. We had a little disagreement.”
“About?”
“The almost two-year-old daughter she forgot to tell me I had.” Tatum’s eyes widened, but Dash continued. “And about a certain article I don’t want her to publish.”
“She had your baby and didn’t tell you?”
Dash closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Not exactly.” He opened his eyes. “Turns out she tried very hard to tell me, but I blew her off. She even wrote me several letters.”
“Letters?”
Dash rose and grabbed the letters and baby photos from the fireplace mantel. He handed them to Tatum. Tatum looked through the correspondence, stopping at the photograph of Tallie on her first birthday.
He looked up at Dash with a bright smile. “She’s adorable.”
The softness in Dash’s voice matched that in his heart. “Yeah, she is.”
“I don’t understand. If you got the letters, how come you didn’t know about the little girl?”
“I never opened them. I was so angry with Naomi when we broke up that I didn’t want to hear anything from her. I stashed the letters unopened in a drawer and forgot about them.”
“How did you finally find out?”
Dash told him the story and watched his brother’s face as he took it all in. “Needless to say, I was a bit shocked.”
“I bet. So, even knowing about the little girl, you didn’t relent on the story about us?”
“The story was non-negotiable. Tallie has nothing to do with it.”
“Well, I suppose you’re planning to be generous with child support, but Naomi doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would be content letting you provide for her.”
“The support would be for Tallie. Naomi has her job at the Sports Daily.”
“For how long now that you’ve forced her to choose between you and her job?”
“No. I forced her to choose between me and one story.”
Tatum sank back into the chair. “And that one story meant her job.”
Dash eyed him. “What are you talking about?”
“We talked when you guys were in Ibiza. Her editor gave her an ultimatum. She delivered this story or she cleared out her desk.”
“Naomi’s a great reporter. They’d never turn her away because of one story.”
“It isn’t about one story. It’s about stories, many of them, over the course of two years or so. Years during which she’s been given crappy assignments and relegated to the broad who used to date Dash Janssen to get her stories.”
Dash’s jaws tightened. Naomi had said nothing to him about being effectively hazed at work. She certainly hadn’t mentioned that she needed this story to save her job.
Tatum eyed him. “I was curious about her after Ibiza so I went online and read through her bylines. The stuff she wrote before and during her relationship with you is extraordinary. She did this piece on Shave Stephens several years back that gave unbelievable insight into the guy’s game mind. It wasn’t the usual mundane sports questions.
“She has the kind of talent I could see penning New York Times bestselling biographies of sports legends. Hell, if she wrote one on Stephens—or you for that matter—I’d be the first in line to read it. But the stuff she’s had to cover since you dumped her and trashed her in the media? Could have been covered by a high school newspaper.”
“Are you trying to blame me for Naomi’s career issues?”
“Not you directly, but the way you handled the blowup after the publication of the article about your life in foster care had long-term repercussions for her.”
Dash just stared at Tatum.
“Yeah. I read about that online, too. Are you really that self-centered that you don’t understand the politics of her career?”
Dash bristled. “Self-centered? Yeah that’s me. After a lifetime of taking care of myself, I figured somebody has to make me the center of their attention.”
Tatum froze. He glared at Dash. Swinging himself up from the depths of the chair, he planted his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers together pointed down as he leaned forward. “Look, I’m sorry about the life you had as a kid, but you’re not the only one who feels gypped.” His voice tightened. “I love my family. I do. But there’s a part of me that would trade my life with them to have had the opportunity to have grown up with my twin brother.”
Talon sighed and ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. He wouldn’t have wanted his brother to exper
ience the life he’d had. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would.” The fingers of Tatum’s left hand threaded his hair in much the same way Talon’s had just done. “I know you don’t understand this. But you’re my brother, my blood, and I love you. I want us to be the brothers we could have been had we stayed together from birth. I realize we can’t get those years back, but I think we can let them go so they don’t keep us from building the relationship we’re destined to have from this moment forward.”
Dash looked at his brother. The intensity in Tatum’s face made Dash’s chest ache.
“I’m here now, Talon. I’m here because I sensed you needed me. How about you drop that chip you’ve wedged up on your shoulder and stop roadblocking me over something I had no more control over than you, baby brother.”
Dash’s brows shot up. “Baby brother?”
Tatum grinned. “Yeah. Baby brother. I’m two minutes older than you.”
Dash grinned back at him. “How’d you find that out?”
“Mom did.”
Tatum saw Dash’s expression sour. “Don’t. Don’t blame her for this. She didn’t know. In fact, she cried when I told her about you and what kind of upbringing you had.”
Dash frowned. “I don’t need you garnering pity for me.”
“It wasn’t pity. And that’s not what I was doing. She wanted to know. She got angry when she realized I’d been born a twin and no one at the adoption agency or the home had told them. She went back to the agency and demanded an explanation.”
Curiosity overrode Dash’s anger. “What did they say?”
“Most of the people involved with my adoption were no longer there, but an administrator eventually put her in contact with a woman who had worked at the agency during the same timeframe. Apparently, they had difficulty back then placing multiple children in the same permanent home. Several adoptions for children who had a sibling or two fell through the year before mine because the prospective adoptive families couldn’t afford to take on more than one child. The families felt bad about splitting up siblings and backed out of the adoptions completely.