Homecoming King

by Jami Albright

  “I’ve changed, Tiger.”

  I snort and roll my eyes. Super mature, I know, but he brings out the worst in me.

  “I swear I have. Your leaving me has shown me what a fool I was.” The grin is back in place. “What’s that saying? You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”

  “I prefer the saying, once a turd in a punch bowl, always a turd in a punch bowl.”

  His contrite expression morphs to something far more familiar … contempt. “How dare you judge me? Look at you.” He flicks his hand at me. “Standing there in steel toe boots, for God’s sake. And how much weight have you gained? Ten, fifteen pounds?”

  This Brad I understand. “Nice. Well, if there’s nothing else, then I’ll be going.” I turn to go inside, but his fingers grip my arm and stop me.

  “You’re not walking away from me,” he snaps.

  I frown down at the offending appendage, then glare at him. “Take your hands off me.” I shove every ounce of badassery I’ve cultivated over the last year into the statement. But he doesn’t release me, only jerks me closer, and I see a hint of desperation in his eyes.

  That’s not good.

  A desperate Brad is trouble. Big, big trouble.

  Thirteen

  Cash

  The pounding of my feet on the pavement and my labored breaths aren’t enough to chase the lust still thrashing through my body. Like the pain of mile six isn’t enough to replace the feel of Tiger’s skin against mine. I’d hoped lacing up my running shoes and testing my endurance would erase that dismissive look in her eyes after I told her I didn’t oversee the running of my foundation.

  It hasn’t.

  I was a grade A asshole back in the day. Hell, I’m probably still a grade A asshole, but I don’t want Tiger thinking I am. Unfortunately, I think that ship has sailed. And that bothers me more than it probably should, which is why I didn’t stop my run at three miles like I usually do. Because everything that just happened with Tiger has my legs churning up the North Texas asphalt.

  I turn into the drive of Wayland Estate and jog around to the backyard. The construction crew isn’t here yet, so I should be able to catch a quick shower before the house fills with workers.

  A cramp grips my calf in a painful vice. Agony yanks the muscle taut and refuses to relent, and I stumble and nearly fall to the ground. Thankfully, I catch myself and don’t face-plant on the gravel drive.

  I place the heel of my foot on the ground with my toes pointed up and my leg straight. Carefully, I bend and stretch the muscle that has been a nagging source of pain since I injured it in a nail-biting playoff victory three years ago. Ever since that touchdown run, it’s caused me nothing but misery. The damn thing cramps up at the worst possible times, like when it’s fourth and goal with fifteen seconds left on the clock, or in any number of intimate situations.

  It’s only one in a long line of injuries that has my thirty-year-old body begging for mercy most days. Nearly twenty years of full-contact football has taken a toll, gripping my muscles and bones in pain and sucking the joy out of the sport I used to love.

  “I’m really sick of this shit.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I beg forgiveness from the football gods. This sport’s given me everything I could ever want—money, fame, status, and most of all, respectability. How could I be so ungrateful to the game and the teammates who count on me? The words of the orthopedic specialist I saw for my shoulder roll over and over in my head.

  Cash, you can’t keep subjecting your body to this kind of punishment and not expect there to be a price to pay. Only you can decide if it’s worth it. A bigger question is, can you continue without prescription drugs? Because, believe me, that is a road you do not want to go down.

  He’s right. Prescription drug addiction is an epidemic in professional football. Hell, in all pro sports. When your paycheck depends on your performance and how much playing time you see, then you’ll do anything to stay in the game, even if you’re hurt. And for some, the only way to play hurt is to medicate. I’ve been able to avoid the use of heavy-duty pain meds, even going so far as to not take any when I’ve had to have surgery, but believe me, the temptation is there. Some days, you’d do anything to make it all go away.

  But I can take it. And yes, it is worth it. It has to be, because I’m not sure who I am without football.

  That’s not true.

  I know exactly who I am without football. I’m a good-for-nothin’ King boy like my dad and my uncles.

  After several long minutes of stretching, the cramp loosens its hold on my muscle enough for me to walk back to the house, or should I say, limp back to the house.

  I know the drill. I need ice and elevation. The problem is, I didn’t see a fridge in the kitchen. Besides the room I slept in, the place is pretty nonfunctional.

  I round the side of the residence and see Brad Watson standing in front of the pool house, and his hand is on Tiger’s arm. Not my business. Who knows, maybe they’re getting back together. I ignore the feel of barbed wire in my gut at that thought. Again, not my business. I need ice, elevation, and to not be curious about Tiger Lyons’ love life.

  But then I hear her tell him to take his hands off her, and he doesn’t. My injured calf is forgotten, and I’m across the patio before I’ve even registered what I’m doing. “If you want to keep your fingers, goldie, then do as she says.”

  The surprise on Brad’s face is so comical that I almost laugh, but then I see that he’s still got his hands on Tiger, and all humor bleeds from my mind. “Let go of her, Watson.”

  “Stay out of this, King. This is between me and my wife.” He says the word wife like he’s smearing shit over my face.

  Tiger jerks her arm free. “Ex-wife.” She rubs at the red outline of his fingers on her skin. “Leave, Brad.”

  The film of anger that washes over me is as scarlet as the marks striping her flesh. “You heard her.”

  He shakes back his hair and squares his shoulders. “Who’s going to make me?”

  Really? This jackass wants to go a round with me? I’ve got him by four inches and forty pounds of muscle. “You don’t want to put that pretty face of yours in danger, goldie boy.”

  Tiger snorts. “Listen to him, Brad, and leave.”

  The guy’s whole demeanor changes when he turns his attention back to Tiger. “You’re right, love. I’m sorry, but I miss us”—he gestures to himself and then to Tiger—“so much, that I get a little crazy.”

  “There is no us, Brad. There hasn’t been in a very long time.” She takes a step toward me. I don’t think it’s intentional, but it makes me ridiculously happy for some unknown reason. “I’ve moved on, and you should too.”

  The emotions on his face change so fast that it’s hard to keep up with them. Then his gaze moves from Tiger to me, and his expression settles into indignation. “What’s he doing here?”

  I’m about sick of this guy. “I live—”

  “None of your business,” Tiger interjects.

  His nose wrinkles like someone just shoved something nasty into his nostrils. “Tell me you’re not with this piece of shit, Tiger.”

  “I’m not telling you anything, Brad, because what I do is none of your business. Now, leave.”

  “Yeah, leave.” I throw my arm around Tiger’s shoulder just to piss off the asshole.

  He shoots me a look that clearly says you’re worthless, then turns his beady-eyed gaze to Tiger. “When you’re done slumming, give me a call.” With the flair of a ticked off banty rooster, he stomps away.

  As soon as he’s out of sight, Tiger steps out from under my arm. “Thanks.”

  My calf seizes up again, and I drop into the closest patio chair. “You had it under control, I got the pleasure of pissing him off.” I push the words through gritted teeth. Another spasm has me coming out of the chair with a groan.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Cramp,” squeezes out of my throat.

  “What can I do?” />
  “Nothing. The only thing to do is ice and elevate it.” I start to limp to the big house.

  “Wait.”

  I glance back at her. “What?”

  “You’ll have to come to my place for ice.” A grimace almost as bad as mine mars her pretty face. She’s clearly unhappy about this recent development. “Come on.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I just—”

  “I’m serious, don’t mention it, or I might change my mind.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  “Great.”

  She opens the door to the pool house. “Aren’t we the clever conversationalists.”

  “I guess we are,” I chuckle.

  “Have a seat.” She points to an oversized sofa. “I’ll get the ice pack.”

  “Thank you. Sorry to put you out like this.”

  “It’s no trouble.” She brings me the cold, gel-filled compress, and I’m nearly blinded by the brightness of her teeth shining behind her upturned lips. “Here you go. “

  “What’s going on?” Considering she’s either snarled, snapped, or laughed at me in our previous interactions, the display of goodwill seems suspicious.

  “Nothing.” Her voice sounds like a tire with a slow leak.

  “If your being nice to me is a thank you because of what happened with Brad, you don’t need to bother. Seeing him put in his place is thanks enough.”

  She wraps her arms around her middle and stares at the tip of one steel toe boot as she stubs it at the carpet. “It’s not about that. I want …” A quick exhalation of air and she raises her gaze to mine. “I want to apologize for earlier.”

  “Just for earlier?”

  All animation leaves her face. “Fine. For all of it. I apologize for all my rude behavior. Happy?”

  I adjust myself on the sofa, trying to decide how to play this. I like seeing her squirm. In fact, she deserves to squirm because she was rude, but then again, so was I. And she’s Tiger Lyons, the girl of my teenage dreams, the one that got away. “Apology accepted.” I mimic her words from earlier.

  She nods, drops into the chair opposite me, and looks completely miserable. “Thank you.”

  I laugh. “You gonna be okay?”

  A reluctant grin pulls at her lips. “I’m working on it.”

  “That apology took a lot out of you, huh?”

  A slow blink and then I’m pierced by her lapis blue stare. “You have no idea.”

  “You let me know when you get yourself together.” I settle back onto the sofa with my hands behind my head and close my eyes. I’m hit in the face with a pillow as soon as my lashes lower. “Hey.” My lids jerk open to see her sitting with the most angelic expression.

  “What?” Her tone is as innocent as the look on her face.

  “You’re a brat.”

  A very unbeauty-queen snort shoots from her mouth. “That’s what Brad always said about me.”

  “Oh, damn, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. What he thinks of me no longer matters.” Her butt slides further into the cushion. “I am sorry he said that stuff about you, though.”

  It’s my turn to shrug. “It’s not anything I haven’t heard before. Pretty much everyone in this town thought that about me until I started throwing a football.”

  “I never felt that way.”

  “Come on. I know you thought I wasn’t good enough for you.”

  “That’s not true.” She crosses her arms and her legs. “You’d know how laughable that is if you knew me at all.”

  What is she talking about? “So, tell me what I don’t know.”

  Her gaze goes to the window, and she’s silent so long that I think she might not say anything. “I didn’t run away from you that night at homecoming because I thought I was too good for you. It was because my homemade dress fell apart when you grabbed it. I wasn’t trying to get away from you.” Her hands and her gaze drop to her lap. “In fact, leaving you right then was the last thing I wanted to do, but I was trying not to embarrass myself and my family.”

  What the hell?

  “I ran to the bathroom to try and repair the damage. I was going to tell you what happened, but by the time it was fixed, you’d already started that horrible rumor, and I never wanted to speak to you again.”

  Everything she’s saying refuses to make sense to me. I have so many questions. Why did she wear a homemade dress? Why was she worried about embarrassing her family? And she hadn’t wanted to leave me? So of course, I ask the least important question of all. “Why would the richest girl in town wear a homemade dress?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can comprehend.”

  Her shoulders lift then lower. “It was my first failed attempt at autonomy.” She chuckles, but it’s hard-coated with bitterness. “My mom wanted me to wear this ridiculously expensive dress that looked more like a Cotillion gown than something you’d wear to a high school homecoming dance. She told me it was that dress or nothing. I’d recently found my grandmother’s sewing machine in the attic and taught myself to sew. Unfortunately, that dress was a little too ambitious for my amateur skills. I knew it was hanging by a thread, but my pride wouldn’t let me accept defeat.”

  I sit up with my feet on the ground, and the ice pack lands on the floor with a thunk. Tiny slivers of memories slip into place, and now it all makes sense. “You didn’t run from me.”

  “No. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I was in the bathroom yelling at Maggie to hurry up and fix my dress so I could get back to you, when a group of girls came in and repeated what you’d said.” She picks at her nails. “I was crushed.”

  If I were an emoji, it would be the one with its head exploding. “So, if I’d kept my mouth shut …”

  “I would’ve come back, and things would’ve been a lot different.” She stares at a spot somewhere between the two of us. It makes me think she isn’t only talking about homecoming.

  Her explanation is still crashing into every belief I’ve had about that night. I’m not even sure how to begin to think about it differently. I drop my head into my hands. “What a dumbass.”

  This time, the sound that comes from her is a little lighter. “I’m not going to argue with you. My parents freaked out. Everything was about what the town thought of them, and that rumor you started was the worst thing you could’ve done to me.”

  A groan rips through my vocal cords, and I glance at her through the hair hanging in my eyes. “Tiger—”

  “They were livid,” she goes on, like now that she’s started, she can’t stop. “They insisted I get back with Brad. I refused, then they made my life a living hell until I obeyed them a week later. Little did they know, he was a lying manipulator who would use me as an accessory to get what he wanted.” She’s staring at that place in the distance again. “Then again, they probably did know, but since I was already their accessory, they probably thought, why the hell not.”

  “I’m …” What? Sorry hardly seems appropriate. “You could’ve told me anyway.”

  “Oh, yeah, because clearly you could be trusted.”

  I reach across the space between us and place my hand on her knee. “I’m sorry, Tiger.”

  She sucks a huge breath in through her nose and pulls her hair back from her face. “Thank you, but it was a long time ago. It’s silly for me to still have hurt feelings about it.”

  I take my hand off her knee and place my elbows on my legs. “Well if it is, then we’re both silly as goose shit, because I’ve had hurt feelings about you leaving me on that dance floor for the last twelve years.” I snort, but there’s no humor in it. My hand swipes over my face. “I guess I should thank you.”

  “Why.”

  “Pretty much everything I’ve done and accomplished has been to prove to you that I was good enough.” I cut my gaze to her. “Crazy, huh?”

  “Not really.” She
goes back to picking at the clear polish on her nails and won’t meet my eyes. “I understand trying to prove something to people.”

  My spine straightens, and I cock my head. “No offense, Tiger, but I don’t think you can possibly know what it was like to grow up with people thinking everything about you but the truth.”

  Fourteen

  Tiger

  Do I want to do this with him? I hack away at the last bit of bitterness that I still harbor toward him. It was the boy who hurt me. Not the man who just apologized and showed me his vulnerable underbelly.

  “For forever, people have only ever seen this.” I wave my hand in front of my face. “It’s been my value, which is ridiculous. I didn’t do anything to look this way. It’s only an accident of DNA. I actually do have a brain and talents that have nothing to do with twirling a fire baton.”

  “I see your point. There’s not a big market for baton twirlers these days. It’s a shame really.”

  I pucker my lips to keep from laughing. “I’m serious.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Go on.”

  “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t get my panties in a bunch about it, but when you’re constantly dismissed for not having a brain or good ideas, it’s demoralizing.” I smooth the hair from my face. “To get it, you’d have to understand my history with Brad and my parents.”

  “What happened there? I could never figure out why you stayed with him.”

  The way he’s looking at me and listening, really listening, blows away any lingering reservations I might have about sharing this with him. “After things went so disastrously wrong at homecoming, I pretty much fell in line with what my parents wanted me to do. Brad was one of those things. So were the pageants.” One of my shoulders hitches up, then falls. “I’m ashamed to say it was easier to be who they all wanted me to be, rather than fight them.”

  For a moment he doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he sees that we’re two sides of the same coin. Both trying to prove we’re worth more than what we look like or how good we are at something, more than what other people say we’re worth.