by Elley Arden
Chapter Twelve
M. J. tossed her duffle bag in the open hatch beneath the touring bus and reached into her back pocket for her ringing phone.
“Ooh! Is that your yummy man?” Jillian asked with a cheesy grin. “Doctor Yummy.”
“Maybe,” M. J. answered with a laugh. She’d refused to spend last night with him, citing proper preparation for the game. He was probably calling to complain that the sheets were cold.
She glanced at the phone with a smile on her face, but the happy expression turned to shock when she saw the Caller ID. Dad.
“Hey,” she said, pressing the phone to her ear as she boarded the bus, feeling the jumble of confusion and excitement in her gut. He rarely called. He never called near game day—that would mean he might have to talk about the sport he wished his daughter didn’t play.
Maybe from all the post-game texts that went unacknowledged he’d realized she was on pace to break the league passing record and wanted to wish her good luck. Pigs didn’t fly, but pigskin could.
“Maya …” For a split second that was all she heard. No matter how many times she told him she preferred the shorter, stronger version of her name, he insisted on using her more feminine, given name. But she would forgive that if he ever found it in his heart to follow Maya Jane with I’m proud of you. “It’s your mother’s birthday,” he said instead. “I’ve been remiss at planning something. This trial is taking up all of my time, but I managed to make a reservation for dinner tonight. Of course, I want you to be there.”
Of course. To think M. J. thought it remotely possible Dad was calling to say he was proud of her was pathetic. At twenty-seven years old, she should’ve known better. He should’ve known better, too. It was the middle of the season, and he hadn’t even considered she might have a game when he made the reservation? Or was it worse than that? Had he considered it and deemed it unimportant enough to not matter?
The burn of tears trapped behind M. J.’s wide, stoic eyes as she claimed a seat with a despondent plop. “I can’t. I’m on my way to Indiana for a game.” Maybe it was immature, but she stressed that last two words.
He grunted, a sound that stuck between disappointment and disgust. “Well, then, could you at least text her and wish her well today?”
“Already did.” Because she wasn’t completely heartless when it came to them. They, on the other hand, could take a page out of their almighty good-manners book. “Maybe one of you could text me and wish me well, too? Indiana is a tough team, and I’m close to breaking a record.”
His exhale echoed. “You know we want what’s best for you.”
“Does that include football?”
“You have more to offer the world than bartending and barbarism.”
“There’s more to football than barbarism, Dad. I wish you could see that.”
“I have to go.”
Of course he did. God forbid they have an extended conversation about what mattered most to M. J.
She ended the call, intent on settling her emotions and getting her head back on the game.
Tanya dropped into the seat beside her. “Hello, stranger.”
M. J. rolled her eyes. “Cut the stranger crap. I slept at home last night, and I see you every single day at practice and the bar.” She ticked off the places on an equal number of fingers.
“Those don’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because we can’t talk when you’re sleeping, or practicing, or working.
M. J. stared at her best friend, who had a good point. They hadn’t spent much quality time together lately. “Do you want to talk about something?”
Tanya shrugged. “Do you? Pop heard something on the radio yesterday. I was just wondering if it was true or if I need to get his head looked at.”
The interview? It couldn’t be. Surely Tag would’ve told M. J. when it aired. “I’m going to need more to go on than that.”
“Pop said Doc is Grey Kemmons’s brother.” Tanya’s eyes widened. “I told him it couldn’t be true, because you would’ve told me already if it were. I mean, Grey Kemmons! You know how I feel about that boy. Second only to Yadi.” She laid a hand over her breast.
M. J. sighed and sunk lower in her seat, knowing it would kill Tanya to find out M. J. had met Grey. But she didn’t have the right to share Tag’s heartache with other people.
The more pressing thing was the interview had aired, and Tag hadn’t told her. That meant one of two things: either he didn’t know it aired, or he knew, but he didn’t want anyone else to know. If it was the latter, then why? And so much for being open and honest.
“Tag and Grey are brothers,” M. J. said. “But that’s really all I’m comfortable saying until I’ve talked to Tag. Just know it’s not an easy topic.”
Tanya nodded. “Okay, as long as you promise to get me in the same room with Grey as soon as you can. I want him to sign my jersey.” She smiled and slid on her headphones.
M. J. stared out the window as the bus pulled away from the stadium. Rain splotched the pavement. She wasn’t happy with how this trip started. First Dad’s call, then Tanya’s revelation, and now worry about Tag, all when M. J. needed to be focused on tomorrow’s game.
An hour later, she was still stewing, and decided the best way to move on was to text Tag and get it out of the way: Pop heard the interview. Did you know it aired?
No response.
It was Friday, and he had patients. Maybe he was busy.
As the bus pulled into the hotel parking lot, her phone vibrated.
Tag: Yes, I did, but I don’t want to talk about it.
So they were back to that.
Tag: You need to focus on your game.
Okay, she responded, even though nothing felt settled.
Instead of going out for a late dinner, M. J. feigned stomach upset, which wasn’t a far reach. Alone in her room, she gave in and called Tag. She wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything else until she talked to him.
Her call went straight to voicemail.
Dammit!
She used her phone to search the internet and find a podcast of the interview. Instinct told her what she was about to hear wouldn’t be good. She curled into herself, but pressed play.
At the one-minute mark, the interviewer asked, “Are you a Kemmons?”
“I’m a Howard,” Tag said.
“But you’re a Kemmons by birth.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not a Kemmons in name.”
“I was placed in foster care when I was nine.”
Even with apparent cuts for editing, the interview dragged on. On more than one occasion, M. J.’s finger itched to hit the stop button. With each belabored word, the foreboding grew. Tag knew the interview was out, didn’t he? Was he trying to hide it from her? It was rough, but he seemed to be holding his own against the pointed questions.
Suddenly, Tag’s hardened voice cut through M. J.’s mental meanderings. “You tell me who’s sitting pretty. They’re successful, sure, but remember ultimately who fixed whom.”
M. J. squeezed her eyes shut and hit “stop.” She couldn’t listen anymore. Those were the words of a defensive, arrogant man, not the man she’d come to know. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it.
Tough.
She called him again, undeterred by his voicemail. “I heard it. Please, call me. I’m worried.”
Stop worrying, he texted. I’m fine. Get some sleep. Focus on football. We’ll talk after the game.
If he was fine, he would’ve called her back.
She didn’t sleep a wink.
• • •
Even though it had stopped raining overnight, the skies never cleared. M. J. didn’t mind playing in overcast weather as long as her wideouts could catch. But by halftime, the sky seemed especially ominous. Probably a sign. She couldn’t seem to shake the doom and gloom she’d been feeling since she got on the bus.
“Rooney, you good?” Coach asked as they jogg
ed from the locker room to the field.
“Yes, sir,” she said, avoiding eye contact.
“Good, because we need some points on the board if we’re going to win.”
There was a novel idea. She’d been telling herself and her teammates that the entire first half. “You got it, Coach. Points, coming right up.”
And they did, only not for the Clash. M. J. fumbled on the thirty-yard line, which led to an Indiana field goal. As she sat despondent on the end of the bench, fear sliced through her. Worse than playing poorly was not being able to drag herself out of the hole she’d fallen into. There was no spark, no will to win, no matter how hard she tried.
She’d been fighting her whole life to prove she was good enough, and for the first time she wondered if she really was.
For the rest of the game, M. J. went through the motions with little efficiency. If it weren’t for a Clash interception returned for a touchdown, they would have lost. Because of her. It was that bad.
“Rooney, shake it off,” Coach said. “A win’s a win.”
It was true, but it wasn’t comforting. She didn’t want to be a liability to her team, and the past two games, that’s exactly what she’d been, because she was trying to have it all, a respectful relationship with her father, a romantic relationship with Tag, and a successful football career.
Something was going to have to give, and it wasn’t going to be football.
• • •
The last time Tag covered a Sunday game, M. J. fell out of the stands and changed his life. Hell, so much more than his relationship status had changed, and those changes were overwhelming.
“Grey Kemmons is your brother?” Rinaldi walked into the training room dressed in nothing but his sliding shorts. “I played with him in Triple-A. Great guy.”
Tag nodded.
“Jordon Kemmons played ball, too, right?” Rinaldi asked while he climbed onto a table for his pregame massage. “Did you play?”
“Nope.”
The therapist glanced at Tag, and even that tiny bit of eye contact felt judgmental, which made Tag turn and walk away before anyone could ask why he hadn’t played the sport that was tantamount to a religion in the Kemmons family. He’d been fielding questions about his lineage since he arrived at the stadium, and he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He’d said all he had to say. It was time to move on.
Too bad nobody else saw it that way.
All he’d wanted was some relief from the burden of carrying this information. Had he known he’d be answering the same questions over and over again for everyone he met, he wouldn’t have opened his mouth to anyone in the first place. He couldn’t even do his job without people bringing up the interview, and that made him wonder what people were really thinking. Poor kid was probably high on that list. Well, Tag wasn’t poor and he wasn’t a kid—not anymore. He had power. He controlled his life, and he could make his own decisions. Enough was enough.
Marc walked into the room, his gaze locked on Tag. “You never told me.”
“I never told anyone,” Tag said, wishing that would keep more questions at bay.
“That’s a big secret to keep.”
“It wasn’t exactly a secret, more like an unnecessary topic.”
“When I told you Kemmons texted for your contact information because he had a patient for you to see, you didn’t think it might be necessary to say, ‘Hey, Marc, thanks. By the way, he’s my brother.’”
“No.”
“Touchy subject.”
“Did you listen to the interview?”
“No, Pratt told me.”
It figured. Tag had gone from being an up-and-coming sports medicine guru to a topic of operating room gossip. “Apparently, he didn’t tell you enough,” he said. “And unfortunately for you, I’m done talking about it.” Because it was Tag’s life, and he could choose to end this conversation right here.
“Whatever, man.” Marc shook his head and walked away.
Tag faltered for a second. His shoulders drooped. He was a better friend than that—he wanted to be a better friend than that—but this exposure festered like a raw wound in the center of his chest, and all he wanted to do was cover it, so it could heal.
Then cover it, he thought, rolling back his shoulders and plastering a smile on his face. He’d let the emotions settle, and then he’d find Mark to apologize.
After the baseball game, Tag pulled into his garage eager for a sanctuary that only a few days ago he expected would include M. J. Now he wasn’t so sure. She’d heard the interview, and now it was time to talk about it. Where was the sanctuary in that?
After changing, he mixed a Goose and tonic, and then he sat, staring at the flickering television, wondering when the shit storm that had become his life would pass.
The knock at the front door surprised him. M. J. knew the garage code. On his way to the door, he flipped through a mental Rolodex of anyone else it could be. A reporter? His gut hardened, but with a blast of breath he told himself he was getting carried away. Still, he pressed an eye to the peephole. For some reason, his heart sank when he saw it was M. J.
“Did you forget the code?” he asked when he’d opened the door, careful to keep his smile.
“No, I, uh, just decided to come this way.” She, however, wasn’t smiling.
She was gorgeous in tight black pants and an oversized, colorful blouse belted at the waist. One sleeve slipped down her arm, revealing her smooth shoulder. If she didn’t look so worried, strangling her keys and nervously biting her bottom lip, he’d have yanked her by the hand and pulled her in for a kiss.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, even though he knew it wasn’t. Still, he forced a smile.
She studied him, the lip never getting a break from her gnawing. “You tell me.”
“Everything’s great … now,” he said, giving in to the need to hold her, pulling her closer with an arm around her waist. He placed a kiss below her ear and waited for the peace to seep in.
She responded in kind, wrapping her arms around his neck, and for a minute, everything was perfect. Tag’s mood soared on the realization they could move past the turmoil and concentrate on nothing but this.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the interview airing?” she asked.
He lifted his face from her neck. “Because I didn’t want to talk about it before your game. Honestly, I still don’t want to talk about it. What’s done is done.”
“That worries me.”
“It shouldn’t. I’m fine.”
“You didn’t sound fine in the interview.”
Tag released her and stepped away, just enough so he could breathe through the disappointment. He wanted one person who didn’t see this pathetic mess when they looked at him. “It was hard to be hammered with those things. I said what I had to say to keep moving forward, and now I’m done.”
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes like she was looking for something written on his face. He had news for her. She wasn’t going to find anything there, not anymore. He was done with the revelations, and he was happy to be wearing the mask again.
“Are you done with Jordon and Grey?”
He looked away from her.
“Tag, you’ve come so far in such a short time, don’t turn around and go back to the way it was.”
Going back was exactly what he didn’t want. Why would he want to go back to a world where he wasn’t good enough, where he was worse than a third wheel, where he was disposable?
“You don’t understand,” he ground out.
She sighed. “And I can’t if you keep saying it’s fine when it’s clearly not. It’s not fine if you can’t talk about it like it’s fine. Refusing to talk about it isn’t progress. Talking about it honestly, owning it because it’s a part of you, that’s what you should be striving for.”
He didn’t want it to be a part of him, not when it was a constant reminder of how he wasn’t good enough. All this reconnecting with Jordon and Grey seemed like
the right thing to do when the rest of the world wasn’t staring at Tag, wondering what was so wrong with him that his father gave him away in the first place.
Crossing arms over his chest, he countered, “So now you’re my therapist?”
Her beautiful face hardened until the muscle in her cheek twitched. He welcomed her anger, because it was better than her pity.
“No,” she said. “I thought I was someone you could be honest with. I’m starting to wonder if that applies to anyone in this whole wide world.”
“I am honest with you.”
“When it’s comfortable and convenient. You never told me how harsh that interview got. We shared the same bed afterward, and you never said anything. Sex is supposed to be about intimacy and connecting with someone on the deepest level possible, but it wasn’t, because you were holding out on me, and you would’ve continued to do so if Tanya hadn’t told me about the interview being released. You were going to keep it from me. Weren’t you?”
“No!” This was out of control. She was misinterpreting everything.
“Then tell me now. Tell me exactly how you felt then, and how you feel now.”
He grimaced, the muscles in his face a reflection of the rest of his body. “Angry. I’m angry.”
“At your father? At your brothers? At the interviewer?”
“At you,” he hissed, because this wasn’t the night he expected or needed. “Because you won’t let it go.”
She stepped to him, face to face, her breath hot against his mouth, and then she jabbed a finger into the flesh above his heart. “You’re the one who won’t let it go. And as long as you’re holding onto it, I can’t do this.”
He gripped her wrist, the searing pain in his chest telling him the answer to his question before he even asked, “Do what?”
“Us,” she whispered. “I almost blew that game. If it weren’t for a touchdown scored by the defense, we would’ve lost, because of me, because my head and heart were here with you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for her, getting as far as her waist before she backed away.
