“You’re right. You aren’t going anywhere unless we all go—as a family.” She traced his rugged jaw with her index finger. “I love you, you know.”
“And I love you—all four of you.”
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my wonderful friend, Sriya, for beta reading each chapter and answering my weird questions about growing up in a family of multiples.
Thank you to Jessica and Beata, my newest “fans” and tireless cheerleaders.
I am honored to have your support.
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer DeCuir.
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
an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
57 Littlefield Street
Avon, MA 02322
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7959-8
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7959-2
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7960-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7960-8
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 © 123rf.com/curaphotography
Heal My Heart
Book 3 in the Kemmons Brothers Baseball series
Elley Arden
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
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
To my parents, who never blinked when I wanted to play hockey, football, and soccer—with the boys. Thank you for celebrating me for who I am, not who you wanted me to be.
Chapter One
Beer did not belong at baseball games. Not on a Sunday afternoon when there were little, jersey-wearing kids in search of foul balls, not foul mouths.
M. J. Rooney rolled her eyes in commiseration at the clearly uncomfortable kid sitting on her left while the loudmouth behind them spewed vulgarities at the first-base umpire, who was no more than forty feet away. How had the kid’s dad not said anything yet? He sat on the other side of the boy, drinking his beer like the antics of the man behind them were perfectly tolerable.
They weren’t.
The jerk stood for the millionth time today, bumping the back of M. J.’s head with his knee.
She growled and faced her friend and roommate, Tanya, who was seemingly as oblivious to the commotion as the kid’s dad. “You know? If I wanted to deal with drunken fools, I could’ve picked up an extra shift at the bar—and gotten paid for it.”
Tanya’s face wrinkled while she chewed a mouthful of popcorn, and then she shrugged her broad shoulders. “Aw, come on. This is fun.”
Not for M. J. The rude person behind her aside, she struggled with being a spectator and would much rather be out on the field, even if baseball wasn’t her game. Sitting in a stadium filled with thousands of screaming fans summoned a tsunami of adrenaline, making her muscles twitch. She was pretty damn sure she could throw that ball more accurately than Cleveland’s last two pitchers. After all, accuracy was the hallmark of any quarterback worth his or her weight in eye-black.
“Fans, please stand for the seventh-inning stretch,” boomed a voice over the loud speaker.
M. J. stood if for no other reason than to give her muscles some action.
“Is that a Clash jersey?” The Neanderthal behind them snickered as he poked a finger into Tanya’s left shoulder blade. “That’s a Clash jersey.” He stuck out his yellow tongue. “Girls can’t play football. That’s a joke.”
Right before Tanya turned around, she flashed M. J. “the look”—the one that said, “Bitch, you’re dead,” when directed at the opposing team’s cornerback, who was heading straight for M. J. outside the pocket.
“You got a problem with women playing football?” Tanya asked, getting way up in the guy’s face, which wasn’t hard with her six-foot-one frame.
A few people around them stared, while others obliviously swayed as they sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Right about now, M. J. would’ve given anything to have someone take her out of the ball game, because if the tightening in her gut was any indication, this wasn’t going to end well.
“I play football,” Tanya spit. “You wanna make something of it?”
The guy’s glossy eyes widened, and M. J. gripped Tanya’s wrist in a show of peace as much as solidarity. Where M. J. would do her best to diffuse the situation with words, Tanya, the daughter of a boxing coach, preferred to use fists.
“Ooh. Is that your girlfriend?” The guy howled at his own juvenile question.
The guy next to him tried distraction with the least-effective action—he handed him another beer. Just what the jerk needed, more alcohol.
M. J. reached for Tanya’s other hand and tugged on it to turn her around. The singing stopped. People around them returned to their seats, but M. J. refused to sit until Tanya sat, too. All the while, she wished her best friend and captain of the O-line didn’t feel the need to represent the team everywhere they went. Pride was an excellent thing, but unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time Tanya’s apparel got them into trouble outside the Clash stadium. People just weren’t that open minded when it came to women playing football.
One of these days, the Clash was going to win a championship and, along with it, some respect. Then maybe they wouldn’t become targets for assholes who couldn’t run a mile, let alone suit up and compete with a women’s professional full-tackle football team.
Back in their seats, M. J. noticed the staccato rise and fall of Tanya’s chest as she tried to calm herself down. “He’s not worth it,” M. J. said. “If you get into another fight, Coach will bench you.” Tanya’s dark eyes locked on M. J. “I need you on the field.”
“Fine,” Tanya snapped, nostrils flaring.
They turned their attention back to the game. M. J. focused on the pitcher, trying not to let the run-in with the guy behind them spoil her only day off this week. An inning later, the boy beside her stood to let his father pass.
“You sure you don’t want to come, bud?” the man asked from his place in the aisle.
The boy shook his head and wiggled a mitt onto his left hand. “No way. Polla hits a lot of fouls.”
M. J. smiled. She liked kids. One of her favorite parts of being a professional athlete was signing autographs for boys who were shocked she could actually play, and girls who suddenly realized they had every right to play, too.
Five minutes after the boy’s father left, the unmistakable crack of wood meeting leather ripped through the stadium, bringing everyone on the first-base line to their feet. The ball hung in the cloud-splotched sky.
The kid reached his glove overhead, hitting M. J. in the jaw. She didn’t mind, though. In fact, she’d locked onto that ball like a pass-starved wide receiver. If she had anything to do with it, this kid was getting that ball.
And he did.
The bullet hit her left shoulder before it tumbled into his glove. She winced, but shook it off. At least it wasn’t her throwing arm. And the kid . . . he was beaming . . . until the jerk behind them reached for the ball, jostling the glove.
“Lemme see i
t!” He sprayed beer-tinged spit into the air.
Horror flashed on the child’s face as the ball rolled out of his glove, hitting the seat, only to be scooped up by the drunken man.
“Finders keepers,” the guy said, laughing.
“Give it back,” the boy shouted. “It’s mine.”
People around them agreed, but the man pretended to spit-shine the ball on his T-shirt and shook his head.
Tanya growled. “Give the ball to the kid.”
All M. J. could see was Tanya’s fist connecting with the guy’s fleshy cheek—which was warranted, but not the way M. J. wanted to start this football season—so she shoved between the confrontational pair as best she could and attempted diplomacy. “Come on. He’s been waiting all game for one. He’s just a kid.” She held her hand palm up. “Be the bigger man.”
The guy laughed. “I think your girlfriend’s the bigger man.”
Tanya lunged, and M. J. steeled against her. As the man wobbled in his drunken state, M. J. grabbed the ball. She had just enough time to pass it off to the child before the guy’s two-hundred-fifty-plus frame careened over their seats, falling into M. J., who felt the railing scrape the back of her thighs.
“Grab my hand,” Tanya yelled. But it was too late.
Bottom of the eighth, M. J. Rooney face-planted on the right field warning track.
• • •
Dr. Tag Howard kicked his feet onto the seat of the chair across from him and admired the image on the phone being shoved under his nose by the team’s orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Marcus Kent. As far as game coverage went, working with Marc was optimal, because it meant Tag gave up his complimentary seats in the stadium so Marc’s wife and three kids could see the game instead. That way, Tag could stay in the clubhouse.
It wasn’t that Tag didn’t like watching baseball—or any other sport for that matter. He just liked fixing hurt athletes better. Besides, being near the field reminded him of not-so-pleasant things.
“She’s gorgeous,” he said, eyeing the platinum paint job on the Mercedes S-Class that Marc was considering buying.
“Look at this interior.” Marc swiped a finger over the screen, changing the picture.
Tag held the phone closer. He could almost smell the flawless, hand-stitched leather. The image of top-of-the-line perfection warmed him somehow. Maybe it was time for him to get a new car. Maybe this one, if Marc wasn’t buying it.
“What’s holding you back?” Tag asked.
Marc chuckled. “The $95,000 price tag. Meredith’s off to college next year, and that’s a semester and a half of tuition payments.”
Tag nodded even though he didn’t have a clue as to what college cost these days. He’d been lucky enough to be adopted by a wealthy family who paid his tuition in full—all the way through med school. A charmed life, he’d been told. And it was, if he didn’t think about what came before Edna Dean and Simon Howard opened their Shaker Heights home to an unwanted nine-year-old boy.
“So lease it,” Tag said, chasing away the memory with the power of his voice and passing the phone back to Marc. As he did, the silver box lit up and vibrated.
As team physicians, their phones went off all the time, but Tag thought he recognized the name of the texter—and it was the last name on earth he expected to see.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Tag reset his brain. It couldn’t be his biological brother’s name flashing on Marc’s phone. Tag must’ve been seeing things, a vision brought on by his earlier thoughts.
It’s not him. Calm down.
But no amount of rational thinking could stop his throat from squeezing shut. He turned his head toward the television to hide his discomfort, and cold sweat covered his skin. He tried to swallow hard enough to break the blockage and get some air to his lungs so he could stop the panic, but he failed.
“Huh. Jordon Kemmons has a player he wants you to see,” Marc said. “He asked for your number.”
Bad joke, Tag thought. But it couldn’t be a joke. As far as he could tell, no one outside his adoptive family knew about his biological connection to baseball’s storied Kemmons brothers.
“How ’bout I tell him I’ll pass his number along to you?”
Tag nodded. Somehow the motion loosed the knot in his throat, and he reminded himself that Jordon wanted to talk about a player, not rehash their abysmal childhoods that ended up with awkward Tag in a foster home while his athletic brothers, Jordon and Grey, were placed on the fast-track to professional baseball.
Marc’s palm landed on Tag’s back. “You have arrived, my friend. When the biggest agent in baseball comes a-callin’, you’re the real deal. Do you think it’s Causeway? I heard he’s struggling with rehab after the Tommy John surgery. If you get Causeway back on the field, every agent in baseball will be referring players to you. Damn! How’d you get so lucky?”
“I have no idea,” Tag whispered.
The minute he accepted this job with the group of physicians who covered Cleveland’s major athletic teams, he worried the day would come when his past collided with his present. But he wanted this, worked hard for this—the opportunity to prove to his biological father wrong. There was a place in professional baseball for a boy like Tag, just not on the field, where Tag had received the brunt of his father’s emotional abuse.
Now, it was time to face the consequences of that decision.
Tag’s stomach churned, but he banished the unrest with a deep inhale. He’d keep a barrier between himself and Jordon. His office manager could call Jordon’s assistant and arrange for the injured player to be flown to Cleveland for a consultation. It happened all the time. Agents went outside team medical sources for second opinions. Sometimes they accompanied the player, sometimes they didn’t. Under the circumstances and with a mutual history riddled with discomfort, Tag figured Jordon would want to stay as far away as he could.
“Is that a fan on the field?”
Tag snapped his head in the direction of the television suspended on the far wall. The first baseman, Johnnie Foreman, and an umpire were bent over a lump on the warning track.
Marc was already out of his seat. “This night just got a whole lot more interesting.”
After Jordon’s text message, it was interesting enough, as far as Tag was concerned. He had no desire to be close to the field on the heels of that, but he jogged behind Marc toward the hallway staircase that led to the dugout. No matter what the injury was, if it happened in the seats, paramedics took control, but if it happened on the field, it was the team physicians’ jurisdiction. Not knowing whether the injury was orthopedic or medical meant they both had to assess the injury. Lucky him. Tag cringed.
“Probably some drunken idiot,” Marc said, right before Tag took a huge breath and stepped onto the field.
Marc couldn’t have been more wrong.
Just beyond first base in the dirt of the warning track, a woman stared up at Tag with watery, translucent eyes. They were the color of a Caribbean sea and, suddenly, the unrest that plagued Tag the minute he stepped onto the field waned. Whoever she was, she was gorgeous, but the blank expression on her sharply angled face bothered him.
“She just came to about a minute ago,” Chris Chalmer, the team’s trainer, said.
“Anything broken?” Marc asked.
If anything was, that could be Tag’s cue to step back and let Mark take over. Then Tag could work his way off the field and return to the comfort of the clubhouse while Marc and Chris tended to the break.
But Tag knew it was a concussion the minute he saw her vacant stare.
He dropped to his knees.
The wind picked up around them, tossing a ribbon of caramel hair across her face where a strand stuck between her lips. She didn’t move except to blink.
Hooking his finger around the loose bend of the strand at her ear, Tag tugged it free on instinct.
She smiled, and something other than discomfort at his current on-field location buzzed in his blood. He ran with it, if only to get thr
ough the exam.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Howard. What’s your name?”
“Maya Jane,” she answered. Her voice was soft and scratchy. “But don’t call me that. I hate that name.”
He nodded, holding in the smile he wanted to release. This wasn’t the time or place. They had an audience—and not just the small group of players, officials, and medical staff surrounding them. Forty thousand pairs of eyes were wondering a) what happened and b) when the game would resume. The field was one big arena of judgment.
“Get the hell off the field,” a fan heckled.
Those exact words were a one-way ticket back to a rundown little league field in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where Tag had heard his biological father spout the very same thing—because there was “no place in baseball” for an uncoordinated kid like him. And apparently, there had been no room in Francis Kemmons’s life for a boy like that, either.
His breathing weakened as he confronted the demons again, but as he focused on the peaceful blue of the woman’s eyes, his pulse settled, too. “What’s your last name?” he asked.
“Rooney.”
“Then how about I call you Miss Rooney?” Tag glanced at her left hand to make sure “Mrs.” wasn’t more appropriate. When he didn’t see a ring, he bit back another smile. This one slightly more troubling, because it was born from an undeniable attraction—something he shouldn’t be thinking about during an exam.
“Fine.”
“Good. Miss Rooney, how did you end up on the field?”
“It’s my job to be on the field.”
Tag raised his brows and looked up at Marc.
“Concussion,” Marc mouthed.
Tag gave his head an almost imperceptible nod. For all he knew, Maya Jane Rooney wasn’t even her name—although making up an identity would take one hell of a blow to the head.
“Do you know where we are, Miss Rooney?”
Hearts Are Wild Page 42
