When M. J. reached the sideline, she stole a glance into the stands and waved at the cheering fans. When she did, she saw Dad, again. He wasn’t smiling, but he was clapping. The small gesture meant something—even if it was nothing more than reflex. Hell, he could scowl and never move for the rest of the game . . . because he was here. He’d seen her record-breaking game.
As M. J. angled her body back toward the field, something pulled her focus to the far left grandstand and a smiling man who looked an awful lot like Tag. Okay, now she was seeing things. It’s football, Rooney, not a fairytale.
The on-field whistle pierced her thoughts, drawing her back to the game.
By the two-minute warning, the score was tied. Two possessions later, they made a field goal for the win. Not until M. J. reached the locker room did she contemplate the magnitude of the game.
The Clash was one game away from clinching home field advantage in the playoffs. She was the current record holder for passing in the league. And Dad had seen it all. Emotion barreled through her, knocking her ass into the folding chair beside her locker, where she faced the wall of metal and released the energy in a burst of tears.
Teammates came and went, congratulating her, and M. J. hugged them all in return. She stayed at her locker long enough for her spirits to settle, and then she showered and dressed.
“Rooney, somebody’s out here, waiting patiently for you.”
It was then that M. J. remembered the man who looked like Tag. Anticipation picked at her damp skin. If she wasn’t conjuring him, if he was really there, it would be just like him to stay and greet her—he’d done it before. Despite what happened between them, despite all the reasons she knew it was for the best, she couldn’t think of anyone she wanted to see more after this game.
Securing her damp hair with a clip atop her head, she belted her tunic, zipped her boots, and came face to face with Dad instead.
“Good game,” he said.
M. J. felt faint, so overwrought with emotion her limbs went numb. Discovering Dad in the stands was one thing. Finding him waiting for her to tell her good game had to be a dream.
“Thank you,” she said, stuck by the sudden urge to look around for Tag, expecting her fairytale evening to keep producing. But he wasn’t there. Maybe he never had been.
A fleck of disappointment marred the moment. She was being greedy, wasn’t she? This should be enough.
“How about dinner?”
Dad’s invitations were far and few between, so M. J. nodded. “I’d like that.”
She followed him to the country club and parked beside him in the lot, gripping the steering wheel, breathing deeply, trying to settle her stuttering pulse. The entire drive she’d been pondering what came next. She couldn’t remember sharing a meal alone with her father since childhood.
By the time M. J. was seated at the table, she decided everything she wanted to achieve when this season began was within reach, including respect and legitimacy in the eyes of her father.
“Thanks for coming to the game,” she said. “It means a lot to me.”
Dad nodded and studied his menu like it was evidence set before him in trial.
His distance was a letdown, but she reminded herself he came to the game, acknowledged she’d played well, and asked her to dinner. They were steps in the right direction.
“The flounder is good,” he said.
Having hated fish her whole life, M. J. suppressed a juvenile gag. Why would he even say that now? He had to know she wasn’t going to take the hint. When M. J. had been growing up, there’d been actual arguments, culminating in groundings, over her refusal to eat Felicia’s fish dinners.
She was never going to understand him.
Though M. J.’s shoulders slumped, she refused to pick apart the interaction anymore. He came to the game. He asked her to dinner. Steps in the right direction, she thought again.
They ordered—him, flounder, her, the biggest burger she could find—and then she waited, patiently, to talk about the game in detail. Surely they’d broach the subject. She was the league-leading passer. How could they not talk about it? But he’d gotten a new car, and a new case assignment, and when they were done “discussing” those things, his phone distracted him.
“Pardon me,” he said, dipping into his interior jacket pocket and looking at his phone. Whatever he saw prompted a smile, a smile M. J. hadn’t seen directed at her in . . . years.
Was she really that displeasing?
“That’s wonderful news,” he said as he stared at the screen, his smile widening. “You owe your mother a congratulatory call or text. She’s just been named chair of the ballet’s yearly gala.”
M. J. halted a sigh with a gulp of ice water. The evening nosedived. She would never understand why one woman’s accomplishments were touted over another’s. Why was M. J. expected to jump with praise for Felicia’s chairwomanship, but no one was expected to do the same for M. J.’s accomplishments?
“Did you tell her to text me?” M. J. asked impulsively.
Dad blinked as he returned his phone to his pocket. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“I broke a long-standing, league record tonight. Did you tell Felicia about that? Did you tell her to congratulate me?”
“Maya Jane, I don’t know where you are going with this, but wherever it is, it’s not looking good.”
“I’m just tired of the double standards.”
He snorted, a move that lowered his eyeglasses to the tip of his nose. Some men did not look good in glasses. They looked arrogant and judgmental. Again, she thought of Tag, wishing he’d been waiting for her after the game, instead.
“Nonsense,” Dad said. “You’re the one who chose to live a life that was bound to come with resistance.”
“Who’s resisting? Not me, not the cheering fans in that stadium today.” To think Dad had been among them, and still, he didn’t get it. “The only people resisting are my parents. How sad is that?”
His bushy, gray brows lowered enough to darken his eyes. “I was there, Maya Jane. I said good game. What more do you want from me?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “This has never been about your talent as an athlete. This is about . . . your refusal to grow up and take your place in productive society.” He looked sick, pale, and beads of sweat speckled his forehead. He dabbed at them with his napkin. “Your mother . . . never would’ve played past what was acceptable.”
It had always been so damn hard for him to talk about M. J.’s mom.
“What was acceptable for a woman,” M. J. corrected, cringing. “You wouldn’t be saying this to me if I were a man.”
He pushed back his tonic water and smiled at the waiter approaching with his fish.
While M. J. picked at her fries and poked at her burger, she tried to look like everything was fine, like she wasn’t bothered by the abrupt end to their football conversation, like she was interested in the safe-to-share details from Dad’s latest case, but all the while her brain raged about what had happened here. No progress. No fairytale ending in which Dad declared he was her biggest fan. This was always going to be an issue between them for whatever reason, wasn’t it?
He’d been at the game. He’d acknowledged her stellar play. He’d invited her to dinner. So what? She could see the acts for what they were now: obligation, not enthusiasm. And that was fine with her. She’d been playing and performing all these years without his glowing approval. Nothing had to change. She’d just go back to pretending it didn’t matter.
It’s not fine if you can’t talk about it like you’re fine. Those were her over-simplistic words when she’d walked out on Tag. She’d stopped seeing him, because he’d rather pretend everything was okay than fight to make it okay. Ha! Well, what the hell was she doing right now?
She was a hypocrite, and she owed Tag an apology. But first, she needed to finish what she started here.
“Dad,” he looked up from his fish, “Your disapproval really hurts me. You have to make
a better attempt to accept me for who I am, or I’m going to stop attempting to have a relationship with you. I’m not going to change. What you see is what you get. Love it . . . or lose it.” She pushed away from the table, but not before she snagged the last bit of burger off her plate. “Thanks for the meal.”
• • •
Sunday morning, Tag woke in his own bed in his own house. It was good to be looking life in the eyes again. Of course, it would be better to be looking in M. J.’s eyes again.
She’d given a brilliant performance yesterday, and he’d wanted to tell her so. He’d tried after the game, waiting in the shadows outside the locker room, not knowing if she’d want to see him or what he’d say when she did. Congratulations seemed like a reasonable place to start, but he never got a chance. Tanya came out of the locker room, loudly greeting an older man, who’d been standing by the door. Hearing the man addressed as Judge Rooney was all it took for Tag to know it was M. J.’s father. Since Tag couldn’t figure out how he’d fit into that mix, he’d walked away.
Now, he wished he’d waited for her.
Launching out of bed, Tag ran several miles and then returned to the condo to shower and prepare for an afternoon baseball game. Maybe he could call M. J. to congratulate her. Of course, he wanted to see her again, and hoped the contact would reveal she wanted to see him, too. But after that game, and at this point in her season, he didn’t want to add more pressure.
Twice, he picked up his phone and stared at her contact information. How much pressure would one call add? While he contemplated the answer, Jordon called. They’d been playing phone tag for days.
“Hey.” He’d already talked to Grey and apologized, but he worried gruff Jordon would take things harder.
“My apologies for the runaround I gave you. I was out of the country.”
“No apology necessary—at least not from you. Have you talked to Grey?”
“I listened to the interview.”
Of course he did. Nothing baseball-related got past the sport’s sharpest agent.
“I’m sorry,” Tag said, rubbing the base of his throat. “I got angry at some things the interviewer said, and I made defensive comments about you and Grey that I regret. I screwed up.”
Jordon grunted. “Listen, if you were my client, I’d have prepped you good and hard before you talked to that man, and you would’ve expected his questions and attitude. You didn’t have me then, so you faltered, but you have me now—as a brother, if that’s what you want. I don’t blame you for the words you said in an interview. I’m not an idiot, man. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. Why do you think I waited so long to call? How can I fault you for your missteps when I was a fucking coward?”
Tag sat on the bed with his muscles gone slack. Crisp, clear air tingled in his lungs. “Thank you for understanding. I appreciate it, and I want to do something to fix things. Sports Illustrated called me and Grey, so I’m assuming they called you, too. I want us to do the cover story.”
“I appreciate the show of solidarity, but I’m not sure I’m a cover model.”
“I disagree!” A woman sing-songed in the background.
Maggie. Tag smiled. A pang of longing struck beneath his breastbone as he imagined Jordon and Maggie’s Sunday morning spent laughing and snuggling with Braydon. Grey and Nel were probably walking the dogs. Which led him right back around to M. J.
Jordon chuckled as he tried to talk Maggie into leaving the room. Her powers of persuasion were better than Tag’s, because soon Jordon said, “Fine. I might not see myself as a cover model, but I am a businessman who makes an awful lot of money based on image. This cover story could be valuable publicity for my business.”
Tag smiled. “So you’ll do it?”
“I suppose I could suffer for my bottom line..”
“He has a very nice bottom line,” Maggie yelled.
Jordon shushed her, and Tag laughed. “I really don’t want to think about how nice your bottom line is or isn’t.”
“Ditto. Listen, if we’re going to do this thing, I’m going to push to have the shoot here at the lake. I’ve been gone a lot lately, and I don’t want to add another trip to the schedule. M. J. is welcome here, too.”
The pang grew, paralyzing Tag’s lungs. “Thanks, but she . . . only has one game left before playoffs. There’s no way she’d take time off at this point.”
“Hey, there’s nobody better to understand and admire that than me. I just wanted the offer on the table.”
“Thanks, man.” Tag was chickening out again, wasn’t he? He should come clean, tell Jordon the truth. “You know, in the spirit of honesty, M. J. and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”
There. Tag said it, but he didn’t feel fine about it.
“That sucks.”
“Yep.”
“Anything I can do?”
Tag actually smiled. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just nice to share the shit parts of life and have someone to commiserate with. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”
When the call ended, Tag finished dressing. An odd sense of satisfaction surrounded him even though his life was far from perfect. That had to be a first. Again, he thought of calling M. J. He’d congratulate her, and then he’d tell her about the progress he’d made. Hell, he’d thank her, because she opened his eyes in the first place. Yeah, he was definitely going to call her.
But M. J. beat him to it.
Tag smiled at his ringing phone, feeling the vibration shoot up his arm and straight to his heart. She’d been thinking about him, too.
“Hello,” he said, not bothering to suppress his enthusiasm.
“Hi.”
Her soft breathing lingered, making it the sweetest silence he’d ever heard.
“Congratulations on the win and breaking the record. You were beyond amazing in that game.”
“You were there!” She sounded so damned pleased. Now, he really wished he’d stayed.
Tag would’ve weathered meeting her father if he could’ve seen her excitement in person. “Of course, I was there. I wouldn’t have missed it.”
She was quiet again. “I thought it was you, but I couldn’t be sure, and then you didn’t stay.”
“I stayed for a little bit, but then I saw your dad, and, well, he was there first.”
She sighed. “I wish it had been you.”
Her words were laced with pain, and a moment that should’ve been filling him with even more joy twisted. “I’m sorry.”
“Could we meet someplace . . . to talk?”
He wanted nothing more than to drop everything and run to her, but he’d dropped everything for an entire week, and he had some making-up-for-it to do. “I have to cover a baseball game, but I’m free this evening.”
“I have to work, and then I’m sparring with Tanya.”
“I can come to you. At work.”
“Like old times.” He could hear her smiling through the words.
Old times. “That wasn’t that long ago.”
“Too long,” she said.
It was. He missed the way she plied him full of watered-down vodka tonics and pushed him outside his comfort zone. Good things happened out there.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he said.
Tonight couldn’t get here fast enough.
Chapter Fifteen
Of course, the game went into extra innings, which frustrated Tag, but the minute he sat on a wooden stool at Mama Mary’s bar, he settled. And the minute M. J. handed him a vodka tonic with a sparkling smile, he shed all the aggravation he’d accumulated trying to get here.
“Evening, stranger,” she said.
There was just enough time for that husky voice to wash him in warmth before she turned her back and tended to another customer. For a Sunday, this place was busy—too busy for a meaningful talk.
What exactly did she want to talk about anyway?
Tag had his hopes up for one thing: she wanted to be with him again. He was realistic enough
to know that might not happen. All that mattered was that she called, and he was here, which meant he’d been given a chance to make things right.
Sipping his drink, Tag watched her pour a draught. Dressed in a black T-shirt and dark jeans that clung to her lean body, she tempted him like nothing and nobody ever had. His gaze locked on the boots, and he hoped beyond reason she’d worn them on purpose, knowing she was going to see him.
She passed out drinks, filled a waitress’s order, and then returned. “Sorry. It’s busier than I thought it would be.” She pushed a strand of hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear.
The simple action flexed her triceps, the same muscles Tag had seen contract every time she delivered a perfect spiral. “It’s all good,” he said. “I’m enjoying my drink.” He lifted his glass for emphasis. “And the view.”
Maybe that last part was uncalled for. After all, they hadn’t agreed to anything more than meeting and talking. He was getting ahead of himself, but it had always been that way with them. He opened his mouth to apologize.
M. J. glanced down at her boots and smiled, stopping his words.
A passing waitress called out for a beer. “Hold that thought,” M. J. said to him, and she winked.
Desire rocketed through him, warming his skin until he had to tuck a finger beneath the collar of his shirt for some air. What was happening here? It was like someone pressed rewind, running the tape straight past all the ugly parts that had ripped them apart. M. J. didn’t seem like a woman who “couldn’t do this,” and he sure wasn’t a man who wanted to keep his distance from her. Could it be this easy? Or were they setting themselves up for disappointment again?
A few minutes later, M. J. was back with a fresh drink for him and some time to spare. The bar had cleared. The rest of the room turned quiet.
Hearts Are Wild Page 55
