Mac pushed past him into her bathroom, tossing various stuff into her suitcase. “My father needs closure. I’ll see to it that he gets it.”
Bruiser stalked after her. “What about Elliot? You were taking him to the game tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. Tell him I can’t.” She sounded like she was going to cry.
“You tell him.” Bruiser didn’t cut her any slack. He was pissed.
“I don’t have time.” Mac shoved her toothpaste and toothbrush along with some other girlie stuff into a plastic bag.
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I was thinking we might actually have something, not just an occasional lay. But you won’t even give us a chance.”
“Keep your voice down. My dad can hear.” Mac shushed him like he was a recalcitrant child, which didn’t sit well with him.
“Like he’d notice if it doesn’t involve Will.”
She rounded on him, her eyes blazing. “That was out of line, mister.”
Bruiser snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning on the doorframe. “Let the police handle this. You’re both in over your heads.”
Mac stabbed a finger in the direction of the door. “Get out. Now.”
Bruiser locked his jaw and glared at her. He’d fucking had enough. One ghost in his life was one too many. He couldn’t handle two. “I won’t be back, not unless your priorities shift.”
“I’m not shifting my priorities. I’m committed to seeing this through with Dad. You’re just pretending we have more than sex because you want something from me; you want Elliot.”
“You think that’s all this is? Do you think I’m too shallow to have deep feelings?” Her accusations hurt more than he’d ever imagined, yet he’d been accused of being shallow all his life. Why should it bother him now?
“I think you’re too selfish to see how important this is to me.” Mac fisted her hands and stood up straight, looking taller and a bit like an enraged mama bear when someone was messing with her cubs.
“I’m selfish?” Bruiser laughed, a hollow sound that echoed off the walls of the room. “Take a look around you; then let’s talk about selfish. Maybe it’s easier to live your life in limbo. You never take risks. Hell, you never have to take a chance on anyone but yourself, and you can always come up with a bullshit reason why you aren’t available emotionally and physically.”
“Finding my brother is not bullshit.” Mac’s voice rose a few decibels short of shrieking.
“It is if you devote your entire life to it and have nothing left to show for it but regrets. What if you never find him? That’s highly possible. How long do you plan on doing this? Another year? Another five years? Another ten years? Another twenty years?”
“However long it takes.” Mac walked to the door, holding it open for him.
“Then I guess we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“I guess not.” He heard a note of regret in her voice, as if someone had let the air out of her anger.
Bruiser walked to the door and paused. “Be careful.”
“I will. Good luck at your game.” She refused to meet his gaze.
“Thanks.”
Bruiser walked to his car. This time he wouldn’t be coming back in a few minutes to apologize. He was done.
They’d sung their last song together, and there wouldn’t be an encore.
Chapter 20—Stopping the Play
Bruiser glanced at the game clock: 6:32 left in the game. It was twenty-one to fourteen, Steelheads ahead and in possession of the ball. He lined up in the backfield and sprinted past Harris toward the sideline. Harris faked a handoff, then tossed the ball on a slant route for a ten-yard gain. Seven plays later, Bruiser took the handoff from Harris, kept his legs churning, and powered five yards into the end zone, taking a couple defenders with him. The rowdy crowd in the stadium went wild. Bruiser grinned, over the hundred-yard mark for the game. Damn good way to start the new season. Helluva lot better than last year. But then, last year, the team hadn’t been running on all cylinders.
Bruiser jogged off the field, pausing long enough to salute the skybox where Elliot sat with Rachel, Kelsie, and Lavender. He sank down on the bench, chest heaving, lungs screaming for oxygen. It was a fucking hot day, and he downed a couple cups of Gatorade, not giving a shit that the sticky liquid ran down his face.
Brett slid next to him on the bench and elbowed him in the side. “Good job.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Bruiser couldn’t stop grinning. Damn, he loved this game.
“Is Mac up there?”
“Uh, no, Elliot is.” What a way to deflate his good mood. Mac’s absence weighed heavily on him. He’d hoped she’d have a change of heart and show up to surprise him, but she hadn’t. He’d put her cute face and sexy little body out of his mind on the field, but elsewhere, he just wasn’t that strong. As soon as he jogged off the field, thoughts of her flooded his brain, which pissed him off—a little. Women did not affect him like this. But Mac did.
Brett studied him for a moment, nodded, and joined Harris and the coach huddled over a clipboard while poring over the next set of offensive plays. Bruiser rubbed his face with a towel and guzzled another cup of Gatorade.
On the next play, Murphy nailed San Diego’s running back for a loss. The veteran linebacker fell on the fumbled ball. Bruiser leaped to his feet, yelling along with the sold-out crowd. Game over. The Steelheads won it, twenty-eight to fourteen.
Absolutely damn good way to start a season.
Except for this business with Mac.
Bruiser jogged down the tunnel to the locker room, accepting his teammates’ praise with a nod or a high five. A bevy of reporters converged on him as soon as entered. They loved his interviews. Bruiser fielded their questions
