Diana Mars - Mixed-Up Matrimony

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Cory, with love: May all the decisions you make in life fulfill all your dreams.

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Twenty

Notre Dame’s famed Golden Dome loomed straight ahead, gleaming under the rays of an autumn sun.

Bronson Kensington looked at it with mounting frustration. Ever since he’d received the call from Brandy Cavanaugh, his cousin and head tennis coach at Deerbrook High, fury at his only child had mounted.

How dare he? How could Christopher have done this to him? Even dared consider it?

As Bronson drove around the Courtney Tennis Center—the impressive Irish outdoor facility—he bitterly reflected that he would have loved having the opportunity to attend a school with the tradition, name-recognition and academic excellence that this South Bend university boasted.

Unlike his wealthy cousin, Bronson had been forced to settle for two years at a community college, after which he’d been able to transfer to Central Illinois College. He’d learned the hard way that top jobs were acquired through connections.

For his son, his pride and joy, Bronson wished the world. He wanted Christopher’s college years to be worry free, a golden time in his life he could look back on fondly.

As Bronson searched for a racy red Toyota Celica, he rocked his lower jaw from side to side. It was sore and stiff from his nervous grinding of teeth ever since he’d gotten the phone call from Brandy earlier in the day....

“Bronson, sorry to bother you at work—” she’d begun.

“What is it, Brandy?” Bronson had asked, alarmed. Although he and his cousin were close, their busy schedules meant they seldom had time to see each other, and Brandy would not call unless it was something urgent. “Christopher! Is he hurt? Was he in an accident? Did he—?”

“Hold on, hold on, Bronson,” Brandy Cavanaugh said in a soothing tone.

“What, then? My parents?” Bronson had been feeling uneasy lately, but he’d attributed the vague, free-floating anxiety to the inevitable worry that accompanied rearing a teen.

“No, you were right the first time. It’s Christopher—”

“Did he get into a fight? If so, I’m going to tan his hide so hard he’ll think he spent a week in the tropics—”

“If you’d just let me get a word in...” Brandy gently admonished.

Bronson took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll calm down.”

Hearing Brandy’s hesitation at the other end, Bronson felt his heart race and his palms sweat.

“You know I’ve had some of the boys work with the girls, to prepare them for the conference meets, and state.”

Visions of Christopher overpowering some fragile junior girl crowded his vision, turning it red. With his serve, his son could really hurt someone.

As if reading his mind, Brandy said, “And no, he didn’t mouth off, or nail someone on the court. I only let him hit with my top varsity player, Sabrina. And she can hold her own.”

Bronson had heard Christopher’s wild ravings about the number one girl player at the beginning of the school year, when Christopher had confided in his father his hopes of being accepted into Notre Dame. That had been before the deluge for orders at the factory, when Bronson had been forced to put in twelve-hour days and seven-day weeks at work just to keep up with the demand. He’d been trying to come home earlier the past couple of weeks, but lately his son never seemed to be home.

Impatient to get to the bottom of this, Bronson looked at his watch. A client was due any moment.

“Okay, so he’s not hurt, and he didn’t harm anyone. So what’s the big deal?”

“Did Christopher mention a girl named Hayward? Sabrina Hayward?”

“Yeah. He enthused about her when school started, but he hasn’t said anything lately.”

The silence at the other end of the line grew ominous.

Clenching his teeth, Bronson asked with deceptive mildness, “What does this Sabrina Hayward have to do with Christopher?”

“I’d noticed how friendly Christopher and Sabrina had become during practice, but I thought they were just friends. It’s quite common for competitors at their level to seek other juniors who can identify with the pressure they are under.” From Brandy’s gentle tone, Bronson could tell that his cousin was warning him to keep cool. But she’d better not talk about pressure. Pressure was working your way through school, and not knowing if there would be enough money to eat, let alone graduate. “They were supposed to hit together this morning with my assistant coach, since Christopher was being scouted at Notre Dame this afternoon and Sabrina has a tough invite coming up. Well, my assistant coach called in sick this morning. Imagine my surprise when I went over to the courts, and neither Christopher nor Sabrina was there.”

Bronson’s insides clenched into a rigid knot. “And?”

“I was worried, because they are both good students and responsible athletes.”

Bronson could tell his cousin was trying to soften the blow that was coming. But all she did was heighten the suspense...and it was killing him.

“Out with it, Brandy! Why isn’t my son in school?”

“I made some discreet inquiries, and finally found out that Christopher was certain he’d get a scholarship from Notre Dame, and he wanted Sabrina to be with him.”

Brandy paused for a moment before delivering the final blow. “They’ve decided to elope.”

* * *

Tamara Hayward finally located the object of her frantic search: a late-model, shiny black Mustang. How could Sabrina have been so inconsiderate?

After all the late-night talks they’d had, after all the times Sabrina had deplored the subservient attitude of many of the cheerleaders at her school—as well as some of the other young women—who chased the football players like groupies, neglecting their own studies and ambitions simply to be part of a group, to belong, to make sure they would have a warm body on that all-important teenage altar, the Saturday night date—how could Sabrina have pulled a stunt like this?

When Meghan Donahue had stopped by the house that morning, Tamara had been in a rush. She’d overslept, which was unusual in itself, because even though Tamara was not a morning creature, she practiced punctuality like a religion—and she had been surprised to open the door so early in the day to her daughter’s best friend.

“Hi, Meghan. Did your car break down?”

Meghan had looked at the floor in the living room as if it contained the answer to life’s riddles.

“No, Mrs. Hayward. Sabrina swore me to secrecy, and I hate to betray her like this....”

Tamara had looked down at the girl’s curly red hair and felt the first stirrings of doubt.

“What is it, Meghan? I know you only have Brina’s best interests at heart, and I’m sure she won’t mind your telling me. Is she flunking something? Did she get called into the principal’s office?”

Meghan’s hazel eyes were positively tortured as she raised her head and looked at Tamara.

“Sabrina is going to hate me for this, and I know she will never count me as her friend again, but I just have to—”

Alarmed, Tamara grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “Yes, Meghan. What is it? Is she sick? Did she get into a car accident?”