Oh, God. Her mother’s pin. She took it and brought it to her heart. “Okay, now I feel like a mean, bitchy idiot.”
Wade shook his head. “Definitely not mean. And definitely not an idiot either.”
And as he walked off, he actually left her with a laugh. Because he was right. She was bitchy.
Dammit.
Chapter 13
Progress always involves risks. You can’t steal second base and keep your foot on first.
—Frederick B. Wilcox
Wade walked away from Sam’s office, through the Heat’s huge facility, telling himself to just go home and hit the sack and sleep off this odd sense of restlessness.
It wasn’t his usual MO after a game, especially after a win, but though he was stopped by Joe and Henry, and then Mason, each of them inviting him to several different parties, he didn’t feel like partying.
He didn’t know exactly what he did feel like doing . . .
Okay, lie. A big, fat lie. He knew exactly what he wanted to be doing, or more correctly, who he wanted to be doing.
One sweet and fiery and sexy Samantha McNead.
He thumbed through his iPhone as he walked the hall, heading out. A hundred and thirty-five unread e-mails. Ignoring most of them, he went straight to the few that mattered. Pace had sent him more pictures from Mark’s wedding, including a different one of Wade and Sam slow dancing. Her back was to the camera. He couldn’t see her expression but her head was cocked up at him, a little tilted.
He most definitely had her attention. He was smiling down into her face, his expression a little too open for his own comfort. He saved the e-mail and moved on to the next, from his father.
I’m breaking out, and thinking of heading south.
His father was free to do whatever the hell he wanted. He wasn’t a prisoner and never had been. But Wade sighed and called the center to check on him and he was promptly assured that John O’Riley was fine and well and still on site, though he had somehow sneaked in a fifth and had gotten the guys on his floor bombed, then proceeded to win more loot from them at poker.
Nothing about this surprised Wade. He apologized to the nurse and hung up, shaking his head.
But it was the next e-mail that really grabbed him—from Sam dated very late last night. Which meant she’d written it after the wedding and he’d somehow missed it earlier. She typed formally as if they hadn’t had each other up against the bathroom wall.
Wade—I need your assistance for the carnival. I’m putting your name on the ticket. If you have a problem with this, please respond. Otherwise I’ll assume you’re onboard.
Samantha McNead, Heat Publicist
He shook his head with a grim smile. Look at her, all professional, being a pain-in-his-ass.
Good strategy. Hell, it was an excellent strategy.
And if he hadn’t watched her come for him, multiple times now, thank you very much, each of those times panting his name like he was the be-all-of-the-end-all, he might have even bought the ploy. “But I’m on to you,” he murmured, and forwarded the picture of the two of them dancing to her. He thumbed in a message to go with it.
Had a great weekend, Sam, pretend or otherwise. I still have your bathroom bag and a sexy little lace bra. You can come get them, or I’ll bring them to you. Oh, and if you have a problem with this, please respond. Otherwise I’ll assume you’re onboard.
With a small smile, he slid his phone away. Yeah, that was going to chap her sweet ass but good. In the main hall now, he walked past huge boards plastered with press from the past three years of the Heat’s existence, pictures of the team members, their bios, and some of the available merchandise.
He came face-to-face with his own publicity photo blown up to life-size. In six-foot-plus full-color print, he wore his Heat jersey. He was holding his mitt and bat, smiling easily and confidently into the camera, like he didn’t have a worry in the world.
Wade looked at himself and suddenly wondered who the hell that was, because he wasn’t feeling so easily confident. Despite the very satisfying win, he was feeling a little off his game.
Okay, a lot off his game, and it had nothing to do with baseball and everything to do with—
“Sam.” He stopped in surprise at the sight of her ahead of him. She’d clearly come down the opposite end of the hallway, probably having taken the elevator, not the stairs as he had. She was staring at a kid, who was in turn staring at her, both of them looking like they were watching a horror flick, braced for the psycho villain to pop out any second.
Sam’s job as publicist often brought her in close contact with kids. Hell, half the Heat’s fans were underage, and Sam had always made a point to cater to them, using child-oriented events to make the Heat’s players accessible to them. On top of that, she pretty much single-handedly ran the 4 The Kids charity that the Heat sponsored, and by all accounts, she loved both the work and the kids.
So this was odd. It’d only been five minutes max since Wade had seen her in her office, since he’d gathered his stuff, said good-bye to the guys, and walked through the facility. But Sam’s expression said it’d been a rough five minutes. Really rough.
“Hey,” he said, coming up to her side, sliding a hand to the small of her back. “You okay?”
She jumped a mile. “Yes.” She nodded wildly. “Absolutely. Yes. Yes I am.”
He looked into her wide eyes. “That was a couple too many yeses.”
“I’m fine.”
She didn’t look fine. She looked . . . panicked. Ditto for the kid. Wade tossed an easy smile at him, but he didn’t respond. He looked to be around ten and had wheat-colored hair that fell over his eyes. His jeans were new but too long, frayed at the cuffs over a set of brand spanking new Nikes. His T-shirt was standard kid-issued and had X-Men splayed across the front. “Hey, man,” Wade said to him. “Gotta name?”
“Tag.”
“You watch the game today?”
“No.” Tag paused, then spoke quietly but with a little defiance in his tone, as if he was scared to death but hell if he was going to show it. “Dad says we only watch the Heat if they’re getting their asses kicked.”
Sam let out a choked laugh.
Wade eyeballed her, then turned back to Tag. “So you what, kept your eyes closed during the game?”
Tag shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at the floor. “I sat in the car with the babysitter on accounta she didn’t answer her phone.”
No doubt as to who the she was, and above him, Sam made a sound of distress.
“My phone was off during the game,” she said quietly. “I’m very sorry, Tag. I didn’t know you were coming.”
Tag jerked a shoulder, doing his best impression of someone who could give a shit.
But his eyes, big and full of hurt, gave him away. “Are you here to meet the players?” Wade asked him.
“No,” Sam said. “He’s—”
“My dad went to rehab,” Tag muttered, again to his shoes. “I have to stay with my Aunt Sam.”
Aunt Sam. So Tag was Jeremy’s kid.
“Tag.” Sam put her hand on his shoulders, the kid who was in that awkward stage between child and teen. “We’re going to be fine,” she said, not sounding like she really believed that.
Tag executed another jerk of his narrow shoulders that dislodged Sam’s hand and tugged hard at Wade. God, he’d been there, right there where this kid was, pissed at the world, with parents who could give a shit, feeling about alone as one could get.
Tag turned his back on the both of them and stared out the ceiling-to-floor windows to the front parking lot, his fingers resting on the glass, his breath leaving a foggy circle, his shoulders sagged.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you landed,” Sam told him, at a loss in a way Wade had never seen from her before.
“My dad told you I was coming.”
Sam closed her eyes, then opened them, looking at Wade with a slow shake of her head, helpless.
She hadn?
??t known. For whatever reason, she honestly hadn’t known Tag was to be in her care, but she didn’t try to defend herself.
“I wanna go home now,” Tag said, then added a quiet, “please” as an afterthought, as though he knew it was expected of him.
A polite delinquent.
“I’m sorry, Tag,” Sam said. “I know this isn’t what you want. But until I figure out exactly why you’re here, and for how long . . .”
Tag set his head on the glass, the picture of dejected resolve.
Sam rubbed her forehead, appearing uncharacteristically stymied, and Wade could tell she needed a minute. “Wanna see the equipment room?” he asked Tag. “I bet we could find you some gear in there.”
Tag lifted his head. “The Bucks’ gear?”
Wade arched a brow. “The Heat’s.”
“Tag,” Sam said. “This man is Wade O’Riley, our catcher.”
Tag met Wade’s gaze, not seeming all that impressed.
“Even though we’re not the Bucks,” Wade told him. “Maybe you’ll find something you like.”
Tag didn’t answer, but his expression said he sincerely doubted that.
“I need to call my father.” Sam smoothed down her skirt, which was longer today, meaning Wade could only see a mile of gorgeous leg instead of five miles. A damn shame. “It should only take a minute.”
“To the goodie room then,” Wade said to Tag, and put his hand on Tag’s neck to steer him in the right direction.
Tag stiffened.
“I don’t bite,” Wade promised mildly, but removed his hand.
Tag relaxed, made a little sound, a kid sound, one that managed to convey both utter disdain and buckets of false bravado all in one, and right then and there, Wade lost a piece of his heart to him.
Sam watched Wade lead the reluctant but silent Tag away as she waited for her father to answer his phone. As unbelievable as it seemed, apparently Tag had been the “something” Jeremy had needed Sam to take care of for him, and at the thought, a cold fury twisted in her heart. She could have strangled her brother. A child. His child. And he’d treated Tag like little more than a piece of luggage.
“McNead here,” boomed her father’s voice in her ear.
Sam gripped her cell phone tight. “I have Tag? Dad, why do I have Tag?”
“Because Jeremy can’t bring a ten-year-old to rehab, Samantha.”
“I meant why am I in charge of him? Why not Brett or Michael?” she asked tightly, naming her two older brothers. “And where’s Lynn?” Tag’s mother had certainly not been any of the McNead’s favorites, as she’d dumped Jeremy shortly after Tag’s birth, taking half of everything Jeremy owned, but still. She was the mother!
“Lynn’s been in Europe for several months modeling and there’s no sign of her returning anytime soon. Plus she’s not exactly up to the job.”
“What does that mean?”
“She’s not good with kids. That leaves us McNeads.”
“Okay, but poor Tag barely knows me. He’s not happy, and I don’t blame him.”
“You’re the logical choice, Sam.”
“Why, because I have the vagina?”
Her father sounded annoyed. “I’m busy right now. It’s a bad time.”
Yes. Yes, she knew exactly how busy he was. He’d been busy all her life, far too busy for her unless it was work-related. And suddenly—or maybe not so suddenly at all—starting up her own PR firm, away from all this McNead drama, was starting to look better and better. “It’s just odd that Jeremy would ask this of me after his attempt to destroy my life and career.”
“Jesus, Samantha. He fucked up, and he’s paying the price. It’s time to get over your grudge.”
“Get over it?” she asked incredulously. “He sneaked into my locked work files to use my knowledge and privileged information on the Heat against us. He sold information, privileged information, to the press. He set it up to look like I was sabotaging my own team. I think I’m entitled to a little grudge.”
“Fine. Just hold it on your own time.”
“But—” But nothing, her father was gone. Sam pinched the bridge of her nose and tried deep breathing. It didn’t work. Jeremy and Lynn had been together for about fifteen minutes, and when Lynn left, Jeremy and Tag had stayed in South Carolina. It was where Jeremy now worked—as Sam’s equivalent—at the Buck’s home facilities. Sam hadn’t even met Tag until he’d turned four, and that was only because Jeremy had flown him to California for Christmas one year.
She had seen him at a few family gatherings since, for a grand total of three times.
Three.
Which would mean nothingto a frightened, lonely boy. God. This wasn’t her fault but guilt swamped her all the same. There’d been plenty of family events she could have attended: birthdays, weddings . . . But she’d skipped them. She’d skipped them because she’d always been working.
Which meant she was just as bad as the rest of the McNeads. Discovering she was more like her father than she could possibly have imagined was a bitter pill. Yes, she’d been distant because they weren’t a close family. After all, her brothers and father had their own lives and she had hers. But surely if she’d had a kid, her own kid, she wouldn’t have worked as much as she had over the years.
She’d have . . .
What?
Would she have given up the job, the career she loved with all her heart?
Dammit.
Not happy with herself, she headed down the hall after Wade and Tag, wondering how she’d survive the next ninety days. She knew as much about little boys as she knew about . . .
Big boys.
Which wasn’t all that much, as evidenced by the complete lack of boys in her life. Well, with the exception of one, big, bad, sexy-as-hell boy who wasn’t a boy at all, but a man. Though honestly, she considered Wade more of a problem than a man. Which meant that she had her biggest problem leading her next biggest problem by the proverbial hand, and she could do little else but follow.
Chapter 14
It ain’t nothin’ till I call it.
—Bill Klem, umpire