Jill Shalvis - Slow Heat

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.

Sam entered the vast equipment storage room. It was lined with rows of metal shelving units holding the stuff of any sports lover’s fantasy: bats, gloves, mitts, uniforms, athletic shoes, sweats, medical equipment, even bottled water with the Heat label.

Sam had taken grown men through here and seen them actually well up at the sheer joy and awe. She didn’t feel the pull of the room as someone with a penis might, but could understand it. After all, she loved the game, loved almost everything about it: the way it felt to sit in the stands on a steamy, hot summer night with a hot dog in one hand and a soda in the other, the scent of freshly cut grass on the air as the sun sank, the sound of the bat hitting the ball just right.

Walking down the main aisle, different scents assaulted her. Clean, untried leather. Ace bandages. Fresh wood bats. She inhaled and found herself relaxing as if she’d been at home.

Until she heard the soft, male voices, one higher in tenor-Tag. The sound of him made her stomach hurt.

The other voice was low and calm and just a little bit raspy-Wade.

The sound of him made her nipples go hard.

She took a deep, fortifying breath, assured herself she could handle this-hell, she could handle anything-and moved forward.

Wade led Tag down the aisles of the equipment room. Tag was trying to play it cool but the inherent boy in him couldn’t seem to resist the goods all around them. He’d widened his eyes at first but then checked himself, reaching out to touch a jersey, then pulling back his hand like he was too cool to be excited.

“You’ve seen a room like this before, right?” Wade asked. “You’ve been to the Bucks’s facility?”

“Yeah, but you have way more stuff.” Tag stuffed his hand into his pocket, which suddenly bulged suspiciously.

“What’s that?” Wade asked.

“Nothing.”

Nothing his ass. “Let me see.”

With a soft exhale of sheer bravado, Tag shoved his hand into his pocket, then opened his fingers, revealing a deck of trading cards.

Unopened.

“You have sticky fingers.”

Tag studied the tops of his shoes.

“Thought you didn’t like the Heat.”

More studying of the shoes.

Wade sighed, handing the cards back to him.

Tag lifted his head and stared at him like, What’s the catch?

“If you don’t attempt another five-fingered discount, you can keep them,” Wade said. “And next time, just ask.”

“I was gonna.” Tag shoved the cards back in his pocket.