Jill Shalvis - Slow Heat

The Heat played Washington at home in a five-day series, and went into the fifth game tied up two to two. Sam and Tag sat in the stands next to Holly, and at the first media break, Sam loaded up on snacks, handing Holly a full tray.

“You okay?” Holly asked.

“Of course. Why?”

Holly passed Tag the tray. “Go for it, dude.”

“Sweet!” Tag said, and dug in. When he was occupied, Holly said quietly to Sam, “You look stressed.”

Sam slunk down in her seat. It was a sunny, gorgeous, warm day. The air was scented with fresh cut grass and sea salt. The stands were filled with hometown fans. Sitting up here like this was as comfortable as being at home. “I’m out of control,” she whispered.

“Work?”

“Among other things.”

Holly smiled. “You know what’s good for stress?” She leaned in close and lowered her voice. “Sex with your big, bad, sexy pretend boyfriend.” She put air quotes around pretend.

“Ha. Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime.” Holly turned forward to watch Pace pitch and Sam spent the next inning watching her big, bad, sexy “boyfriend” work his magic on the field.

Tag was sitting on her other side, eating more than five truck drivers, but totally into the game. Whenever Wade came up to bat, Tag held his breath along with Sam. He jumped up and cheered and yelled along with Sam. He swore at the umpire along with Sam. And when, at the bottom of the third inning, Wade hit a homer the two of them jumped up and down, and then turned to each other and hugged. Sam felt his scrawny arms go around her and her heart swelled until it was too big for her chest. “I love watching games with you.”

With a grunt, he sank back to his seat and stuffed the last of his third hot dog into his mouth.

Sam looked at Holly, who laughed and shook her head.

“And you’re having fun with me, too,” Sam said to Tag, suddenly needing to hear it, needing to know he wasn’t still pining away for home too badly, feeling as lost as she had for most of her childhood.

“Uh-huh,” he said, mouth full, still focused on the game. “Even though you make me use soap every night.”

At the bottom of the fourth inning, Tag groaned.

“Tag?” Sam’s brow knit. He was green. “You okay?”

He opened his mouth and threw up.

She got him to the clubhouse where he threw up some more.

And some more.

Sam panicked. She’d never had so much as a hamster. For all she knew, he was dying of some horrible disease. Whipping out her phone while Tag hunched miserably, bowing to the porcelain god, she called medical and brought them in from the dugout.

By this time, Tag had started to feel better, but he gamely answered the medic’s questions.

“What did you eat?” the medic asked after checking his vitals.

“Four hot dogs, popcorn, and a soda.”

The medic gestured with his chin to Tag’s pockets. “And?”

Tag slid uneasy eyes to Sam but didn’t answer.

“What?” she asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Tag remained mute, and after exchanging a look with the medic, Sam hunkered down on her knees, level with Tag, who was still sitting on the floor next to the toilet. “Okay, let’s do this,” she said. “You tell me whatever it is that you’re not telling me, and I won’t get mad.”

“Promise?”

Oh, boy. “Promise.”

Tag pulled out a can of tobacco.

Sam gasped. “I told you that you couldn’t have any of that.”

“I took it from Santos.”

“Define took.”

He hesitated. “You promised not to get mad.”

She drew a deep breath and looked at the medic. “Is he going to be okay?”

“You’ll need to hydrate him.” The medic gave Tag a long look. “And he’ll need to lay off the chew until he’s legal.”

She gave Tag ginger ale to settle his stomach, and when he swore he was all better, they went back to the game.

Holly smiled at their return. “So maybe only two hot dogs next time?” she asked Tag.

“Yeah,” Tag said with a sigh.

At the top of the fifth inning, the Nationals third baseman popped a foul. Wade tossed off his mask, keeping his face up as he ran back and back…

He caught the ball and hit the fence at the same time, right at a fencing joint, which was a steel pole. At the impact, he crumpled to the ground.

By some miracle, the ball didn’t pop out of his glove but stayed tight in the mitt, and the Nationals player was out.

The crowd went crazy.

But Wade didn’t move.

Pace ran off the mound toward him. Gage always moved with easy, economical grace, no unnecessary movements, but even he jogged out of the dugout at the sight of Wade so utterly still. Sam was already on her feet, trying to get a better view.

“Is he okay?” Tag asked.

With Pace and the coaches hunkered over him, she couldn’t see.

“He’s not moving.” Tag tugged on her arm. “Do you see him moving?”

Sam’s gut was too tight to answer. Wade had tossed off his headgear to catch the ball, so when he’d hit the pole and then the ground at full force, he’d had no head protection at all.

Around her, the crowd had grown eerily quiet, anxiety and worry humming across the field. Holly quietly slipped her hand in Sam’s.

Just wriggle a damn toe, she thought, shielding her eyes from the piercing sun to watch what was happening down on the field. Just a single toe and then I’ll be able to take a breath-

“Maybe his brains are leaking out,” Tag said, looking serious and solemn and a little frightened. “Do you think his brains are leaking out?”

Sam drew a sharp breath but slipped her arm around him. “No, I do not.”

“Okay.” He was quiet for a single heartbeat. “Look, the same guy who helped me is helping him. It’s probably just broken bones. Maybe he can get one of those wheelchairs with the motor in it.”

“I’m also hoping no broken bones.” Move, she silently begged Wade. Get up…

Nothing.

And then finally she saw a foot kick out, and she nearly dropped to her seat in overwhelming relief. The people huddled around Wade moved back to give him some room. He sat up, nodded in response to whatever Gage was saying, and got slowly to his feet. To the relieved cheers of the crowd, he walked unaided, but he immediately left the dugout with three staff members.

Leaving Tag with Holly, Sam raced down to the clubhouse to see him, but security was blocking the medical room, letting no one through, not even her. The place was completely closed off until the end of the game.

Her thoughts were racing in tune to her heart. What if he wasn’t okay? Focus, Sam, focus… She needed to tell the press something-Jesus, screw the press, she thought. Why should she worry about the press when her heart was lying on the other side of that door? She whipped out her cell phone and called Gage, who told her to sit tight, he’d let her know Wade’s status ASAP.

Wade didn’t return to the game.

Gage didn’t call her. Her cell phone was going crazy with media outlets wanting the scoop. The Heat lost seven to six, and afterwards, Sam rushed Tag back to the clubhouse, hoping for at least a glimpse of Wade.

She didn’t get it.

Instead, she finally got her call from Gage, saying that she could report that Wade had been taken in for X-rays and more information would be forthcoming soon. After doing that, she stood in front of Wade’s locker and eyed his things. His street clothes were there, and the crumpled, dirty jersey that had been taken off him. She picked it up, clutched it to her chest, and felt her eyes burn.

Pace came up behind her and set a hand on her arm. “You hear anything?”

She blinked the tears back and took a deep breath. “Official word is he’s getting X-rays.”

Pace just looked at her.

“Unofficially? I’ve heard nothing.” She glanced down at her phone to make sure.

Pace reached into Wade’s locker and lifted Wade’s phone. “He didn’t grab his stuff.” He put the phone back down and scrubbed a hand over his face, which was lined with worry.

Her phone rang and she quickly answered. “Okay, possible slight concussion,” Gage said. “Bruised but not cracked ribs.”

She let out a low breath, disconnected, and repeated Gage’s words for Pace, who squeezed her shoulder and moved off to shower and change.

Sam laid Wade’s jersey on the bench, smoothed it out, running a finger over his number, imagining colliding with that fence at full speed and hitting the ground as hard as he had. A lump clogged her throat. When Wade’s cell phone vibrated, she jumped, then automatically leaned in to read the ID.

Dad.

That’s all the readout said, and she bit her lower lip, staring at it. What if his father watched every game? What if he’d been on the edge of his seat, missing his son, aching to be there in person, and he’d seen Wade get hurt? He was probably waiting tensely for news.

None of your business, Sam, she told herself. None. By your own doing, you and Wade aren’t a real thing. You’re just winging it.

And having the occasional mutual orgasm.

That was it. You do not answer his phone. He wouldn’t want you to.

But the phone kept humming and vibrating, and with a low exhale of breath, she grabbed it. “Hello?”

There was a pause, then the low, throaty laugh of a man who sounded as if he’d been smoking for two hundred years. “Well, well. Who’s the pretty lady answering my son’s phone?”

“Samantha McNead,” she said. “Publicist for the Heat.” And your son’s occasional booty call partner.