Slow Heat

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.

“I don’t suppose Wade would be around?”

“No, I’m sorry. He’s…” She didn’t want to alarm him, especially on the off chance he hadn’t seen the game. “Temporarily unavailable.”

Wade’s father laughed again, heartily. “Darlin’, that boy has been temporarily unavailable all his damn life. Can you get him a message for me? One that he’ll actually listen to?”

She sincerely doubted there was a soul on earth who could make Wade O’Riley listen if he didn’t want to. “I can get him a message,” she said carefully.

“Tell him I’m at the bus station. I made the trip, the least he can do is pick me up.”

“You’re in Santa Barbara?”

“That I am. Tell him to hurry, darlin’. It’s damn hot out here today.”

Sam looked across the clubhouse at Tag, who was sitting in a huge leather recliner, playing his Game Boy, quietly waiting for her. That he was quietly waiting for her at all had a whole lot to do with Wade, and the patience and understanding he’d shown Tag.

She owed Wade for that.

She took a deep breath. “Wade had a game today,” she said into the phone. “He’s… a little busy at the moment.”

“Yeah.” His father sighed. “He usually is.”

She pictured an older man, all alone, tired and hungry from his long trip, and her gut twisted. “No, he… there was a problem. He-”

“I know. He’s got things to do, places to go, people to meet. It’s okay. I’ll just… wait.”

“I’ll make sure you get a ride,” she said. “Just stay right where you are.” She didn’t want to leave the facilities now, not without seeing Wade if at all possible, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen for a while anyway. She looked around for someone that she could task with going to the bus station, but she couldn’t put that on anyone without invading Wade’s privacy even further. So in the end, she grabbed Tag and her things, and then she was driving through town toward the bus station.

Darlin’, that boy’s been temporarily unavailable all his damn life.

Gage called her again just as she arrived at the bus station. “He’s on the DL. Day-to-day status. Probably only going to be off a few days, but with the slight concussion and those banged-up ribs, we want to be careful.”

“Is slight the official word, or the real word?” she asked.

“Both.” Gage was as tough as they came, but his voice softened. “He’s really going to be fine, Sam. You know how it works. The disabled list just gives him a few days recovery, that’s all. I’ll call you when he’s released from the ER.”

The relief left her weak-kneed. “Does he need a ride?” she asked, even while knowing Wade wouldn’t need for anything. He was a big-ticket player, and the Heat took care of their own exceptionally well.

“I’ve got him,” Gage confirmed.

Sam parked at the bus station, and with Tag in hand, she crossed the street, eyeing the benches lined with people. The far right bench had only one man on it, and he stood as she stepped onto the curb. Tall, lanky, and lean, with a weathered face and a mop of gray wavy hair falling over his temple, he looked like a California surfer plus half a century. Contradicting his years, he wore a loud Hawaiian shirt over a set of cargo shorts and mirrored Ray-Bans, which he lifted to the top of his head, leveling a set of green eyes on her, and she knew.

John O’Riley.

“Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “Samantha McNead.”

“Aren’t you the prettiest publicist I’ve ever seen.” He reached out to shake her hand but his hand was already occupied. He glanced at the brown sack in his fingers as if he’d forgotten the alcohol was there, then shrugged apologetically. “Liquid courage.”

Sam wondered how he’d pulled off traveling with an open container, but then her gaze shot up the street and she saw the liquor store.

John took a sip and staggered unsteadily on his feet. “Sorry. My feet aren’t what they used to be.”

Tag appeared fascinated. “Are you drunk?”

“Nope. Never.” John tipped his nose down at him. “Are you Wade’s?”

“No!” Sam grabbed Tag’s hand. “He’s my nephew, Tag.”

“Well, hello-ooo, Tag.” John tossed his “liquid courage” into a trash bin. “And good-bye, Jack Daniel’s. I’ll miss you.” He sighed dramatically. “That was my last drink. I’m ready for my ride to Wade now, though knowing him, he’s probably ordered you to try to dump me somewhere along the way.”

Sam didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hadn’t told Wade about the visit at all, or that she was stepping over all sorts of boundaries. She didn’t know how to explain it to herself, much less him. “Do you have a