Slow Heat

by Jill Shalvis

  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.

  “Uh-huh. What else did you snag?”

  “Nothing.”

  From Tag’s his other pocket came a pack of Sugarlicious bubblegum, half eaten. “See?” He popped a huge piece of gum in his mouth, started chewing, drooled a little bit, and swiped his mouth with his sleeve. When he saw Wade watching him, he paused. “Want a piece?”

  “Sure.” Wade popped a piece in his mouth and strawberry flavor burst over his tongue. “How long are you staying?”

  “Dunno. My mom’s in Europe. She doesn’t make it home very often.”

  Wade remembered that feeling all too vividly. “That sucks.”

  Tag slid him a surprised look. Most likely people had been glossing over it all his short life. Wade didn’t believe in glossing.

  “My dad’s going to be gone for three months.” Tag said this nonchalantly, but the undercurrent of grief was apparent. “I guess rehab takes a while.”

  “Do you understand what rehab is?”

  Tag didn’t look up. “Not really.”

  Anger welled within Wade for the kid, who should have been told so much more than he had been. “It’s a place to go when you need help to try to get better.” Try being the operative word here. Wade hoped like hell it worked better for Jeremy than it’d ever worked for Wade’s dad.

  “In the meantime, you have your Aunt Sam looking out for you.” She was already on the job, he could hear her heels clicking along with efficient authority. “She’s pretty great.”

  Tag looked at Wade, eyes suddenly sharp. “You like her or something?”

  “We’re . . . friends.”

  “You like her.”

  Wade studied Tag. “How are you at keeping secrets?”

  “Real good.”

  Wade didn’t believe that for a minute but he answered anyway. “You’re right. I like her.”

  Tag studied Wade with all the scrutiny a frustrated, angry ten-year-old could muster. “When my dad likes a girl, they sleep over and I have to stay upstairs.”

  While Wade wrestled with his sudden urge to hurt Jeremy, Tag turned his attention to the jerseys hanging over his head. Wade pulled one down. “This is Pace Martin’s.”

  “Your pitcher.”

  “Yes.”

  Tag was quiet a moment, but Wade could see that he wanted something. “You can say anything to me. We’re in the cone of silence here.”

  Tag worried his lower lip between his teeth a moment. He looked at his shoes, clearly his favorite delay tactic. “Can I have your jersey instead?”

  Wade turned to exchange the jersey just as Sam came around the last corner, heading toward them. She’d gotten herself together. The panic was gone, as was the fear. Wade had no doubt she was still wrestling with both, but she’d successfully hidden them.

  She was nothing if not a master multitasker.

  At the sight of them, her lips curved slightly in relief, making Wade wonder what the hell she’d expected to find. The two of them sharing a beer? She put her hand on Tag’s arm. “You ready to go?”

  Tag clutched Wade’s jersey in a tight fist and gave her the silent treatment.

  A McNead specialty.

  Sam took in the jersey, caught Wade’s number, and shot Wade a look he couldn’t interpret. If he had to guess, he’d go with gratitude that he’d been able to break through to Tag, along with the envy. He’d broken through when she hadn’t a clue how to do so.

  Wade made a barely there gesture with his chin toward the shelves, signaling that she should try his tactic. Taking the hint, she grabbed a baseball cap. “How about this to go with the jersey?” she asked Tag.

  He shrugged casually, even indifferently, but couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes. “ ’Kay.”

  Wade dropped the jersey over Tag’s head, then put the baseball cap in place, gently taping the bill. “All set then.”

  Tag looked up at him. “Can I stay here instead?”

  A direct hit, given the flash of emotion in Sam’s eyes. Feeling like the biggest of all the shitheads and not even sure why, Wade reluctantly shook his head. “I’d love to have you, but that’s not the plan right now.”

  “Plans change,” Tag told him. “My dad says that all the time.”

  Above him, Sam was clearly grappling with the unaccustomed vulnerability, and killing Wade while she was at it. “It’s the way things are,” he said softly. “But you should know, I think you’re lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Uh-huh.” He slid a look at Sam. “I’d give just about anything to get to stay at your Aunt Sam’s.”

  “Aunt Sam” narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I’d rather sleep here,” Tag insisted.

  “They don’t let people sleep here,” Sam said.

  Which, technically, wasn’t quite true. The guys occasionally crashed out in the clubhouse when they’d had a late-night game and were too exhausted to get up and go home, or maybe if their wife or girlfriend had given them explicit instructions notto come home.

  Wade had slept here a few times himself, but he didn’t say so. This was Sam’s gig. He expected her to give the kid an ultimatum; a fair one, but an ultimatum nevertheless.

  She surprised him.

  “I have ice cream,” she said.

  Tag lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes wary.

  “Double fudge chocolate. And I have chocolate syrup to pour all over the top of it. And marshmallows. Not
the little ones either.”

  Wade let out a low whistle. “You had me at ice cream.” Hell, she’d had him at the fuck-you look the minute those Atlanta elevator doors had closed on them, but best not to go there.

  Tag nodded, looking a little defeated, as if he knew a bribe when he saw one, and Wade felt another hard tug of empathy. “Do you have a cell phone?”

  When Tag handed it over, Wade programmed himself into it. “There. Now you can call me anytime, day or night. ’Kay?”

  “ ’Kay.” Tag stuffed his hands back in his pocket, which now bulged even farther out, and Wade narrowed his eyes.

  Tag pretended not to see, and Wade leaned close and spoke in his ear. “Do you remember what I said before?”

  “That you like Aunt Sam?”

  Sam’s brow arched so far it vanished into her long side-swept bangs.

  “After that,” Wade said dryly, with a heavy dose of “thanks a lot, buddy” mixed in. “About taking whatever you want without asking.”

  Tag’s cheeks pinkened, but he played mute, keeping his gaze down yet again.

  Wade waited until Tag couldn’t stand it and caved, meeting his eyes. Wade held out his hand, palm up.

  Tag sighed and pulled out a can of tobacco.

  Sam sucked in a breath. “What do you need with that?”

  “My dad lets me chew sometimes.”

  “He does not,” she said certainly.

  “I can call him. Can I?”

  Sam removed the tobacco from Tag’s hands and set it back on the shelf. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think he can talk right now.”

  Trying to be tough but failing, Tag nodded.

  Wade bent and looked into his eyes. “Don’t forget. Call me anytime.” He straightened and exchanged a look with Sam, whose eyes softened, surprising him. Warming him.

  “Tag,” she said quietly. “We’ll figure it all out, I promise. Say good-bye to your partner-in-crime here.”

  “Bye,” Tag said to Wade. “I hope you get traded to the Bucks.”

  Wade raised an amused brow as Sam started to lead Tag away. He caught Sam and reeled her in, putting his mouth to her ear. “That goes for you, too, Princess. Call me anytime, day or night.”

  She started to roll her eyes, then went stock-still when, with his back blocking her from view, he very lightly scraped his teeth over her earlobe. He wasn’t sure why except he couldn’t help himself. Her breath hitched, a very satisfying response, and he then kissed the spot before letting go of her. He watched her hurry to catch up with Tag, picturing the next few hours in her world, wondering as he did who he felt the most sorry for: her, or the kid . . .

  Chapter 15

  It ain’t over till it’s over.

  —Yogi Berra

  Sam glanced over at Tag as they hit Highway 1. He was eyeing the interior of her car with surprise.

  She drove a standard Honda Accord, which she liked for its value and gas mileage, plus the sunroof always made her feel like she was doing more to enjoy herself than she really was. “What?” she asked him.

  “Is your real car in the shop or something?”

  “No, why?”

  “I thought when you were in the big show, you got whatever you want.”

  “I’m not in the big show. I just work for the big show.”

  “Grandpa and dad have Beemers.”

  Sam slid him a look. “I like this car.”

  “It’s just like Grandma’s.”

  “Your mom’s mom? You see her a lot?”

  “Just at Christmas. She makes me kiss her.” He shuddered.

  “This can’t be an old lady’s car, if that’s what you’re inferring. I’m only twenty-nine.” Thirty in three weeks, but who was counting?

  His mouth hung open. “Does dad know how old you are?”

  “Hey, he’s only one year younger than me.”

  “His girlfriend is twenty-two. He says twenty-two is perfect.”

  She sighed, and Tag fell back into silence. She glanced at him. “You still want ice cream?”

  He lifted a shoulder indifferently. “If you do.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To go home.”

  A one-two kidney shot. Sam exited the highway and drove through downtown. It was evening now, which meant that the streets were loaded with UCSB students looking for fun, tourists looking for bars, and the occasional poor schmuck like her just trying to get home from a long day at the office.

  They passed outdoor paseos, beautifully landscaped plazas, brick-lined sidewalks in front of local specialty shops, and world-class shopping. She turned off the main drag and down one of the myriad multi-use avenues. Here there were sidewalk cafes mixed with little boutiques, bookstores, and unique specialty shops. She lived in one of four refurbished condos over an art gallery. Parking was always a bitch but today, since karma had already laughed at her, she was rewarded with a spot only one block down. “Okay,” she said to Tag, turning off the engine, reaching for his bag. “We’re here.”

  He took his bag from her, either to be a little gentleman, or because he didn’t want her to touch his stuff any more than he seemed to want her to touch him. He eyed the little Italian restaurant on the corner. The chef was in the window tossing a large round of dough in the air. “You live at a pizza joint?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh,” he said with disappointment.

  Because she figured he was hungry, she led him inside to put in an order.

  The place was filled to overflowing with a crowd ranging from starving college students all sharing one pie and one check to the upscale, ritzy shoppers with their fancy shopping bags at their feet.

  Ernie was behind the counter. Rumor had it he was good in both the kitchen and the bedroom, but Sam could only attest to the kitchen part. He made the best Italian food anywhere, he and his dark hair and matching dark, dreamy eyes, with the smile that could melt bones at a hundred feet. He was her age, a few inches taller than her five foot six, and built like a boxer. They spent several evenings together a month, but unfortunately he wasn’t her type.

  Actually, more accurately, she wasn’t his type, in that she didn’t have a penis.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, smiling at her. “What’ll it be tonight?”

  Sam turned to Tag. “What’ll it be?”

  Tag looked startled to be asked, and he played with the