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 f**ked 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

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 ni**les 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.”