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 suitcase?”
“Bus people lost it. Bastards,” he said amicably.
“Bastards,” Tag repeated gleefully, rolling his lips inward when Sam gave him a look.
“Maybe we could make a quick stop, darlin’?” John asked Sam. “I need a few things.”
She had a hundred things to do. A thousand. The first and foremost being checking in on Wade. She needed to report to the news outlets, check on the schedule . . . But she’d started this, she had to finish it. She couldn’t ditch him now. “Okay,” she said. “A quick stop.”
“So how did Wade talk you into doing this for him?” John asked as they walked to the car. He tripped over the curb and nearly fell.
Sam quickly locked her arm in his. “I’m just doing him a favor.”
“Ah.” John nodded and patted her hand. For a quick beat, his easy smile faded, revealing the anxiety beneath. “Nice of you.”
“Everything’s going to be okay, Mr. O’Riley.”
“John. Call me John.” He looked into her eyes, his mouth curved. “And I bet you make a good publicist, don’t you?”
She decided not to comment on that. In her car, John fastened his seat belt and slid his sunglasses back on. “It’s bright in California.”
Sam checked Tag in the rearview mirror, making sure he had his seat belt on, then pulled out of the lot. “So what brings you to Santa Barbara?”
“My mule-headed son.” John looked out the window at the ocean on his right. “I need something from him, and though he doesn’t know it, he needs something from me, too.”
She didn’t want to argue with the man, but the truth was, Wade didn’t need much from anyone. “You mentioned a quick stop?”
“I need clothes. And cigarettes.”
“Tobacco makes you sick,” Tag said from the backseat in an I learned this the hard way tone.
John slid him a look. “You’re a quick one, aren’t you?”
“The quickest.”
Sam’s phone chirped. It was Gage again. “He’s been released and is sore as hell, but everything’s okay.”
She released a pent-up breath. “Is he home?”
“He will be, soon enough.”
Sam pulled into Walmart and looked at John. “Is this okay?”
“Sure.”
Sam rushed out of her door and ran around to help him before he stumbled again, but he seemed surer on his feet now. “It’s the damn shoes,” he murmured. “The laces get me every time.”
He was wearing slip-on athletic shoes. No laces. Sam locked arms with him. He leaned on her and grinned. “You’re sweet. Are you Wade’s?”
“That’s . . . complicated.”
He sighed mightily. “It always is.”
“Tag,” Sam said. “Grab my purse?”
Tag handed it over and they all went inside Walmart, stopping at the McDonald’s first to get John a large coffee to help the sobering up process along.
Then John settled into one of those motorized scooters and took off with a wave toward menswear. Tag hopped into another motorized scooter and would have followed except that Sam blocked his path.
“Aw, man,” Tag said.
She occupied him by taking him to the electronics aisle, where she called Wade’s house to no avail as Tag picked out a light saber that made the most god-awful, obnoxious sounds on earth.
“Stand back, Earthling,” Tag demanded and playfully jousted Samantha in the gut.
“Ow.”
“You’re supposed to fall to the floor in agony and die a slow, painful death,” he said with some disappointment.
“Maybe later,” Sam said. “Let’s go find John.”
With a sigh, he hit a button and the neon green “laser” telescoped in on itself, collapsing.
“Cleanup on aisle eight,” said an annoyed voice over the loud speaker.
With a very bad feeling, Sam craned her neck and took in the sign over aisle eight. Wine and Beverages.
Crap. “Come on,” she said, bum-rushing Tag over there, where she found three employees mopping the floor and a case of Jack Daniel’s shattered at their feet.
“What happened?” she asked them.
One of the employees wielding a mop shook his head. “No one saw anything.”
Sam dragged Tag up and down the aisles, looking for John. They found him at the checkout. He smiled broadly at them as he unloaded his things onto the conveyor belt. Socks, underwear, another pair of cargo shorts, another brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, and a basketball.
And two bottles of Jack.
“I thought you quit,” she said.
“I did. These are in case it doesn’t stick.”
Sam nearly rolled her eyes, thinking of course it wasn’t going to stick if he had his crutch readily available, but she bit her tongue. She couldn’t comprehend an addiction of this caliber . . . and it wasn’t really her place to get involved. A thought that almost made her laugh out loud. She was already way more involved than she should be.
Back in her car, she tried Wade’s house again, still no answer. She called Pace, and confessed what she’d done just in case someone had to locate her body.
“Problem?” John asked when she’d hung up.
“No. No problem.” Pace had assured her he’d have done the same thing. Didn’t make her feel any better about blind-siding Wade with his father, even though it’d been entirely accidental.
“Darlin’.”
She met John’s gaze, his eyes surprisingly sober now. “He has no idea I’m here, does he?” he asked.
She grimaced. “Not exactly.”
“Then what, exactly?”
“There was a game today.”
“There’s always a game.”
“Yeah, but today Wade body-slammed into a fence,” Tag said. “He caught the ball though. It was pretty sweet.”
John looked at Tag, then back to Sam. “Is he hurt?”