Slow Heat Read online

  Pace was calling out directions to the shortstop, telling him to keep his eyes on the ball, to back up a few feet . . .

  The shortstop missed the catch, but scooped it up fairly quickly and probably could have thrown the ball all the way to first, but Tag was grinning and running and tugging up his falling-down jeans as he hauled ass toward the base.

  And then something happened that Wade didn’t expect. The shortstop held back, looking at the first baseman, who nodded. “Keep going,” the kid said to Tag. “Go to second.” Then the shortstop threw to second base and the second baseman missed.

  Pace clapped his hands to his head in disbelief.

  But Wade was grinning. Pace’s team was letting Tag take a homer. “Go, Tag, go!”

  The kid rounded third and slid into home like a pro. He stood up triumphantly, filthy from head to toe.

  Sam was jumping up and down for him. Tag bumped fists with all the members of his team, but Sam was having none of that. She ran around the fence and wrapped her arms around the kid, squeezing and kissing him until he squirmed free.

  “Jeez!”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” she said, and kissed him one more time.

  Tag didn’t look like he minded all that much.

  Wade knew just how the kid felt. In fact, he snagged Sam by the back of her shirt and pulled her to him for a kiss of his own. “Sorry,” he murmured, echoing her own words right back at her. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  That afternoon Wade was working out in the Heat’s facility before a mandatory team meeting, pushing himself hard at the bench press in tune to Jane’s Addiction on his iPod when Pace sat on the bench next to him.

  “Problem,” Pace said.

  Wade pulled out one of his earphones. “Holly left you for a real man, and she’s waiting for me at my place?”

  “Funny. No, tonight’s fund-raiser.”

  Which was a full-out carnival to celebrate another year of the 4 The Kids charity. Professional athletes from a variety of sports were paying out the wazoo for the opportunity to run a booth and be seen doing something charitable, which was a win-win situation for the charity’s checkbook. Since Wade had put out a big chunk of money to help fund the carnival, he hadn’t committed to running a booth.

  “We’re short a few athletes,” Pace said. “Sam’s working the phones right now, scrambling.”

  “She’ll find someone.”

  “It’s the dunking booth that’s causing the big problem. She wants a high-profile athlete, but no one wants to do it.”

  Wade lifted a shoulder. “So get in the dunk booth, man.”

  “I’m already signed up for something else. And I’m also the MC for the event.”

  “You like to multitask. Just make sure you don’t get dunked with the microphone in your hand. Electrocution isn’t pretty.”

  “Okay, wise guy,” Pace said. “Let me just spell it out for you. Sam and I just signed you up for the dunking booth.” His supposed best friend grinned and clasped him on the shoulder. “Going to be good times.”

  Wade slid him a look. “If you dunk me, I’ll personally put you in the booth for your turn.”

  Pace stood up and moved out of the reach of Wade’s arm. “You’d have to catch me first. And I’m faster than you are.”

  “Why can’t you get Henry to do it? Or Mike?”

  “She wants you.”

  “Why?”

  Pace shrugged. “Maybe you’re not paying enough attention to her. Maybe you’re being a bad boyfriend.”

  “Hello, it’s pretend!”

  Pace got on the treadmill and he began running steadily, swinging his arms naturally, his shoulder completely healed from the surgery he’d had months ago. “I see you’ve learned nothing.”

  “I’ve learned plenty,” Wade told him. “I’ve learned she likes me best either far, far away, or with my tongue down her throat. We don’t do so well with anything in between.”

  “You haven’t tried anything in between. You’ve let the chemical attraction take over. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  “It’s not chemical.”

  “You’re right,” Pace said, working the touchpad control of the treadmill. “It’s not chemical. Given how thrown you are about this whole thing, it’s probably love.”

  Wade nearly swallowed his tongue. He came off the bench, and with a laugh, Pace held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t kill the messenger.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Okay, whatever you say, Wade.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m pretty sure it means you’re an idiot. Look, you drove me crazy last year with all the ‘Live your life’ shit, and now look at you. You’re not doing a fucking thing with yours.”

  “Not doing a fucking thing—” Wade choked and stared at Pace. “We just started a new season, you dumb ass. We’re building a charity that gives street kids a fighting chance.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re a great ball player and a great guy, too. You’ll get no argument from me there,” Pace said quietly, the joking gone. “Without you, I wouldn’t be half the pitcher I am.” He pointed when Wade opened his mouth.

  “Shut up. You give big bucks to the kids, more than any of the rest of us. You write checks for your father. You’d write a stranger a check. How many times do we have to talk about this, Wade? You can write all the checks you want, but—”

  “Ah, Christ, the but. I hate the but.”

  “—But when it comes to the actual doing, you’re still standing back. You’re still keeping yourself distanced.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I do stuff all the time. I don’t keep myself distanced.”

  Pace wiped his face with a towel, tossed it aside, and kept running. “Right. You go out plenty—or at least you used to before you got a pretend girlfriend. But that shit doesn’t count, that shit isn’t even real. Getting your hands dirty is real. Coaching the street kids you’re afraid to connect with because you’ll see yourself in them is real. Getting behind your dad, supporting him through rehab instead of waiting for him to fail again, that’s real. Being a real boyfriend to a woman you have feelings for, sticking around when it’s not all fun and games, that’s real.”

  Wade stared at him, then sank back onto the bench.

  Pace watched him warily as he ran on the treadmill. “You going to say anything? Try to hit me? Anything?”

  “My legs feel funny. Rubbery.”

  “Stop working out.”

  “I think it’s what you said, not the weights.”

  “Which part?” Pace asked. “The love part?”

  “No.” Yes. Spots danced in Wade’s vision and he had to put his head between his knees.

  “Love . . .” Pace said again, a smile in his voice. Asshole. The spots danced faster, and now his ears were clanging.

  “If I could feel my legs, I’d pound you into next week.”

  “Even if you could feel your legs, you still couldn’t catch me.”

  Chapter 17

  Don’t bunt. Aim out of the ballpark.

  —David Ogilvy

  Sam was late for the team meeting. She was never late. But Tag had asked for a specific cereal for breakfast, and it was so rare for him to care that she’d run out to the store to get it and then she’d forgotten the milk and had to go back out to get it, and then Tag had spilled it down the front of him, and . . .

  And she could feel her blood pressure hitting the edge of the healthy range, heading directly into heart failure territory as she ran into the team room, tugging Tag along with her.

  She was the last to arrive. She slowed her pace as they entered, wanting to appear cool, calm, and collected. It was her MO, her modus operandi, always.

  Never let them see you sweat.

  See, she’d learned something from her father after all.

  “I’m tired,” Tag said.

  “Shh.” She pointed to a chair away from the large group o