“Does he give you advice about how to handle the team?”

Nathan was used to this question, too. It irritated him, but his dad had actually given him a lot of good advice on how to handle the sports media. He’d said to be kind, and give short answers. So he smiled at the reporter. “No. He told me when he retired to handle the job like it was mine, not his. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“We’ve seen photos of you with Mia Cassidy, the daughter of Easton Cassidy and your teammate Flynn’s sister. Anything going on there?”

After the photos that had been circulating, he’d been expecting that question.

“Mia and I went to college together. We’re friends and of course she’s Flynn’s sister. Since she also works in San Francisco, she hangs out with us. Nothing more.”

Since there was no bait to hook on that question, they moved back to questions about his work ethic, how training had been going and the like.

Kids were the best, and they were excited to spend time with him. He liked hanging out with them, too. The adults were great and supportive for the most part, though he’d occasionally get as much grilling from fans as he did from the media.

“Do you think you’ll be as good as your dad?”

“How nervous are you about the first game?”

“How do you think you’ll feel if you screw this up?”

Yeah, no pressure.

There were also several women in the mix of fans. Some were legit fans and their enthusiasm was great. And then there were those who Nathan could tell were hanging out for a chance to hook up with him. The flirting and the way they touched him was a surefire clue that they wanted more than just a photo op or an autograph. He’d learned a long time ago to be polite, but not engage in any flirtation. Because first, photographers were always hanging out at these autograph sessions, and second, there was only one woman he was interested in.

They hadn’t seen much of each other the past couple of weeks. Since they got back from Texas, Mia had been slammed with work and he’d been busy with practice. This week he’d been in L.A. for the games, though they’d texted a lot and had a few phone calls. He’d just returned yesterday, and then he’d had practice today. He wanted to see her.

When he finished up the autograph session, he texted Mia.

What are you doing?

She texted right back. Up to my eyeballs in contracts. How did practice go?

He smiled as he made his way to his car and sent her another text. Good. Wanna hang out tonight?

She replied with, Sure. Have some things to wrap up here so I’ll be a few more hours. How about pizza night?

He sent her a reply. Sounds great. Text me when you’re home.

He tossed his phone on the center console and started the engine, then smiled.

Yeah, he was excited about seeing Mia tonight.

TWENTY-EIGHT

MIA HAD THE WORST HEADACHE. SHE’D GONE OVER A particularly difficult contract with MHC’s attorney, still not certain they were going to be able to come to terms with Roland Green. Some of his requirements were outrageous and she wasn’t going to agree to them.

But dammit, she wanted to sign this guy. He was an up-and-coming basketball star and she knew they could do great things for his career. But they were a management company, not ass kissers, and she wasn’t going to allow her staff to be at his beck and call at all hours of the day and night.

She rubbed her temple and propped her feet on her sofa, wishing she could soak in a hot tub and sip on a glass of wine and totally forget about this day. But she’d texted Nathan when she got home and he was on his way over. Which was probably a better idea anyway. She needed the distraction so she didn’t spend the evening alone dwelling over the problem.

Since she was still in her work clothes, she went upstairs and changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She thought about doing thirty minutes of yoga, then realized it would only make her pounding head worse, so she went back downstairs and headed straight for the chardonnay she’d opened yesterday. She poured herself a nice tall glass, then went into the living room and propped her feet up on the table while she sipped the wine.

Oh, yes. This was good. She rested her head against the back of the sofa, closed her eyes and took several more swallows of wine.

Maybe she should institute a wine hour at work. That could definitely be beneficial, especially on days like today. Of course, if she did that, they’d all be drunk by noon and that might be bad for productivity. Then again, think of the employee loyalty. She’d probably win some kind of national award.

Her lips curved.

The doorbell rang, so she got up to answer it. She hadn’t realized how much she missed seeing Nathan until he stood there at her front door wearing dark jeans and a very soft-looking gray T-shirt. He was tanned from practicing outside, his dark hair falling over his forehead.

She did not want to feel the things she felt for him, but it had been two weeks. She knew they were both professionals and busy. Nevertheless there it was, that pang of feeling, of the need to wrap her arms—and legs—around him and make him hers.

So dangerous.

“Hey, come on in.”

She shut the door behind him, trying to act nonchalant about this driving need to climb all over him.

But then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her—a long, deep, soul-shattering kiss that left her breathless, and those mental walls she’d tried to construct around her emotions came crumbling down.

“I missed you,” he said.

Everything inside of her squeezed tight, and warning bells clanged loud in her head.

Don’t get your heart involved, Mia.

Right. That was getting more and more difficult every time they were together.

“I missed you, too. I’m having a glass of wine. Would you like a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

“What? Are you sick?”

He laughed. “No. Just trying to leave the beer for maybe once a week now that we’re into the season. I’ll take a glass of ice water, though.”

“Oh, that’s right. You don’t drink much when you play. I can’t believe I forgot that.”

She took her wineglass into the kitchen and refilled it, put ice and water into a glass for Nathan, then brought it into the living room and handed it to him

“Thanks. That’s a fairly good-sized pour for you. Is that glass number two? Three? Four?”

She laughed and sat next to him on the sofa. “Two. I had a shit day.”

He leaned back on the sofa. “Tell me about it.”

“A difficult client is being ridiculously demanding with contractual items and I don’t know that we’ll be able to come to terms. Which is sad because I really want to sign him.”

He nodded. “Sometimes athletes can be dicks. What’s he asking for?”

“Personal representation at all of his games, both home and away. Personal cell phone numbers of all of our staff, who should be available to meet his needs twenty-four hours a day. Limo service to his games. Specific requirements like photo ops and bodyguards and things we don’t provide.”

Nathan arched a brow. “Did you explain to him that’s not what MHC is about?”

“Yes. I told him we were there to manage his career, not his personal life. He said if we want—and I quote—‘the privilege of managing him’—unquote—then we’ll give him what he wants.”

Nathan made a face. “Dump him. He’s a diva and he’s not worth it, no matter how high profile he is.”

“That’s what Monique said. Among other things that I won’t repeat.”

His lips curved. “I can imagine what Monique thought of the guy. She doesn’t much care for athletes with big egos. Sounds like this guy’s ego is huge.”

“Yes. And she thinks his dick is tiny.”

Nathan laughed. “It probably is. Seriously, though, Mia, drop him. He’s bad news.”

She sighed and swirled the wine around in her glass. “You’re probably right. He should be some other management company’s headache. Right now he’s mine. My head is killing me.”

“See? Take it as a sign. You don’t need this particular headache.”