Almost a decade later, he could vividly recall the bolt of fear that had run through him at the news, the trauma of his father’s decline far too fresh. It had been Joe who had consoled Samson. Joe who had suggested Samson come live with him and take care of him. At the time, Samson hadn’t questioned it, they were each other’s closest living relatives, it made sense.
But now, he wondered if it was because Uncle Joe, even in the midst of his own fear and uncertainty, had known what Samson needed even if he didn’t.
A lump of quiet grief rose up in his throat. “You’re right.” He moved his fork out of the baby’s range. “I didn’t feel so aimless so long as it was me and Uncle Joe against the illness. When he passed away, I guess it was like I was lost all over again.”
“I’m glad you got the Matchmaker gig.”
“Me too.” He could help Annabelle. Be a part of another team.
Dean’s voice was gentle and compassionate. “What are you going to do when it’s over?”
When he stopped seeing Rhi. When he had no one to help and nothing to show up for. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
Dean immediately backed off. “I gotcha. Sorry, man.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
Their waitress popped up, and Samson was so relieved at the interruption, his smile might have been larger than it would have otherwise been.
“Gentlemen, how’s everything going?”
“Everything’s great, thanks,” Dean said, but the waitress didn’t look at him.
She beamed at Samson. “You’re that guy from those Crush ads, aren’t you?”
“The Matchmaker ads,” he corrected her.
She waved her hand. “Yeah. Your videos are so cute.”
Samson picked a piece of cereal off Miley’s shirt and placed it on his empty plate. “Thanks.”
The waitress’s blue eyes slid over him and she placed her hand on the table. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
He glanced at Dean, who was waggling his eyebrows like mad while he slowly ate a french fry. “Will do.”
When she left, Dean stretched over and snatched the napkin she’d left behind before Samson could hide it. “I remember those days,” he said, with nostalgia. “The days women flung their numbers at me, before a baby ruined my figure.”
With Miley in his lap, Samson couldn’t retrieve the napkin from Dean. “Your figure’s fine and if any woman had even looked at you after Josie locked you down, they would have lost at least an eye.”
“No joke.” Dean grinned, clearly delighted with his wife. He waved the napkin. “Is this happening often?”
“More often than I thought it would.”
“You can’t go around being a halfway decent guy and holding a criminally cute baby and not expect women to throw their numbers slash panties at you.” Dean lowered his voice. “My sister tells me stories of the guys out there, man. The bar is, like, set at a negative level for decency.”
“I’m learning that. No reason for us to go negative, though.”
Dean tossed the number to him. “No lies detected. Have fun with that.”
Samson tucked the napkin into his pocket. He’d do with it what he’d done with all the other napkins he’d received over the last couple weeks. He’d toss it, once he was out of her sight.
There was only one woman’s number he was interested in right now.
“Well, well, well. Look who it is.”
They both froze at the familiar voice. Samson slowly looked up at the man standing next to their table, where the waitress had just been. What the fuck.
“Trevor,” Dean said, and his grim tone echoed Samson’s lack of desire to see this asshole.
Trevor Sanders smiled at both of them. Tall and still fit in spite of his retirement a few years ago, the Brewers’ former quarterback had the kind of blond good looks the media loved.
Samson was definitely not in love with him. “How did you find us here?” He’d dodged two more calls from Trevor, had considered blocking the number, but figured it was better to know what the snake was up to.
What the fuck was up with this trend of people somehow knowing where he was and showing up? It was one thing when Rhi did it, she wasn’t his longtime nemesis. Was this an L.A. thing?
Trevor’s toothy grin disappeared. “Dean posted a photo. It was tagged.”
Samson scowled at his friend. “Dean has clearly forgotten that he could have stalkers out there, and he will no longer be telling the world where he is.”
“My social’s private,” Dean protested. “But not private enough, I guess.”
“Look, guys, I get it.” Trevor pulled a chair over and sat down without asking them, which was a very Trevor thing to do. He paused to smile at Miley. “Cute baby, Dean. I love all the photos you post of her.”
Dean pulled a wet wipe out from somewhere. He carefully cleaned his hands, sanitized them with a squirt bottle, and grudgingly nodded. He wouldn’t turn down a compliment to his baby. “Thanks. And thanks for the baby present. We really love that stroller.”
“I’m glad. It was my girlfriend’s—well, ex-girlfriend’s—favorite stroller for our kid.”
Samson passed Miley to her dad and immediately wished he had her back. Therapy baby indeed. “I have nothing to say to you, Trevor.”
Trevor’s sigh was long and low. “Listen. I know you hate me, Samson. I even get why. But please, can I have like ten minutes of your time?”
Samson gritted his teeth.
Dean placed Miley carefully in her carrier. “Harris said you were starting an organization. That true?”
“It is,” Trevor responded.
Dean buckled his daughter in, then pinned Trevor with a stern look. “You going to ask Samson to help?”
What was Dean talking about?
“I am.”
Dean pursed his lips. “He doesn’t owe you—”
“It’s okay, Dean.” Samson didn’t want Dean in the middle of this feud. He could handle Trevor. “You need to get home, right?”
Dean glanced back and forth between them. Miley was due for a nap soon, but Samson knew his friend wouldn’t leave if he thought Samson needed him. “I guess . . .”
“Go on. Trevor and I will have a quick chat, and then we don’t ever have to talk again.” He kept his tone pleasant, though his stomach was coiled into a knot.
Trevor was smart, confronting him in a public place like this. Samson wouldn’t, couldn’t, make a scene. Too many people knew who they both were.
The last thing he wanted was another wave of headlines pitting him and Trevor against each other.
“He’s loyal to you, all right,” Trevor said, after Dean gathered up his baby and left, with another warning glare for Trevor.
“That’s what friends and teammates are. Loyal.”
Trevor flinched, probably because he’d said almost that sentence, verbatim, to a journalist the day Samson had walked mid-game, but he stayed seated. “Like I said, you have every right to hate me. But this isn’t about me. It’s about something bigger than both of us.”
“You always were dramatic.”