Tyler found Sawyer at the Embarcadero station in his usual spot. “How’s business this morning?”

“Cranking. It’s the week before Christmas.” He strummed a few bars of a bluesy version of “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” “You get lucky?”

Tyler handed him the Performance Necklace. “If lucky means a family dinner, trimming the tree, and bouncing a four-year-old through Golden Gate Park, then yes, I did.”

“Yeah, yeah. What about the girl?”

“Cute. Like I said, she’s a ball of energy. Wore me out.” He rubbed his sore shoulders and twisted his arms over his head to stretch.

“Woot, woot. Magic Necklace.” Sawyer reattached it around his neck. “I’m ready to get some action tonight.”

Tyler felt his face heat. “I wasn’t talking about Kelly. She was nice, but I kinda get the feeling she’s holding back. I don’t blame her. I don’t have a job or anything. I’m just a bum her mother picked up to do some work.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Sawyer said, setting his guitar aside. “You can gig with me. I know a few bar owners. They let me play weeknights. With your star power, we’d be packing them in.”

Tyler’s chest constricted. It wasn’t the singing in public as much as the boisterous crowds, the flashing lights, and the unexpected fights breaking out.

“I’d rather sing in church, but they don’t pay.”

“And even if they did, you’d give it all to Warspring.” Sawyer opened his guitar case. “I picked up your mail. They sent you a calendar and an invitation to their annual Donor’s Christmas party.”

“Gee, thanks,” Tyler said. “I gotta get going and pick up some tips.”

When Tyler was out of sight of Sawyer, he opened the invitation. Smiling children dressed in their native garb greeted him. He smiled, his heart warming.

Warspring was a classy organization with aid groups in all the global hotspots. They kept expenses to a minimum in order to funnel most of the money to the children, but every Christmas they held a donor appreciation bash. He’d never attended before since he’d been overseas, and he couldn’t see himself rubbing shoulders with the snooty self-satisfied millionaires who frequented such events. But still, they’d given him Gold level for his contributions, and it entitled him to bring a guest and meet the founder’s family.

He stepped out of the BART station and walked toward the Ferry Building. Now that the rain had stopped, groomers were resurfacing the outdoor ice rink while lines of children and their parents waited. He scanned the crowd briefly, wondering if Kelly would bring Bree.

He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to her last night since she was busy with an overtired but cranky toddler. Even though her family had urged him to stop by again, and her mother had thought of more work for him to do, Tyler wondered if he’d overstayed his welcome. Bree was getting too attached to him, and he was sure Kelly wasn’t pleased. She’d barely looked at him while corralling her daughter, and her words made it clear what she thought about the prospect.

Ty’s not your father. You don’t have a father. You don’t need a father.

She got part of it right. No one needed a father without a job, one who could take off as the whim struck. The only reason he was in San Francisco was because Warspring International had offices there and he had a proposal for them.

He wandered up and down the street, walking past the lobby of an old multi-tenanted office building. Would anyone be in on a Sunday? Was his plan foolish? How many weeks had he hung around this neighborhood thinking and rethinking? It could work, should work.

He glanced up. The curtains were open on the fifth floor where Warspring had their offices. Even if no one was in, he could at least case the joint. Wiping his sweaty palms down the sides of his jeans, he checked his shirt in the reflection of the mirrored door and stepped into the lobby. Remember, walk tall, act as if you belong. You’re a donor. Look like you own the place.

He took the elevator to the Warspring suite. The door wasn’t locked, so he entered the lobby. The walls were plastered with panels of photographs. Tyler shuddered at the haunted eyes and listless faces. He was drawn to the rows of Afghan children, their faces smeared with dirt and cuts, their gray-green eyes dull and old, etched with experiences no child should have to endure.

“May I help you?” a young Asian woman emerged from one of the offices. “Our receptionist is on vacation.”

“Sure, thanks.” He shook her offered hand firmly. “I’d like to talk to the program director.”

The woman wrinkled her forehead. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d take a chance.”

She tapped the desk, scrutinizing him. “You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?”

Maybe she’d passed him in the subway or spied him hanging out with Sawyer. She’d know he was a homeless vet and throw him out.

Tyler braced himself, but forced a grin. “I do have that kind of ordinary face you see a lot around here.”

“You’re kidding, right?” She waved him to the office. “I’m Carina Chen, the director of finance and fundraising.”

“Tyler Manning. I should have introduced myself earlier.”

She snapped her fingers. “Of course. Mr. Manning, one of our faithful donors. You’ve been in the news lately. Have a seat. Want anything to drink? Juice, tea?”

“I’m good, well, actually if you have juice, I’ll take it.” After all, he hadn’t had breakfast. Despite the large dinner he had the night before, he was hungry.

“I’ll be right back.” She hustled from her office, leaving Tyler to stare at the electronic photo frame on her desk. It cycled through the various trips she’d taken and the aid agencies she’d visited.

She returned bearing a tray of bagels and jams. Setting the juice in front of him, she said, “Our program director’s not here. Maybe you can tell me what you want and I’ll pass it on to him.”

“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a veteran back from Afghanistan, and I’m especially interested in the orphans left behind. I know there’s a crying need for the girls to be housed and educated, but I feel the boys need attention too.”

She folded her arms across the desk. “We fund orphanages that take in both boys and girls. Why would you think they’d be neglected?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I guess I should have written a proposal or something, but hear me out.” Tyler sat straighter and leaned forward. “Their physical needs are taken care of, but they don’t have father figures. As soon as they’re old enough to leave, they’re left to their own and end up in one of the militias or gangs.”

“True, but I don’t see how we can change that.” Carina rubbed her chin. “We try to give them an education, but as you know, life’s difficult in the refugee camps, and the orphanages are overcrowded. It’s hard to shield them from the allures of fighting.”

“I was thinking sports programs. Soccer, basketball, volleyball, team sports that build sportsmanship and give them healthy competition. If we can get them while they’re young, and show them how to cooperate as well as compete, give them healthy outlets …”

“We’re already stretched thin,” Carina said. “You have a good point, but I’m afraid people will think sports is a luxury. You know, given the choice between feeding an additional thousand mouths versus providing them with sports facilities, not to mention coaches.”

“The costs won’t be too high. Just a ball, a net or field.” Sweat dampened Tyler’s brow. “It’ll give them an outlet to channel their energy in a healthy way.”

Carina woke the laptop sitting on her table. “It’s a great idea if we had additional funds.”

“I can help. Maybe I can go door to door and solicit donations?”

She tilted the laptop screen. “See this? Here are the budget shortfalls we have on our existing programs. I’ve been looking to cut costs. I even wanted to do away with the annual Donor’s Ball, but Dylan, the director, said no way. I mean, you could go door to door, but we’ll need a solicitor’s permit. Frankly, I’m not sure you alone could raise the kind of cash needed to fund a new program. The pitch to give more money to boys falls on deaf ears. People are more interested in the plight of girls and women.”

“Girls can play sports too.”

She chuckled. “In America, yes. But not in Afghanistan. You know they seclude girls from a certain age upward? We have to run a network of home schools with female teachers to meet with them. There’s not going to be a women’s basketball team in Afghanistan anytime soon.”

“What’s this about a women’s basketball team?” A jolly voice sounded from the lobby.

Carina blushed and her eyelashes fluttered when she looked up. Tyler recognized Dylan Jewell, the director and son of the founder, from the picture in the glossy invitation. Without acknowledging Tyler, Dylan bent over the desk and kissed Carina on the lips.

Tyler swallowed and pushed his chair back. They’d dismissed him. The idea was harebrained. Even Sawyer thought so. Help boys in Afghanistan so they could grow up and fight. Hadn’t it been a boy strapped with IEDs who’d blown up his buddies?

It took a moment for Tyler to realize Dylan was speaking to him.

“I hear you’re proposing sports programs for Afghan youths at the camps and orphanages.” Dylan sat on the corner of Carina’s desk.

“Yes, low cost sports. Basketball, soccer, volleyball. It’ll improve the mental outlook for the kids. Some of them could graduate to becoming coaches or managers for the teams.”

“Not a bad idea at all.” Dylan stroked his jaw. It looked like he was growing a beard. “Carina’s always worried about cash flow, but she says you’re willing to put yourself out there to raise funds.”

“I would definitely increase my contribution if I could, knowing it’ll go to this program. I’ve been there and have seen the faces of the youth. They’re tired of war and need something to look forward to.” Heck, he’d get a job if it would mean more money for his program.

Dylan offered his hand. “Let’s shake on it. You up your contribution, and I’ll have Carina run the numbers and contact the orphanages and refugee camps.”

Behind him, Carina made a funny face. “Starting a new program isn’t that simple. We’ll need ongoing commitments and a plan for the increased expenditures, not to mention the approval of the board. I’m not sure we can meet the new obligation.”

“Not if we bring Mr. Manning on as spokesman.” Dylan smirked as if the brilliant idea were his. “Ex-Stanford quarterback, Raiders pro-pick, decorated veteran. Think of the story. He’s been there, fought them, and cares for the children of his enemies.”

“Yeah, but how much can he raise going door to door?” Carina scowled, her pretty little eyebrows narrowing.

“No one said anything about door to door.” Dylan chuckled. “We’re talking media appearances, ads, and speaking engagements, appearing at my concerts.”

“Whoa, wait.” Tyler’s gaze bounced between Dylan and Carina. He hadn’t meant for this to get out of hand. All of this sounded like crowds, loud noises, screaming, shouting, and melees.

“That’s right.” Carina slapped the desk. “I’m already overworked. You have me managing your band, coordinating the fundraising, and doing the books. That’s three jobs, and now you’re asking me to put together a new program structure?”

“Hire someone for whatever’s your least favorite job.” Dylan snagged her around the shoulders and rubbed her back.

“But we can’t afford—”

He cut her off with another wet, slurpy kiss. Hadn’t these two heard of private displays of affection?

“It’s the end of the year,” Dylan said after they emerged for air. “Let’s make a big push for donations. Two priorities. I want a new program that makes Warspring stand out from all the aid organizations, and I want you to hire an assistant. Lay off the receptionist if you have to. She’s never around.”

“But she’s your sister’s friend.”

“Yeah, and she acts like it too.” Dylan tweaked Carina’s nose. “I think she’s spying on us for my father.”

Tyler shifted in his seat. He didn’t need to hear any of this. Had they forgotten his presence? Should he slide out of his chair and make a discreet exit?

A firm hand clamped on his shoulder.

“Leaving so soon?” Dylan Jewell wasn’t a man who expected to be ignored. “Let’s start over with the introductions. I’m Dylan Jewell, program director of Warspring International, and this is Carina Chen, my sidekick.”

That comment earned him a puckered face and a punch.

Tyler shook Dylan’s hand. “Tyler Manning.”

“Great. What do you think about being our spokesman? You’ve been in the news lately and frankly, you have a great story behind it all.”

“Assuming he’ll do motivational speaking …” Carina fiddled with a spreadsheet. “This could work. How much per plate can we charge with Tyler on the agenda?”

“Depends on the story and the pitch,” Dylan said. “So, Tyler, what do you say?”

“Uh, well …” What excuse could he give? That he was afraid of crowds and loud noises? Kelly wouldn’t respect him if he allowed his fears to rule him.

Feeling as if he’d stepped off the edge of a cliff, he replied. “When do I start?”

Slap. Dylan’s hand landed on his back, followed by a bear hug. “Tonight. I’m doing a presentation at a business leaders’ dinner. You can say a few words.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Whatever you want. I’m sure you have many stories about your time in Afghanistan, or what motivated you to go from football to the Army, or even better, your vision for the sports program for Afghan orphans.”

Carina moved to the other side of Tyler, hemming him in. “I’ll have the contracts drawn up. How about we go to lunch and discuss terms?”

Vinnie and Babycakes with brass knuckles couldn’t have done a better job.

“Great, I’m your man.”