Double Play (10 page)

Five minutes later she had a good portion of the puzzle done when a deep male voice in her ear said, “Four.” This was accompanied by a long, tanned finger pointing to one of the squares. “Four goes there.”

She tipped up her head and found Pace. Her mouth went dry. He wore a dark charcoal suit cut just for him, a French blue shirt with a sexy as hell tie and an easy smile.

“Working hard?” he asked.

“Very.” As she answered, she shut the Sudoku program, inadvertently revealing the Word program behind it.

And her blank screen.

“Ah,” he said. “Invisible font.”

With a sigh she gave up and sat back. “I don’t do idle very well. I like to be on the move, and I’m usually in a hurry as well. Sitting sucks.”

He surprised her by folding his long, leanly muscled body into the empty seat next to her. “It’s called relaxing.”

“Yeah, I don’t do that so well either.”

“It’s hard for me, too, since I gave up soda.”

She turned back to him. “Why did you give it up?”

He patted his flat-as-a-board belly, and she laughed. “Come on.”

“Hey, you hit thirty and your metabolism changes.”

“You’re worried about your girlish figure?” Which was anything but girlish . . .

“It made me sluggish. But I miss it, especially when I’m just sitting. There’s a lot of hurry up and wait in baseball, emphasis on the wait. You’ll get used to it.”

She nodded, then shook her head.

“Or not.” He eyed the bruise on her forehead, the one she’d not been entirely successful at covering up. “Ouch.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Just do me a favor and don’t offer to play catch with any of these guys,” he said, gesturing to the guys around them. “The last woman who did was a quote ‘dancer’ from some underground club, and she played in the nude.”

She laughed.

“Seriously. TMZ took pics.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Google it.” With a flash of a quick, rare grin, he pushed out of the chair and left her alone.

She let out a long breath—her version of relaxing—and wished she had an Internet connection as she went back to her blank screen, where she absolutely did not fantasize about playing catch.

With Pace.

In the nude . . .

 

 

The
team checked into the Philadelphia hotel together, Holly included. The atmosphere in the lobby slowly changed as people realized the Heat had arrived, and the players were sought out by autograph-seeking fans. Though Holly had read about baseball divas, not a single player seemed to mind as they stood around a few extra minutes making nice.

Even afterward, things remained simple. A few of the guys went to the hotel bar for a drink, others caught a movie. Some stayed in.

No one got wild and crazy.

They were a united group, yet respectful of their individual differences. It fascinated Holly, who found Mike and Kyle, the third baseman and right fielder, in the bar with Ty and Henry, and sat with them for a while. They talked about baseball’s place in history and how the perception of the game had changed, especially from a kid’s standpoint. These days, so much more was demanded of the players, and the guys were definitely feeling the pressure.

Mason, the first baseman, joined them, as did Joe. The discussion was blog-worthy, and as the bar began to fill up with women, Holly left the guys to go write up some notes. But the late afternoon sun drew her, and she stepped outside the hotel for some fresh air, eyeing a nicely built runner heading her way as the fading sunlight reflected off his sunglasses.

Pace.

He wore running shorts and a white T-shirt, moving along at a stride that would have killed her in under thirty seconds. She wondered if maybe he would keep going, pretending not to see her, but someone had raised him right. His footsteps slowed, then stopped altogether as he pulled out his earphones. He’d been running hard and his breathing was labored as he drew air into his lungs. He lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head and swiped at his temples with the back of his arm. His shirt clung to him. His shorts did the same.

He was sweaty all over, and she shivered.

Wow.

The single word was a completely involuntary reaction. She couldn’t help herself as she stared at him, all intelligent thought flew right out of her head, because from head to toe the man was freaking gorgeous.

“You settled in okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

With a slow nod, he kept looking at her with that steady gaze, his brows knit together as he stepped a little closer, his gait easy and relaxed now, as if preserving his energy for other things, like chucking a ball at a batter at ninety-five miles an hour.

Or maybe having sex . . . Good God, what was wrong with her? “I was just getting some air,” she said a little weakly. “I’m good now.”

He held the hotel door open for her, and as she brushed by his damp, hot body, she had to restrain herself from leaning in and touching.

Pathetic. She was pathetic.

But knowing that didn’t stop her gaze from drifting over him, down his damp throat, down the T-shirt covering his broad chest, or from remembering how in the last doorway they’d stood together, they’d kissed. When she looked up, she found that dark gaze locked on hers, his solemn and quiet. “In?” he asked when she didn’t move.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Thanks.” She managed a smile, and with a nod, he moved off, heading toward the elevators. It wasn’t until he was out of sight that she realized she was standing there in the center of the lobby, mouth open, staring after him.

“He does seem to have that affect on women.”

Holly turned to face Samantha. “Hi. I was just—”

“Don’t try to talk until you’ve had a healthy dose of chocolate.” She nodded with her chin toward the café, just off the lobby. “Dessert?”

“Sure,” Holly managed. “Dessert sounds good.” In lieu of sex, it would have to do.

As it had for far too long now.

They seated themselves and ordered fudge brownies, which came pronto, warm on their plates and then melting in their mouths.

“So,” Samantha said after a mutual moan-fest over the deliciousness. She was a tall, willowy blonde who was as attractive as some of the players she represented. Today she wore a yellow business suit revealing mile-long legs, making Holly feel like a run-down Pinto standing next to a brand-new BMW. “What do you think about the guys?”

“I’m wondering if they always behave so well on the road, or is it a show for my benefit?”

“They don’t do shows. What you see is what you get.” Sam dug into a brownie with clear relish. “It’s why I love them. My brother, Jeremy, is the publicist for the Bucks. They’re a logistical, diva-run, trouble-filled nightmare. He has his hands full. Not me. They’re all good guys here on the Heat. The best.”

“So far, I’d agree with you. So no problems?”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. Drugs?”

“No. Nothing like that,” Sam said firmly. “There’re no secrets here, Holly.”

Holly liked these guys, and she wanted to believe Sam, but experiences had taught her one thing: no one was as they appeared to be, especially not with the sheer amount of money and fame they dealt with on a daily basis. “What about jealousy?”

“Jealousy?”

“Pace Martin, for instance, one of the highest ranked pitchers in the league and the ace in your starting lineup. How do the other pitchers on the team feel about playing second fiddle to him? Like Ty, a strong up-and-coming player, and yet he’s Pace’s relief pitcher, maybe not getting the playing time he might somewhere else because Pace is so good. Does he—”

“Honey.” Sam smiled like pure melted butter as she reached out and squeezed Holly’s hand. “It’s been a long day and we’re far from home. We’re eating a thousand-calorie dessert together. Now I know you like to dig, but all you’re going to come up with is a bunch of holes and tired arms. So don’t you think we might enjoy ourselves instead of trying to find problems that don’t exist?”

Holly blinked. “Oh. Okay, sure.”

Sam laughed at her. “You’re allowed to take a breather, you know. And do nothing. I won’t tell anyone.”

Holly let out a self-conscious smile, a little startled that Sam had read her so easily. “It’s going to take some practice, this sitting-around thing. I don’t usually have so much downtime.”

“Well, we’ll reform you yet.”

 

 

The
next day, in the packed Philly stadium, Holly sat in the stands with a sense of anticipation and excitement as Pace jogged out to the pitcher’s mound looking tall, leanly muscled, and focused.

In his element.

“He’s my fantasy pick,” a teenage boy said reverently, sitting just behind her.

Hers, too, she thought, watching Pace through her camera lens—but not necessarily for his competitiveness, focus, dedication, or pitching ability. No, her fantasy was much more female based than that . . .

The late afternoon was steaming hot. The air smelled of popcorn, hot dogs, and freshly cut grass, and shimmered with the heat.

Pace put on his glove and adjusted his cap. Game face on, he turned to view his outfield, and Holly experienced a little frisson of thrill at the sight of his name stitched across his back.

Good Lord, she thought, lowering her camera. She’d turned into a rabid fan.

The first batter stepped up to the plate to wild cheers from his home crowd. Holly knew that a successful batter got a hit only thirty percent of the time he went to bat, less when Pace was pitching.

She held her breath.

Pace wound up and let the ball go, where it promptly whizzed right into Wade’s mitt with a loud
smack
.

“Steeeee-riiiiike!”
the ump yelled.

“Fastball,” someone said behind her. “Fastest fastball in the league.”

Wade threw the ball back to Pace, dropped into a crouch, and sent Pace a sign between his spread thighs.

Pace nodded. His next pitch arched, making the batter leap back from the plate with an oath, but then the ball arched again, sliding right into the strike zone.

“Steeeee-riiiiike!”
the ump yelled again.

The batter looked pissed off.

The Philly crowd booed.

“Jesus, did you see that curveball?” someone on Holly’s left said in disbelief. “It must have curved a foot and a half!”

Holly had no idea how low it really curved, because she couldn’t take her eyes off Pace. He went on to pitch a textbook no-hitter, and if he felt any of the pain she’d sensed the other day, he didn’t let it show. In fact, he let nothing show. He was a solid, tough rock of determination from the start to the seventh inning, when Gage pulled him to save his arm for the next series.

Ty went in, allowing several runs, but still holding their lead, and the Heat won eight to four.

The informal after party was set in one of the bars of the hotel, free drinks on management. Holly found herself with a lingering headache, probably from the hot sun, not to mention the cheering she’d done. She thought about escaping to her room to work on her next article, which she’d decided would be about the public’s view of baseball, from past to present, focusing on kids and how much the game and the players meant to them.

But looking around at the growing crowd, she decided to stay a few more minutes in case she heard anything interesting.

Which was really just an excuse.

She wanted to see Pace. Knowing it, she made her way through the gang to the open bar and tried to get the attention of one of the two pretty, young bartenders, one blonde, one brunette, spending more time looking at the players than making drinks. She waited.

And waited.

“You don’t have a penis, so I’d give up.” Samantha smiled at her and opened her purse to pull out a flask. “It’s Scotch. I carry it when I fly because I’m such a wuss. Take it.”

“Oh, no, I—”

But Sam had moved on. Holly shook her head and tried once more in vain to get a much lighter drink from either of the bartenders. “I’m invisible,” she finally decided.

“Aw. Not to me, darlin’.” Wade nudged her shoulder with his as he worked his way in next to her, all three-day scruff and Prada sunglasses.

She’d learned several things about the Heat’s star catcher. For one, he was a world-class flirt and yet somehow, when he looked into her eyes, he made her feel like the only woman on the planet.

That he looked like a surfer didn’t hurt. Nope, all that sun-kissed beauty from head to toe really worked for him. Like the others, he was gorgeously built, but beneath that laid-back exterior was a sharp mind, a quick wit, and a fierce loyalty to those he cared about, making him about as easy to crack open as a brick wall. He was both cocky and discreet, a paradox she’d learned while trying to ask him some hard-hitting questions; she’d gotten nowhere. Nope, those deep sea green eyes of his had gone from sparkling to closed up tighter than a drum in a single heartbeat.

The entire team had that in common—tight lips.

“What can I get you to drink?” Wade asked her now.

“A wine cooler, if you can get it, thanks.”

He gestured to the closest bartender, the cute little blonde one, who ran over to him so fast she nearly killed her coworker.

Holly had been a bartender in college. Actually, she’d been a lot of things in college, since it had taken many, many jobs to pay her way. But she’d served quickly and efficiently, with a nice but distant smile, ensuring that she’d get tips but not hit on. The tactic hadn’t always worked. Sometimes she’d gotten stiffed, sometimes she’d gotten hit on in spite of her distance, and sometimes she’d gotten both stiffed
and
hit on, which had always pissed her off.

Wade winked at the blonde as he gave their order, then grinned at Holly as the woman rushed to get the drinks. “They like us here. We tip well.”