Double Play (15 page)

“Sam is working on getting the disorderly charge dropped, but brace yourself for a media frenzy with the DUI.”

He wasn’t kidding. By the next morning, the papers and blogs had gotten a hold of the story, claiming Ty had been held for suspected drug possession. One paper even suggested that the relief pitcher had been taking a new highly controversial stimulant, controversial because it wasn’t easily detected during drug testing. The rumor went that it worked better, faster, and with fewer side affects.

The rumors couldn’t be traced, but they were persistent and spread like wildfire.

Henry admitted only to having two beers in his system when he got behind the wheel, stupidly attempting to drive himself and Ty back to their hotel, but that was it. He continuously and adamantly denied drug use, while humbly admitting that the DUI was bad enough, as it was going to cost him both personally and in the eyes of the fans.

In Ty’s case, however, he refused to apologize, saying the papers were not only wrong but slandering him, because the so-called drugs they’d found on him were nothing more than vitamins.

None of it mattered. Hell, the truth didn’t seem to matter as the press continued to slaughter the Heat the whole time they were in Houston, proclaiming that they were young and wild and far too cocky, that they thought they could do anything and get away with it. The MLB commissioner came under pressure to do more random drug testing, and promised to respond.

Before the next day’s game, Pace was in the clubhouse when things went from bad to worse: his father called. “You forget my number?” the old man asked.

Just what Pace needed, that disapproving tone right before a game. “Hi, Dad.”

“I’m in Houston. You going to win or lose today? Because if you’re planning on winning, I thought I’d come watch.”

Edward Martin didn’t make it to many games because of his busy schedule. And in truth, their relationship was far better for it. They had one of those things-are-fine-if-we-don’t-spend-too-much-time-together relationships. “I’ll get you a seat.” Pace hung up knowing he’d either disappoint his father or not, but to stack the deck in his favor, he searched the clubhouse because he had a girl to kiss.

“She’s not here,” Wade told him. “No extras in the clubhouse today. Given our press problems, management thought it best.”

Hell. He reminded himself that he wasn’t superstitious, that of course he could win without kissing Holly.

“I’ll go pull her from the stands,” Red offered.

“Not necessary.”

“Yeah, it is,” he said, and headed out the clubhouse door, only to come back a few minutes later, flushed and wheezing—and alone. “Not in her seat,” he said, calling Gage, who was just about to use the PA system to comb through the entire stadium looking for her when Pace stopped them both. “This is ridiculous. We are not hauling her in here for some stupid superstition.”

But then he went out and pitched like crap and was yanked at the bottom of the third.

They lost.

The guys gave him shit on shit. Hell, Red didn’t even speak to him the whole flight back. The only one who did was the sole flight attendant, who somewhere over Arizona pulled up her skirt and asked him to sign her inner thigh.

He sat alone on the plane, head back, eyes closed, until he felt a set of legs brush his.

Her scent teased his nostrils, some complicated mix of exotic fruit, maybe flowers—all he knew was that it was amazing. She was amazing.

He opened his eyes as Holly squeezed in past him and sat. Around them, the plane was silent. The lights were dimmed; most everyone was sleeping.

“You okay?” she asked after a minute.

“Been better.”

“Is it your shoulder?”

“No.” Nope, he’d stunk up the diamond all on his own today.

“You know what they all think,” she murmured. “That we should have—”

“Yeah.”

She stared at his mouth. “I wouldn’t have minded kissing you.” A smile curved her lips. “For the cause and all.”

He felt a stupid, helpless smile hit him. “No?”

She shook her head, and she leaned in. “Maybe we should . . . I don’t know . . .”

His heart leapt hard against his ribs. “Practice?”

“Great minds,” she said, repeating his own words from Atlanta back at him.

Yeah, now see that’s what he liked about her, he thought, sliding a hand to the nape of her neck. Always game. The leather seats crinkled comfortably as he shifted closer, and he watched as her lips parted in anticipation.

Oh yeah. His parted, too, and he let his eyes drift shut as he kissed—

Gage’s hand. Because Gage had shot it between them from the seat behind them.

“You couldn’t be bothered to kiss her earlier, but you’ll do it now?” came the Skip’s pissed-off whisper, the one that could skin alive. “Fuck, no. Not on my fucking plane.”

“No disrespect, Skip,” Pace said, eyes still on Holly, “but I can kiss whoever I want.”

“Get off my plane.”

Holly laughed, but Pace knew Gage was only half kidding. Maybe only one-quarter kidding.

“No kissing,” Gage instructed. “And absolutely no fu—”

“Okay,” Pace said quickly. “Somebody needs a nap.”

“No,” Gage grounded out. “Somebody needs a
win
.”

 

 

That
night, back at home in his own house, Pace retrieved his e-mail, which included a link to Holly’s latest blog, sent by Sam. This time Holly had tackled America’s fascination /obsession with the players—the good, the bad, and the ugly, from the little kids just wanting an autograph, to the drunk fans wanting a piece of action after the game, to women wanting body parts signed.

Pace shook his head. “Had a good time writing this one, didn’t you?” he murmured, reading on to where she’d outlined the innate problems with the players being treated like royalty, how the fast celebrity status could lead to a false sense of reality, an inflated ego, and even a distance from the game and fans that paid them their millions.

False sense of reality? Not so much, not in Pace’s case anyway.

Inflated ego? Maybe, and yet hopefully not.

But distance? Check. And it was that, he figured, that finger right on the pulse of his own personal problem, that bothered him the most.

He absolutely felt distanced from his own damn life.

The next day, he pitched in the bullpen for practice, badly, and in spite of Red making him stop early, his shoulder hurt like hell.

Gage blew his equivalent of a gasket and hauled Pace’s ass to medical, where he was assessed.

Severely strained rotator cuff.

Red pulled out his hanky for the diagnosis, and Pace felt like shit. Management called a meeting to make the decision—either put him on the DL for a fifteen day stay, or listing him as day-to-day until he recovered.

With Red’s help, Pace fought long and hard for day-to day status, convincing the Skip that he’d do fine with physical therapy. It put a lot of pressure on him to recover quickly, but hell, he was used to pressure.

That night, Wade brought him pizza and they had a pity party, but it didn’t help.

Without Pace, the Heat pulled Ty up to a starter. He was good, but not good enough to take the Dodgers, and they lost their next two games. The press continued their massacre of the entire team, and the uneasiness in Pace’s chest swelled, tightening against his rib cage.

Because no matter how he tried to spin it, things had gone straight to hell.

Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the
Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona.

—George F. Will

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sam
was extremely careful with the press release regarding Pace’s injury. Careful and optimistic, stating only that Pace had a strained his rotator cuff, to be treated with PT. Then Gage made him go into seclusion—no cell calls, no computer, nothing but PT and rest for three days.

He was kept busy with that and icing, along with lower-body workouts.

On the forth day, feeling caged in, he used Wade’s cell phone and called Holly. He didn’t know why, other than he just wanted to hear her or better yet, see her. “How about dinner?” he asked when she answered.

“Why, Wade,” she murmured in his ear. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Funny,” he said dryly, nearly laughing for the first time in days. “Say yes.”

“Yes to dinner, and yes to news on you.”

“I didn’t offer news on me.”

She sighed in his ear, a soft, anxious sound that made him feel like a jerk. “Just tell me this,” she murmured. “Are you okay?”

“Fantastic.”

“The truth, Pace.”

“I’m working on being okay.”

“Fair enough. Dinner would be great. So would an interview.”

Hell. “I was thinking steak and a drink, and no interview.”

“Fine, be mysterious. Name the place and I’ll meet you. I’m in Los Angeles at a meeting with my publisher, but I’ll be back in a few hours.”

They arranged a time and place, but when Pace showed up at the restaurant, Wade and Henry were already there. He stared at them, knowing he wasn’t going to like this. “What are you doing?”

“Gage sent us.” Wade wisely handed Pace a drink to go with that news. “We’re on babysitting duty.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you can look, but you can’t touch,” Henry instructed in a perfect imitation of Gage, and when Pace scowled, he quickly added, “You know that was the Skip, right? Not me.”

“You can tell Gage where to put his orders, and that’s right up his—”

Holly came up to the table then, with a sweet, welcoming smile. “Hi, guys.” She set a hand on Pace’s arm and looked into his eyes and made him forget his own name. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

Her hand ran lightly over his bandaged shoulder. “There’s that fine again.”

“Well I’m fine now,” he clarified, knowing by her warm smile that she understood it was because of her presence.

Wade and Henry scooted in and made room, and that was that. A foursome. Terrific. With a sigh, Pace held out a chair for her and gave in, after which his two teammates spent the evening telling her stories, like the time they’d hidden all of Pace’s luggage when he’d been in the shower at Houston.

“He was forced to come through the clubhouse butt naked in front of a pack of reporters,” Henry told her with glee. “Fun times.”

Yeah. Fun times. He looked over at a laughing Holly and found himself smiling. “You think that’s funny?”

“I do.”

After dinner, the guys faithfully stuck around in the parking lot until Holly kissed them each on the cheek and drove off, leaving Pace with the urge to strangle each of them.

And then Gage.

“Think of it this way,” Wade said, putting a hand on his good shoulder as they watched Holly’s taillights vanish into the night. “She’s the first woman you haven’t been able to have at the snap of your fingers when you wanted. She’s also the first woman to stick on your mind for more than a split second. That’s a good thing, right?”

“What are you getting at?”

“That this is new for you, this slow dating-ritual dance. And different. And maybe, it’s also something really great.”

“Which I would know by now if I was allowed to be alone with her for even a second.”

“Maybe she’s worth the wait.”

Yeah. Yeah, maybe she was. He went home alone to channel surf for a while, then gave in to temptation and called Holly to make sure she got home okay.

And to hear her voice.

When she didn’t answer, he left her a voice message, a stupid, stuttering, rambling message that came from acting without thinking, which he was most definitely doing. After hanging up, he promptly fell off the wagon and drank two Dr Peppers.

The next morning, he woke up to find that the sports world was filled with rumors of the real nature of his injury, that it was far more serious than reported, that it wasn’t just a strained rotator cuff but a severe tear that could be the end of his career.

Gage blew an even larger gasket and had Sam working night and day trying to figure out where the hell the rumors were originating from, along with all the other rumors they’d been battling for weeks, needing to know who the hell was always one step ahead of them.

Pace lay in bed that night and knew who it could have been.

Holly.

Except for one thing—he didn’t believe it. Refused to believe it.

The next morning, he drove to the park. Chipper and River were ecstatic and couldn’t wait to tell him how great Holly was. Seemed she’d taken them to lunch, and now they thought the sun rose and set in her eyes.

Pace thought something else, and he didn’t like it. “What did she want to know about me?”