Double Play Page 4

  around, and nowhere to dump her out. Which meant he was stuck with her. “I’m not feeling all that friendly.”

  “Should have taken the Advil.”

  The wind was working wonders on her again. Besides her hair—which had rioted completely now—her cheeks were tinged pink. Her jacket was whipping around, too, opening a little, making her look a whole hell of a lot less buttoned-up. Oddly disoriented by that, he glanced at the clock on the dash. “Listen, I really do have to be somewhere.” Several somewheres. It’d been a long while since his time had been his own. “I’ll call you a cab, have it meet up with us to take you back to your car.” He reached for his cell phone. “I’m sure Tia’s gone by now.”

  “I can’t believe you’re afraid of her.”

  She could be amused by this all she wanted, but Tia was more than just a five foot pain in his neck. Twice she’d gotten into the practice arena and climbed onto the field during home games. She’d attempted to break into the clubhouse as well, and he’d swear under oath that she’d been at his own house, walking the perimeter of his yard trying to find a way inside there, too. “Just do me a favor and stay clear of her. For your sake. Now I really have to—”

  “How about this . . .” She pulled the cell phone from his hand and shut it. “I just come along to wherever you’re going.”

  Yeah. Hell. That’s what he’d figured she’d say.

  “Did you know that baseball players, pitchers especially, are usually blessed—or cursed, depending on how you look at it—with a natural physical prowess and acute mental agility? It manifests into self-confidence and mental toughness. Or, as some would say more clearly, arrogance.”

  When he didn’t respond, she slid him an amused look. “It seems to be most prevalent in successful players. It stems from the desire to make things happen.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Did you also know you have to be one in two million to have the total package of physical and psychological abilities required to succeed in baseball at its highest level of competition?”

  No. That was a new one.

  “What’s fascinating about that is you’ve climbed this incredibly steep pyramid of players to make it to the top of a highly selective and narrow pool, which means you’re incredible under pressure, and yet you crumble like a little girl at the thought of an interview. Interesting, Pace. Very interesting.”

  He stared at her in bafflement. “What do you want from me?”

  “The interview.”

  “I really did ask Samantha to cancel.” Well, actually, technically, he’d asked his manager to get Sam to cancel. But now that he thought about it, Gage had been surrounded by women at the time, at a high-powered fashion show event they’d all attended for the Heat’s 4 The Kids charity, and Gage’s eyes had been sort of glazed over when Pace had made the request. It was entirely possible Gage hadn’t heard a word Pace had said.

  “No worries,” Holly said. “This has worked out for me so far. After all, I got to learn all about your women problems, getting stalked, surrounded—”

  “Funny,” he said, and found her smiling at him.

  And damn if there wasn’t something contagious about it, about her. She was actually quite sharp, and pretty. But he didn’t want to be amused, or attracted.

  He wanted to be alone.

  Given how much of his life was spent in the spotlight, he really liked being by himself. At this level of his life, there were two types of ball players: those in it for the money, and those in it for the love of the game. He was in the latter, definitely. He loved the game, period, and would play it with or without the money, preferably also without the reporters, pretty or otherwise.

  He just wanted to play. He loved everything about baseball—the feel of the ball in his hand, the whizzing of the air as the ball left his fingers at ninety-plus miles an hour, the smell of the field right after it was cut, the sensation of standing on the mound, watching the batter walk up to the plate, having Wade send him a cocky smile and a sign for the next pitch . . .

  Everything.

  It was his passion, it was his heart, it was his entire life. So he understood why people wanted to watch.

  What he didn’t understand was people wanting to watch him outside the game, as if he were a movie star. It made no sense, and plus, it bugged the hell out of him. “What if I promised you that aside from the game, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about me?”

  She arched a brow. “That’s not what Playboy said.”

  “You read Playboy?”

  “Did you see last month’s cover story, the one where they asked their readers which professional athletes would make the best lovers?”

  Ah, Christ. He knew what was coming. “No.”

  “You were in the top five, big guy.”

  When he shook his head, she laughed. And when he didn’t join her, she sighed. “Trying to lighten the mood here, Pace. Specifically your mood. How come no one ever thinks I’m funny?”

  “Because you’re not?”

  “I’ll have you know, I was voted class clown.”

  Now he laughed. “Sorry, but no. No possible way.”

  She was frowning at him, still trying to keep her hair out of her face. “Why do people say sorry before they say something rude?”

  “Admit it, you were the bookworm who did the football players’ homework for manicure money, right?”

  She crossed her arms, lifted her nose to nosebleed heights.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m right.”

  “Basketball team,” she muttered, looking away. “I did the basketball players’ homework.”

  He could picture her, all carefully buttoned up and serious, nose buried in a stack of books doing work for a bunch of lazy, entitled jocks. He’d been one of those jocks.

  “And I didn’t do it for manicures either,” she told him. “I was never that shallow.”

  Now that he believed. She might be a pesky know-it-all, but nothing about her said shallow, trite, or conceited. “I was shallow in high school.”

  And more, probably.

  “Was?” she asked, looking pointedly around the leather interior of his obviously expensive car.

  Yeah, yeah. On the outside looking in, he had it all: the sizzling hot pro-baseball career, women leaving panties with their phone numbers on his hotel room doors . . . a shallow lifestyle.

  Sue him.

  But ever since his shoulder had started to go and he’d realized he was nothing outside the game, it’d all started to crash down on his head. It was humbling.

  Demeaning.

  And, if he thought too much, devastating.

  He exited the highway and drove down the twisting, narrow roadway now entirely shadowed by the mountains that isolated the city of Santa Barbara from the rest of the world. He pulled into a small, out-of-the way park and took in the athletic field, the low-lying creek next to it, and felt his heart lighten slightly. The field was rundown. The empty lot next to the park had been abandoned long ago, with grass growing through the cracks in the asphalt and graffiti on the walls of the abandoned store that was nothing but a shack now. A For Sale sign had come unnailed on one side and was tipped, hanging to the ground.

  The place had been up for sale for years. The last time Pace had checked into it on a whim, his attorney had told him only an idiot would buy it.

  “Oh God.” Holly turned to him suspiciously. “You’re not bringing me to a drug deal, are you?”

  “Yeah. Because I always bring nosy reporters with me when I buy my drugs.” He sighed when she didn’t smile. “That was a joke. Because I was the class clown. Wait here.”

  “But—”

  “Wait, or call a cab.” He pulled some cash out of his wallet for the ride back. “Nice meeting you,” he added in case she bailed.

  Which he was betting on.

  Hoping on.

  Chapter 4

  If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant’s life, she
will choose to save the infant’s life without even considering if there are men on base.

  —Dave Barry

  Pace’s mind was still on Holly as he pulled his duffel bag from the back of his car. Okay, so she’d turned out to be far more pretty than annoying; he still didn’t have time for her. Gritting his teeth at the movement of his shoulder, he strode toward the field under the late afternoon sun, meeting the guys on the pitcher’s mound.

  They were a ragtag team of middle school kids who played here every single day. They didn’t belong to any school team; no one would have them. There was a rec center league, but it was too far from here, closer to the center of town, and these kids didn’t have the means to get there, much less pay the fees to join that league. They needed something here, on the edge of the county, to keep them busy and out of trouble, and he’d made that something baseball.

  He’d discovered them one day after a particularly tough game of his own, where he’d pitched like shit, hurt like hell, and had come here just to stand on a field where talent didn’t matter, only heart did.

  “You’re late,” Chipper said, tossing Pace their ball. Chipper was their catcher, a term used quite loosely since mostly the only things he ever caught were Ding Dongs. Literally. He could catch Ding Dongs in his mouth. He was the park champ.

  “Don’t worry, Pace,” River piped in, slurping from a soda, making Pace’s mouth water. “We won’t make ya take a lap.” River was their pitcher. Another loose term, as River had a helluva time getting the ball anywhere near home plate, much less over it.

  They were working on that. “I brought you guys something.” Pace’s fingers actually twitched to yank that soda away from the kid and down it. Christ, he missed Dr Pepper like he’d miss a limb.

  “Chocodiles?” This from a hopeful Chipper.

  “Better.” Pace let the bag drop and crouched down to unzip it, revealing a pile of brand new leather gloves, all infinitely higher quality than what they’d been using.

  The guys hit their knees to get a closer look. “Dude . . .”

  “Sweet . . .”

  “Tight . . .”

  Pace watched them all grab a glove and marvel over them with more joy that he’d gotten out of his last three wins. He rubbed his shoulder absently, wondering what was wrong with him that he was brooding about . . . hell, he didn’t even know. “When you get home, put a ball inside each glove and wrap it with a rubber band or string to break them in.” He rifled through the bag. “And Chipper, I brought you a new bat.”

  “I have that aluminum one.”

  Pace shook his head. “Wood. Wood is better.”

  “But I have a huge sweet spot on the aluminum—”

  “Yours doesn’t ring when you hit anymore.”

  “It’s because he doesn’t hit anything,” River quipped, and Chipper might have launched at him but Pace straightened and gripped him by the back of the shirt just in time.

  “He’s right,” he told the kid. “You need batting practice. When your bat doesn’t ring anymore, it means it’s dead. It’s not your fault.”

  “It’s not all the way dead, not yet—”

  “Wood,” Pace repeated stubbornly, and handed it over, which produced more oohs and aahs. “This baby’s sweet spot is all hickory. You’re going to love her.” Wood was more expensive, but it was required in the pros, and Pace wanted them to get used to the feel of it. He rose to his feet. “I can’t stay.”

  This was met with a bunch of groans and protests, but Pace just shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve got a—”

  “A chick,” Chipper said.

  “Doctor’s appointment—”

  “Don’t look now,” Chipper whispered loud enough for the living dead to hear. “But you have a chick getting out of your car. She’s walking along the creek, coming this way.”

  The “chick” smiled at the guys as she came close. Holly’s hair was carefully tucked up again, and she’d buttoned her jacket, but her eyes sparkled with life as she crossed the patchy weeds masquerading as grass and came to a stop right in their midst. “New equipment,” she said with a smile.

  “Pace brought it all,” Chipper said. “He’s the best.”

  The others all nodded emphatically.

  “He’s always bringing us stuff,” River added. “He’s like our skipper.”

  “That’s what a team manager is called by the guys,” Chipper informed her.

  “I know.” Holly was looking at Pace with a speculative curiosity in her sharp light brown eyes. “I think that’s lovely.”

  “When he gave up Dr Pepper, he brought us the cases he’d had stashed at his place so he wouldn’t fall off the wagon,” Chipper told her. “Oh and he takes us for pizza, too.”

  “Well that must be fun. And he coaches you.”

  “Yeah. He’s the best pitcher in the majors right now.”

  “Chipper.” Pace shook his head. They were trying to sell him like a used car.

  Chipper ignored him. “Did you know he packs high heat? It means he’s got an unusually fast fastball. So technically he could be a closer, but he’s an ace starter.”

  Great. His own personal cheering squad. “She doesn’t need to hear—”

  “Are you Pace’s girlfriend?” Chipper asked her.

  She laughed, a sweet musical sound that had Pace taking a second look at her.

  “Definitely not.” She sounded extremely amused at the question, so much so that he found himself taking offense. What the hell. He wasn’t a bad boyfriend—when he chose to be a boyfriend, that is, which, granted, he didn’t do a lot. Women liked his wallet but usually not the fact that for seven months out of the year he was pretty much physically and emotionally unavailable.

  “His date then,” River guessed.

  Another laugh from Holly. “No.”

  “You don’t have to sound like it would be so distasteful,” Pace muttered.

  “To date you?” She was still smiling. “Really?”

  Okay, now he felt downright irritated. “What would be wrong with dating me?”

  “I’m not sure we have enough time to cover it all.” And what the hell did that mean? He opened his mouth to ask, but she dropped to her knees next to the boys with utter disregard for her skirt and was oohing and aahing over the gloves. His cell phone rang, distracting him. It was Samantha, the bane of Pace’s existence at the moment. “You didn’t cancel my interview,” he said, stepping away from the gang so he couldn’t be overheard by one nosy reporter and a bunch of even nosier kids.

  “I didn’t, no,” Samantha said. “Was I supposed to?”

  “Hell, yes.” Behind him he heard Chipper asking Holly if she was a baseball groupie. Jesus. He strained his ears to catch Holly’s response.

  “No,” she murmured. “I’m not much of a groupie type.”

  “Do you play baseball?”

  “Pace?” came Sam’s voice in his ear. “You still there?”

  “Yeah. I’m still here.”

  “Holly Hutchins is a reporter who’s known for the nitty gritty. The owners want her to do this series to give us some good publicity. She’s supposedly a little uptight and reserved . . .”

  Gee, he hadn’t noticed.

  “But she’s fair, and very good, so be nice.”

  “Uh-huh.” At the moment, Holly didn’t seem quite as uptight and reserved as she had back at the facilities, not with her knees in the dirt, smiling and laughing with the kids, telling River that she’d grown up in a rough neighborhood, where hanging around