Double Play Page 8

  She looked at her blank screen again and winced. “And if it’s biased?”

  “I’ll un-bias it. Send it.”

  “Tommy—”

  “Look, we’ve done this. Send it or quit.”

  She gave one brief thought to doing just that. But two things stopped her. One, her fear of being poor again, and two, quitting in shitty economic times because of a guy she’d spent one hour with had to be the definition of stupid female, and she hated stupid females.

  “What’ll it be, doll?”

  Dammit. “Give me a few hours. I’ll write your damn article.”

  Chapter 7

  There’s no crying in baseball!

  —Jimmy Dugan in A League of Their Own

  For the first time in recent memory, Pace slept like the living dead. When he woke up, he stretched and felt another first: no aches, no pains. In fact, he felt damn good. He eyed the empty vitamin pack by his bed. If Tucker’s stuff had done this, then it was worth its weight in gold.

  He got up, showered, and checked his e-mail. Samantha had sent him the link to American Online Living and Holly’s first baseball series article on her blog. She’d profiled their close-knit team, highlighting the friendship of Ty, Joe, and Henry. They were a threesome now, but she wrote about how they’d once been a fivesome, before Jim and Slam had been traded. The guys had put a positive spin on the situation for her, and Pace found the article nonjudg mental and thoughtful, but also a little on edge.

  She was on the hunt for secrets, and he knew it. The Heat hadn’t had any bad press lately, and that was always a good thing, but none of them were angels and it wouldn’t take much digging to find dirt.

  Holly sat at the private gate at the airport waiting for the Heat’s plane to be ready for boarding. Tommy was so excited about this Philly trip that he’d called three times since she’d gotten to the airport, and she knew if he could have somehow switched positions with her, he would have.

  “Find any secrets yet?” he demanded to know.

  “Nope.”

  “You losing your touch?”

  “I told you I didn’t want this assignment.”

  “It’s a great assignment. Oh, and if the Heat go all the way this year, I want a signed ball.”

  “If I dig out any secrets, no one’s going to want to sign a ball for either of us.”

  “Yeah.” Tommy sighed. “But since you tend to sell advertising space like crazy, I’ll have to live with a fat bank account instead. So . . . which one are you sleeping with?”

  “What? None of them!”

  “You said you had a crush.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with him.”

  “Maybe you should. Get the inside scoop. Yeah, do it!”

  Holly hung up on him and boarded.

  When she’d been invited by Sam on this trip, she’d had no idea what to expect, maybe a luxurious trip from start to finish, with maids and butlers to serve the players every whim. Instead they flew on a relatively no-frills chartered jet with a single steward onboard. The Heat players wore suits and looked good while they were at it. They also smelled good. The support staff was there as were coaches, management. Sam’s brother, Jeremy, was aboard, too. He was Sam’s equivalent at the Charleston Bucks, and the two of them often co-chaired publicity events for both teams together.

  Holly looked at the testosterone filled cabin. All around her was the scent of big, built men—deodorant, soap, af tershave. She’d never seen such concentrated . . . maleness in one place before, and it was distracting to say the least.

  But she was here for a job, and she would use her time wisely. Forcing herself to get to work, she pulled out her computer, booted it up, and opened Word. Then stared at it for a while. Yeah, look at her, hard at work.

  Two rows ahead of her, Ty and Henry were playing cards, Henry’s head bopping to some beat from his iPod. Just to her left, Wade and Pace were talking and laughing, amusing each other with the ease of old, tight friends.

  Then Pace turned his head toward her. Wade was saying something to him, but Pace didn’t take his eyes off her as he slowly nodded a greeting, his gaze dark and assessing and . . .

  Warm enough that she needed to adjust the overhead fan right onto her face. Whew. The guy was edible. No other word need apply. She looked at her blank screen and tried to concentrate, which turned out to be impossible, so she clicked open her Sudoku program.

  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.