by Jill Shalvis
“Are you?”
“No.”
She was quiet a moment, as if taking the time to read right through him. “I understand the Heat has a lot riding on this next series.”
“Yeah.” In Pace’s life it was fact that people always said he had a lot riding on the next game, he had a lot riding on the next series, or whatever they were facing. Not the Heat, but him. Pace had always hated that. Yeah, he was a good pitcher, maybe even at times a great one. But he was also part of a damn team.
And in only a few words, Holly had just made it clear that she was one of the few who recognized that. Pace would like her for that alone—if he hadn’t already decided not to like her at all. “Okay, well, I just wanted to check on you, so . . .”
“And you’re already sorry you called.”
Yes. Yes, he was.
Sounding amused again, she said, “That’s okay, Pace. You can take me off your list of things to be concerned about. I’m not going to hold it against you that I have a lovely black-and-blue bruise in the center of my forehead.”
He winced for her. “In my experience, women tend to remember these things.”
“We’ve already agreed you’ve been hanging out with the wrong women. ’Night, Pace.”
“ ’Night.” He closed his cell phone and stared at it for a minute, debating whether or not to hunt up her address and go over there to check on her in person. But he had to be honest with himself. If he did that, it wouldn’t be just to look at her bruise.
And that, more than anything else, made the decision for him.
He wasn’t going anywhere near her.
When Red knocked on the door only a minute later with the tapes of the Phillies’ last game and some sub sandwiches, the decision was all the easier. Watching tapes before an away series was a tradition. Often Wade came, too, and some of the other guys as well, but tonight it was just Red and his son Tucker, who had baseball in his blood the same as his father.
Tucker and Pace went way back as well. They’d played against each other at their respective rival high schools the one year Pace hadn’t had to move to accommodate his father’s military career. That’d been the same year Tucker had made a string of bad choices including mixing alcohol and street racing, and had ended up with his car in a ditch and several pins in his right leg. Unable to play baseball but equally unable to shake loose his love for the game, Tucker now repped for a vitamin company, the one which exclusively supplied the Heat with their own vitamin enriched water.
Father and son were mirror images of each other. They had matching carrot-top, trademark messy hairstyles, stark green eyes that saw everything, quick smiles, and two big, warm hearts.
Tucker limped across Pace’s large, undeniably plush living room, and Pace couldn’t help the twinge that always hit him. If not for some shitty choices made all those years ago, Tucker might be right where Pace was, with the MLB contract and fat retirement account.
Tucker wouldn’t want the pity, but knowing that didn’t assuage Pace’s discomfort. They sat in front of the TV and watched the tape. Usually it was a good time, the calm before the storm, but tonight, it felt like an effort to be social. So did listening to Red point out the Phillies different pitching idiosyncrasies.
“Pace, watch his foot, see? He’s not pushing off with his back leg. He’s leaving the fastball up and his curve’s flat. You don’t do that. You’re too smart to do that.”
Pace didn’t feel so smart. If he’d been smart, he’d have figured out how to avoid his injury.
“Look at that.” Red poked a bony finger toward the TV. “The way he changed his grip right there, see?”
“Pace knows how to win, Dad,” Tucker said with a laugh. “He’s done it a time or two.”
Yeah. What Pace didn’t know was if he could keep winning.
Tucker helped himself to Pace’s refrigerator and shook his head at the six-pack of Dr Pepper in the way back. “Thought you gave this shit up since it made you feel like—surprise—shit.”
“I did.” He just liked to look at it sometimes. Like a junkie.
Tucker pulled out a bottle of water instead and slapped it to Pace’s chest, along with a vitamin pack. “Our newest stuff. One a day. It speeds up healing and promotes strength, both of which you need. Gives you energy, too.”
Pace raised a brow. He really hated taking anything, even Advil—a throwback to the old man who’d always believed such things showed weakness. “Sounds like HGH.”
Human growth hormones were banned, with a strict MLB ruling that required a fifty-game suspension for a first-time offense. A second offense was a one-hundred-game suspension, which was nothing next to the third offense—life banishment from the majors.
Harsh, but extremely effective. The MLB was just as hard on banned stimulants. A second test for those resulted in an automatic twenty-five game suspension.
Red, a firm old-schooler from the days before the commissioner had stopped the steroid use, rolled his eyes. “The new regulations are shit.”
“Oh boy,” Tucker muttered to Pace. “Here we go.”
“Well, Jesus on a stick,” Red griped. “They put athletes on the cover of the Wheaties box and say the cereal gives you strength, but a guy can’t take something to promote that strength? Should we ban Wheaties then? Hell, let’s also ban Tylenol while we’re at it.” He said this so vigorously he started coughing.
Tucker sighed and smacked him on the back. “Maybe we should ban your cigarettes, Dad. How about that?” He turned to Pace. “The vitamins are all natural. Nothing manufactured, no drugs in the mix. Ty’s been taking them and his energy level is way up.”
Ty occasionally had a problem with his energy levels, something left over from the leukemia he’d faced as a teen. Or more correctly, the meds he’d taken to fight the disease.
In any case, in theory Pace understood the appeal of enhancers. Pro athletes were paid to be strong. If there were drugs to help build strength and muscle, then that’s what some would choose to do. It was life. It just wasn’t for him, simply because while he believed certain drugs absolutely could make him stronger, he didn’t believe strength was what made a pitcher. Pitching came from a complexity of arm and shoulder movements combined with the science involved in directing the baseball.
“Just try them for a week,” Tucker said at the look on Pace’s face. “I swear you’ll feel like a new man.”
With his doctor’s prognosis ringing in his ear, Pace nodded. A little extra boost, whether real or perceived, couldn’t possibly hurt.
“What’s the matter with you?” Red asked. “You seem off.”
“Just tired.”
“Yeah?” Red’s sharp gaze ran over him. “Or maybe you have a late date and want us out?”
“Jesus, Dad,” Tucker muttered.
“What? Women throw themselves at him in every city we go to. Did I tell you in Dallas someone left their panties on his hotel room door?”
“Well, lucky him.” Tucker rolled his eyes in sympathy at Pace. “Sorry. He actually still believes sex takes away from a guy’s game.”
“It does!” Red insisted.
A sentiment Pace wholeheartedly disagreed with, but it wasn’t as if sex was on the table for the evening anyway.
“Fine. Get your rest, Sleeping Beauty.” Red took his tape and, heading to the door, added, “If you keep winning, I just might get my pennant yet.”
“You mean if we win this series.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said if I win.”
“Well, what the hell’s the difference?”
“I’m not the whole team.”
“This year you are.”
Pace’s doctor would disagree. He’d remind Pace what he’d said just this afternoon, that his rotator cuff was possibly beyond strained, that it might be torn, which meant that it needed to be repaired. He had two choices: laser surgery now, or stick with physical therapy and hope it didn’t get worse.
Two per
fectly reasonable and perfectly shitty choices.
Tucker tapped the plastic bag of vitamins he’d pushed into Pace’s arms. “Take these, daily. Especially if you have a hot date.”
“The only hot date he needs is with his own bed,” Red muttered. He nudged Pace, which equaled a hug in Red’s world. “Alone.”
Pace just sighed and kicked them both out.
Unable to sleep after Pace’s call, Holly alternately paced her condo and stared at her blank computer screen. She was trying to write her first article, but every time she wrote a sentence, she considered hitting Delete instead of Save.
This might have been because she’d kissed her subject.
God.
She paced some more, obsessed some more, then called her best friend, Allie.
“About damn time, chica,” Allie said. “I’ve been worried.”
They hadn’t touched base all week, which was all Holly’s fault as Allie had called several times. “I’m sorry. I’m starting a new series.”
“Which means you’re pacing in front of your computer, cursing Tommy and life in general. One of these days, maybe you’ll try it my way.”
Which involved yoga, health food, and a complete lack of stress. Unfortunately, Holly fell over whenever she attempted yoga, she had an ongoing love affair with junk food, and she lacked the ability to live stress free. “My way is fine. Or it would be if Tommy would trust me to pick the series ideas.”
“Interesting that you want your scumbag of a boss to trust you, when you don’t trust anyone.”
“I trust you.”
“When you trust so few,” Allie amended. “Yeah, you write about secrets, chica, but remember, not all secrets mean someone is cruel and neglectful. Not everyone with a secret is your mother.”
Holly sighed. “Yeah.” She and Allie had met in a college creative writing course, and despite their differences, they’d bonded over their horrible teacher. They’d roomed together for two years, Allie and her tofu, Holly and her chocolate. They’d become close, with Allie turning into Holly’s first true friend.
Now Allie lived in LA working as a housekeeper for the rich and famous while writing a screenplay on the side. They saw each other as often as Holly got to LA, which hadn’t been much lately. Allie was Holly’s one tie, the lone string on her heart, and she depended on it to keep her grounded.
“I hear your baseball phenom hit an RBI double and a sacrifice fly to go along with his seven innings of no-hitters in his last game,” Allie said. “He’s expected to do at least that in Philly.”
“I didn’t know you were into baseball.”
“I looked it up so I’d sound smart. Did it work?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Good. Mission accomplished.” Allie had a smile in her voice. “I was beginning to think maybe you’d fallen off the planet. Or better yet, found a hot guy or something.”
“Or something.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m right?”
“No,” Holly said on a laugh. “You’re not right. I’m swamped with getting this series started, that’s all.” Or not, she thought, staring at her laptop. “I just wanted to check in.”
“Aw, you miss me.”
“Yeah.” Holly felt a smile cross her face. “I really do.”
“Then stop running around like a chicken without a head. Stand still and grow roots. And if you could do that here in LA, with me, that’d be great. This is where it’s at, chica.”
“For you maybe, but I write nonfiction. I need to travel to the stories.”
“So switch to fiction. So is he on the Heat?”
“He who?”
“He, the hottie distracting you who.”
“Stop it.” But she caved as she sank to her chair and stared at the computer. “He’s the phenom. Phenoms don’t tend to like bossy reporters.”
Allie laughed. “I love it. You always did aim high.”
“You heard the nothing’s-going-to-happen part, right?”
“Call me when you have details.”
“There won’t be any.”
“Uh-huh.”
Holly thunked her head on her desk. “Well I don’t want there to be details, how’s that?”
Allie laughed and Holly hung up. She looked around at the condo she’d rented for the next month and let out a breath. Another condo in another city.
She had no idea where she’d go next.
Contrary to what Allie thought, that was actually the fun part of her job, nothing tying her down . . . Or it had been, until recently, when this odd sense of restlessness started hounding her. Maybe Allie had a point, maybe she should think about settling. She didn’t have to do it the way her mother had, with all the various addictions in play—the men, the shopping, the lying . . . which when combined had destroyed her, and nearly Holly as well. It’d certainly left them in the poor house.
Or more accurately, a single-wide in south Georgia. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Nope, if they’d been a real family, it’d have been fine. But Holly’s mom had always blamed Holly for her problems, and Holly in turn had blamed her mother for . . . everything.
They’d never been a real family.
Talk about being tied down. Poverty was the worst of ties. The memories were harsh, but Holly had raised herself and gotten out. The days of being so poor she couldn’t pay attention were over.
And yes, maybe now she was a little tough, a little jaded, and a whole lot mistrustful, but she had her morals firmly in place, instincts honed sharp.
Which is how she screwed up enough courage to call Tommy.
“Finally,” he grumbled. “I was getting ready to send out a search party. You don’t return calls now?”
“I’m sorry. I need to talk to you.”
“Well, I need to talk to you, too, doll. I need you to get me your article ASAP. I’m running it tomorrow.”
“It’s not due until Monday.”
“I know, but Alicia crapped out on me and now I have a spot to fill. You’re it.”
“I need some more time.”
“What do you mean you need more time?”
“Actually,” she said with a glance at her blank screen, “I need to change subjects. I’m thinking ice dancing.”
He laughed good and hard. “Oh no you don’t.”
He had no idea. She had to change subjects—she’d kissed hers! “I have a little conflict of interest.” A six foot two conflict of interest . . .
“Huh?”
Tommy had given Holly a chance when no one else would, so she felt she owed him for that, and she gave him the truth that meant so much to her. “It’s possible that I’m developing a very small . . .”
“Zit? Parasite? What?”
“Crush. On one of the players.”
“So?”
“So . . .” The last time she’d dated someone related to her work, it had ended badly. Very badly. So badly Alex was probably still wishing her dead, and she was still wishing she’d never faked an orgasm for him.
She didn’t intend to date Pace, or to kiss him again for that matter, but she had to face one fact. “It’ll be hard to be objective.”
“I’m not paying you to be objective,” Tommy said. “This isn’t a series about baseball facts. This is a personal commentary. Your opinion matters, so if you’re getting close to them, then so much the better. And hey, I hear the players all do tons of charity work with kids. Get me pics of that, pronto. It’ll go good alongside whatever tough-hitting stuff you write. We’ll tug on the heartstrings, then rip out their guts.”
“You are one sick man, Tommy.”
“I know it. Now send me the damn article.”
