Double Play

by Shalvis, Jill

  “Women, Pace,” she said with a shake of her head. “You ever loved a woman?”

  “Maybe,” he allowed. “Maybe a couple of times. I was even engaged once when I was very young and stupid. But if we’re being honest, that wasn’t the forever kind of love either.”

  “Are there two kinds of love then?”

  “There are lots of kinds.”

  At that, she stopped walking to face him, hands on her hips, expression amused. “Okay, Mr. Expert, like what?”

  “Well, there’s the love that hits you after a few drinks and laughs, the one that says take this woman to bed for the rest of the night.”

  Her mouth curved. “That’s lust.”

  True. “Then there’s the kind after you’ve already slept together and you’re still not over it. That kind of love takes several dates to get over.”

  “Again. Lust.”

  “Man, you really are a cynic,” he murmured. “How about when you’re with the same person for a while, a long while, and you still want to be with them naked? What’s that?”

  “A rut.”

  He laughed. “Okay, smarty pants, what constitutes love then?”

  She lifted her nose in the air and started walking again, somehow in spite of the game, the kissing, the hike, the stalker, still looking completely, carefully put together. “I’ll have to let you know,” she finally said.

  “Maybe you should write a series on that.”

  She smiled at him as they came to the now nearly empty parking lot. “Interesting idea.” She looked around. They’d missed the mass exodus. “Do you think she’s gone?”

  “Tia? Hard to tell.” His car was in the front row, in one of the reserved spots in all its apple red glory, but he passed by it, intending to walk Holly to her car. “Where did you park?”

  “All the way in the back.”

  They hoofed it out there, and she came to a stop in front of her beat-up Subaru.

  “You need a better-paying job,” he said.

  “Hey, this baby explored the ghost towns of California and lived to tell the tale. I can’t dump her now just because she’s not pretty.”

  “What about dumping her because she’s looking as unreliable as hell?”

  She pulled out her keys. “Thanks for the interview.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “I’m going to be honest with you here, Pace.”

  Uh-oh. “Is it going to hurt?”

  “Maybe.” She paused. “I’m interested in pursuing the drug angle.”

  “Ah, hell.” He sighed. “It is. It’s going to hurt.”

  “I want to write about what happened to Jim and Slam, and what happened to Henry and Ty.”

  “You’ve got apples and oranges. Jim and Slam tested positive for drugs. Henry and Ty didn’t.”

  “The pills—”

  “Vitamins. Tucker’s, actually.”

  “You take them, too, right?”

  “Sometimes. When I remember. You’re not going to find anyone using on the Heat.”

  She looked at him a long moment, then nodded. “Thanks for tonight.”

  “But . . . ? Because I definitely sense a but at the end of that sentence.”

  “But,” she agreed. “I’m going to write about what I want to write about.”

  He thought about what she’d told him about her last boyfriend and how that had ended, and understood that this was the same sort of situation—her work came first, always, a fact he reluctantly understood, even respected, though he didn’t necessarily like it.

  She tossed her purse and her keys into the passenger seat of her car and turned back to him. “I should tell you, I have a secret of my own.”

  “You do?”

  “I seem to have this little crush.” Her gaze warmed. “Three guesses.”

  There she went, being direct again. If she was angry or hurt or mad, or whatever emotion she was feeling, she put it out there for the whole world to see. No games. No subterfuge. No guesswork. She was open and honest and blissfully candid. And though it was crazy, he was crazy, he put his hands on her hips and pulled her in. Needing to assuage the ache low in his gut, the ache that said that the one thing that had been his entire life was no longer enough, that he needed more, he stepped into the only person he wanted to give it to him. Heat coiled low in his belly as he said, “I have a crush, too, along with my own secret.”

  “Which is?”

  “You, Holly Hutchins, scare the hell out of me.”

  “Ditto,” she whispered, not looking scared at all as she slid her fingers into his hair, tugging him down to put her mouth to his in a hard, smoldering kiss that managed to convey frustration, affection, and a mind-staggering heat. Far before he was ready, she let him go, and with a little smile, got into her car and drove off.

  Chapter 14

  Baseball is a fun game. It beats working for a living.

  —Phil Linz

  The Heat flew to Florida for a two-game series against the Marlins. When the private plane they usually chartered was grounded for maintenance at the last minute, they had to fly commercial, which meant much of management was left behind in order to get the entire team and the coaches there in time.

  Everyone grumbled nervously without Holly there to kiss Pace, who felt good enough to start. He did okay, but Gage pulled him after three innings to save him for the Mets.

  Pace sat on the bench and watched Ty struggle to keep their lead.

  They lost seven to six.

  The next day Holly’s article came out, this one opening the door for the fans to the last mysterious frontier left in America—the Major League Baseball clubhouse.

  She described it as a self-contained world where players lounged, bonded, ate, and occasionally fought, but she wrote that one undeniable thing about any clubhouse remained: the chemistry inside it made or broke a team.

  Once again, she was right, and eloquent, and this time she landed a live interview on SportsCenter, which had been following her summer series with great interest. Pace and Wade sat in their hotel room and watched as on live TV she came off as sharp, funny, and—

  “She’s smoking hot,” Wade noted.

  Yeah. That. God, he missed her.

  They flew from Florida to New York, where the rest of the support team finally met up with them for a three-game series against the Mets. Pace was up in the rotation for game two, and in the locker room, just before the start he felt Gage’s beady eyes drilling a hole in the back of his head.

  “Sorry,” Pace said. “I have no idea where Holly is, but if you want, I’ll kiss you instead.”

  The guys all laughed and Gage lifted his clipboard to throw it at them, but then the door opened and in walked Holly.

  She wore a pristine white halter sundress and a Heat-orange belt, the definition of sweet and sexy all at the same time, and Pace wanted everyone to vanish so he could slide his hands all over her and ruffle her up. Ruffle her up and down . . .

  Everyone smiled and greeted her, thanking her for showing up as if she was the second coming of Christ.

  Or the woman who could seal the deal on a win for them.

  With a small smile playing about her lips, she walked right up to him, her eyes lit up with warmth and affection, and as happened every single time he looked at her, something deep inside him split open.

  “I’m not late, am I?” she asked.

  “No.”

  They stared at each other, and everyone stared at them.

  “It’s nice to have everyone happy to see me,” she murmured. “Are you happy to see me, Pace?”

  If his hard-on was any indication, then yeah, he was happy as hell to see her. He gestured toward the shower room, and she led the way.

  As he followed her, the guys whistled and hollered and hooted, not that he paid attention to anything but how sweet her ass looked in that sundress.

  He wanted to bite it.

  Then the door shut, and they were alone in the damp, musky shower room. “This setup isn’t nearly as lux
urious as some of the others we’ve kissed in,” she noted.

  “Yeah.” He turned away to look around. “Sorry about that—” He turned back and bumped right into her, sucking in a surprised breath as she pulled him in, slipping her arms around his neck. His hands went to her hips, squeezing gently before gliding up her back for the simple pleasure of touching her. “Holly—”

  “I don’t believe we’re in here to talk,” she said. And then she went up on her tiptoes, brushing her breasts to his chest as she did, and planted one on him, a kiss that meant business, instantly turning him into a snarling, rapturous beast, which he managed to hide by going very, very still instead of doing what he wanted to do—which was push up her dress and bury himself deep.

  “This is more fun if you participate,” she whispered against his mouth, her body doing a little wriggle that had his eyes crossing in sheer lust.

  He tightened his hands on her. “Trying to keep us both clothed here.”

  Her eyes lit with fire and curiosity, and such excitement he had to close his and press his forehead to hers. “Okay, new tactic,” he said. “Don’t move. Just stand there.”

  She put a hand on his chest, the warmth of her palm spreading through him, joining the wildfire already in progress. Her other hand was on his neck and she slipped her fingers into his hair, playing with the strands, and twisting his gut with pleasure in the process. He could feel her soft breath against his mouth, and he let out a rough breath. “Holly.”

  “Maybe . . .” She ran her fingers over his chest from one side to the other, staring into his eyes as she very purposely pressed her body tighter to his, arching her hips to what had to be a very obvious erection. “Maybe if we kiss for longer,” she said, “you’ll win by even more.”

  “Yeah?” He let out a low breath and a laugh. “I like the way you think.”

  She lifted her face expectantly, and with a low groan he bent lower, once again covering her mouth with his.

  She let out a soft, shuddery sigh of sheer pleasure and that was it. Goners. He yanked her up against him, she dropped her purse to the floor and flung her arms around his neck, and the kiss went as wild as his hammering heart. “Pace . . .”

  Yeah. He knew. His stomach felt funny, his breathing was out of control, and all he could think about was that he could feel the two hardened tips of her nipples boring holes into his chest. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. He covered them both with his palms as she slid her hands beneath his jersey, but that wasn’t enough either.

  It took him less than two seconds to untie her halter top and tug it down, baring her breasts, which were perfect, mouthwatering handfuls. Her fingers were fumbling with his pants as his thumbs grazed over those nipples he wanted in his mouth.

  Wanted.

  Needed.

  So he bent and gently sucked one between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, loving the shocked, needy little gasp that tugged out of her. She got his button undone and his zipper down and her fingers danced over him, which had her letting out another gasp. Gratifying? Oh, hell yeah, and with a nipple in his mouth, he slid his hands up her thighs beneath her dress and found—

  Ah, man.

  A thong. God bless the thong.

  He hooked his fingers in the silk sides and tugged, rolling the silk down her legs until it hit the floor, his favorite place for panties. Palming her sweet ass, he slid his fingers lower, finding her wet and creamy. His ears rang with the hunger pounding through him as he slipped into that wet heat—

  Wait. That wasn’t the blood in his ears pounding.

  But someone pounding at the door.

  “Gage. It’s Gage,” Holly hissed and pushed him back a step, lifting shaking hands to adjust the dress he’d nearly torn off of her.

  He concentrated on zipping his pants and dragging air into his lungs as he watched her cover her gorgeous breasts, the one still wet from his mouth—

  Her thong was on the floor, but just as he took a step toward it, Gage stopped knocking and opened the door. “Showtime,” he announced, coming right in. Oblivious.

  Pace tore his gaze off the tiny white scrap of material and looked at Holly. Her eyes were wide as she stood there in the pretty halter dress, looking sweet and professional and just a little bit panicked.

  Because she wasn’t wearing panties.

  “Showtime,” Gage repeated to Pace. “You ready?”

  Right. “Ready.” His voice was low and husky and just a little bit hoarse. He tried not to look at the thong, but it was hard, he was hard, and his brain was suffering from severe blood deprivation. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to bust another zipper, and this time it would be his fault.

  The thong, the thong . . .

  Gage looked at Holly and frowned. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She flashed him a smile that worked because Gage didn’t know her like Pace did. And he did know her. He knew she wanted her underwear. “Gage,” he said. “What’s that behind you?”

  When Gage craned his neck to look, Pace scooped up the panties and slid them into his pocket.

  “I don’t see anything,” Gage said.

  “Sorry. It’s nothing.”

  Holly shot Pace a slightly wide-eyed, sexy-as-hell look and held out her hand.

  But what was he supposed to do, hand them over in front of Gage? He shook his head.

  With a low, indistinguishable mutter, she headed for the door. He watched her go, his only coherent thought being that she was going to sit in the stands and watch him play.

  Without panties.

  Which meant he was going to be sporting a boner the entire game.

  “Pace.” Gage was looking at him, eyes sharp. “Shake it off. Get your head out of her pants and into the game.”

  Out of her pants. If he’d had even twenty more seconds, he’d have been out of his pants and buried deep inside her right here in the unlocked shower room, where anyone could have walked in on them.

  He was such an idiot.

  With huge effort, he managed a nod. He was ready to play. Or he would be, soon as he recovered from that kiss.

  If that was even possible.

  Chapter 15

  I don’t want to play golf. When I hit a ball, I want someone else to go chase it.

  —Rogers Hornsby

  It was hot and muggy in New York. Even more so sitting in the stands without panties. It was a ridiculous situation, one that Holly firmly blamed Pace for.

  And how had things gotten so out of hand that she’d lost her underwear in the first place? One minute he’d been kissing her and the next she couldn’t have even remembered her damn name to save her life, and before she’d known what had hit her, his long, talented, greedy fingers had hooked into the silk at her hips and slid it down her legs.

  And then those fingers—

  God.

  Even thinking about it had her pressing her thighs together as need and heat swirled low in her gut. It was him, she decided. Pace. Those eyes, those fingers, that mouth . . .

  If he hadn’t been so damn sexy, none of this would have happened. This was all his fault, and she closed her eyes, trying not to think about how big and tanned his hand had looked holding her tiny white thong . . . and for the mil lionth time had to shift in her seat, which only served to make things worse.

  So close.

  She’d been so shockingly close to an orgasm. Even now, she could still feel the need grinding inside of her. Worse, she knew that if Gage hadn’t knocked, they’d have gone at it right there against the wall, and anyone, anyone could have walked in and seen them.

  Hard to believe she’d so lost her mind.

  Disengaged? Ha!

  Distanced? Ha!

  Apparently she’d finally stepped inside the batter’s box that was her own life and taken a swing at living. Hell of a time to figure that out.

  She wanted her underwear.

  Pace could have found a way to get them back to her before the game. He should have. But she’d known by the
way he’d slipped them possessively into his pocket and sent her that heated look that she was going to have to fight for them.

  Dammit.

  She squirmed some more.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Samantha asked. She was on the phone with Jeremy. They’d been talking about some mutual charity events they had going. Actually, they’d been arguing, because Jeremy wanted top billing for the Bucks even though Sam had put the entire thing together. She pressed her phone to her chest as she regarded Holly. “You’re acting like you’ve got ants in your pants.”

  Holly laughed tightly. “Yeah.”

  Sam put her phone back to her ear. “Jeremy, I’ve got to go. I’ll yell at you some more later.” She shut her phone and looked at Holly. “Spill.”

  Well, let’s see. Her dress kept touching her like a damn caress. She could think of nothing else, and if Pace was here in the stands instead of in the dugout, he could probably give her one look with those dark eyes and finish her off. “Nothing’s up. I’m good.”

  Sam narrowed her gaze. “Is it Pace? You just kissed him, right?”

  “Yeah.” Among other things.

  “Huh.”

  “Huh what? There’s no huh.”

  Sam sent her a knowing look. “Just stay out of elevators. All I’m saying.”

  Pace let himself fall into the zone, and played hard. He pitched a solid two innings, giving up no runs, but during the bottom of the third, he went into his rotation and did something that sent a white-hot poker of pain through his shoulder. Through his entire body. All he knew was that oh holy shit, he couldn’t breathe, could barely see past the blinding, searing pain.

  To add insult to injury, the batter got a piece of the ball and whacked it, a fast line drive to left field that took him to second while Pace stood there panting and seeing stars. He had to force himself to breathe through it as the New York home crowd roared with pleasure.

  Wade signed, asking if he needed a minute.

  No, he didn’t need a minute, he needed a new goddamn shoulder. He shook it off, then proceeded to throw out eight piece-of-shit pitches in a row, walking two batters.