Double Play

  And missing exactly nothing . . .

  In fact, she wanted to crawl inside him and keep feeling like this, for as long as she could, and given how he had her backed up to the wall, a certain portion of his anatomy pressing into her belly, she knew he felt the same. So she gave herself over to it, lost herself in his scent, his taste, the feel of him—

  Until someone behind them cleared his throat.

  With a startled gasp, she yanked her hands off Pace, peering around his wide shoulders.

  Red stood there, clearly unhappy. “Goddamn, Pace.” He pulled out his inhaler. “Before a fucking game?”

  Pace sighed. “We need a minute.”

  “Yeah, we do,” Red said, glancing meaningfully at Holly.

  “I meant Holly and me,” Pace said.

  Red tossed up his hands. “Jesus.”

  “A minute,” Pace repeated.

  At that, Red stalked off, leaving a deafening silence.

  Through it, Pace reached out and stroked a strand of hair from Holly’s jaw, tucking it behind her ear. “I have no idea what to do about you.”

  That much she knew. “I suppose you could pretend that there’s no chemistry, that you got it out of your system.”

  “Could we?”

  “We? No.” She shook her head. “I’m not all that good at pretending anything.”

  His lips quirked, but he didn’t smile. “Good thing I am then.”

  Holly found herself seated next to Samantha for the game. The publicist was dressed in her usual princess-with-a-Nordstrom’s-account style, in a fitted business suit that dripped sophistication and elegance. She’d topped it off with a straw hat that had a Heat orange flower stuck in the band.

  It would be easy to underestimate Sam, easier still to chalk her off as a trophy piece given that her father owned the Heat and that her uncle owned the Charleston Bucks expansion team, where her brother worked as well, but beneath that beauty beat a heart of steel—and she had the will to match.

  Besides, in Holly’s book, anyone who loved fudge brownies and didn’t judge her for being a reporter was a keeper as a friend.

  It was a gorgeous but steady hot day. Holly inhaled the afternoon air and the scent of freshly cut grass as she and Sam stuffed their faces with hot dogs, peanuts, and lemonade. They talked stats, about the game itself, and best of all, the guys.

  “Aren’t they cute in their uniforms?” Sam asked as the Heat took the field.

  Oh yeah, Holly thought, keeping her eyes on Pace as he jogged to the mound, though she wasn’t sure cute covered it. As he began the inning, she found herself once again mesmerized by the process that went into each throw. Gage stood just inside the dugout, giving signs to Wade, long, complicated gestures that Holly couldn’t begin to follow. Wade then repeated the signs to Pace, who’d either nod or shake his head or give a sign of his own. Lifting her camera, she caught his expression as he wound up and released one of his famed fastballs.

  “Ah,” Sam said at the next pitch. “He pulled the string.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An off-speed pitch, which after that first high heat, was genius. Keeps the batter off balance.”

  By the end of the fifth inning, Holly was in awe. “Oh my God—he’s got a no-hitter going—”

  “Shh!” Sam cut her off by motioning the sliding of a finger across her throat. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t even think about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s bad luck. You’ll jinx him—I’m serious,” she said when Holly laughed. “Haven’t you noticed? Even the announcer hasn’t mentioned it. They’re all superstitious, every last one of them.”

  “No.”

  “See Mason out there, the toughest first baseman in the league? He’s wearing the same pair of underwear he wears to every game.”

  “Come on.”

  “And Henry? He drinks a soda after the bottom of the sixth inning, watch him. And Gage has to wear his lucky cap and touch it a certain way after each pitch. Hell, even Wade’s superstitious. He’s been rumored to sleep with his bat, though it’s never been proven. No one messes around with this stuff, trust me. They’ve all got something.”

  And just like that, Holly knew she had the idea for next week’s blog. “What’s Pace’s?”

  “He keeps things pretty close to the vest. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  “I’ll do that.” She took some more pictures and listened to Sam’s ongoing commentary. It was all positive, of course. It was Sam’s job to spin things that way, especially given what Holly did for a living, but she knew the publicist’s affection for each and every player was real.

  If there were secrets within the Heat, Holly was not going to learn them from Sam, so she concentrated on the game. Okay, she concentrated on Pace, on watching him pitch with that easy but intense concentration. How he stood on the mound and surveyed his opponent, his every muscle taut and ready before he nodded to Wade, then executed.

  The whole process mesmerized her completely, and by the seventh inning she couldn’t believe he could still be throwing so strong, with no sign of needing to be taken out for the closer. She used her camera as an excuse to watch him through her lens. His uniform was dirty from the top of the third when he’d hit a double, then tussled at second base, and he had a long streak of dirt down one hip and over a great set of buns. He was sweating.

  She had no idea how they’d get that uniform clean for the start of the next game, which set her mind to thinking about how he’d look without his pants, how he’d look without any of it, all six-plus feet of tough, hard muscle naked and-

  “Are you?”

  She blinked and turned to Sam, horrified to realize she’d obviously missed a question. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Fully aware of what Holly had been busy staring at, Sam grinned. “Are you getting everything you need from the guys?”

  Well, wasn’t that a loaded question, one she was momentarily distracted from when Pace struck out his batter, ending the inning.

  “I’m still hoping for a one on one with Pace,” she admitted. She’d had a one on one, and it’d been amazing. “A one-on-one interview.”

  “You haven’t gotten that yet? Pace, Pace, Pace . . .” Samantha sighed with a fond smile. “He’s a tricky one—” She broke off when the eighth inning began and the announcer called out Wade’s name as he came up to bat.

  Holly watched Wade take a warm-up swing. “Maybe you could remind him he owes me an interview—”

  “Oh God. Look at him.” Samantha’s gaze was locked on Wade in the batter’s box, who swung at a wicked curveball and missed.

  “Dammit.” Samantha stood up and cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Come on, Wade O’Riley, show us what you’re made of.”

  Holly blinked at the heretofore completely put-together, sophisticated, elegant publicist, who was suddenly looking like a rabid fan.

  Wade swung again and this time connected with a solid line drive right up the middle.

  Samantha screamed, “Yeah!” so loudly she nearly pierced Holly’s eardrum, and then jumped up and down, holding onto her hat with one hand and the hem of her skirt with her other. “That’s the way, baby! That’s the way! Go, go, go!”

  The second baseman missed his catch, and Wade rounded the base, heading for third.

  “Yes!” Sam screamed. “Ohmigod yes!”

  Wade stopped at third, safe, and Sam sank back down to her seat and chewed on her thumbnail, her eyes locked on Wade waiting lithely on third for the next batter.

  “So,” Holly said, lightly amused, “you’re a quiet fan.”

  “We need a big hit now!” Sam yelled at Mason, who was at bat. “Bring him home, Mas. Bring him home!”

  Mason singled, and Samantha leapt back to her feet when Wade headed for home just as the shortstop nabbed the ball and threw.

  “Oh God.” Samantha slapped her hands over her eyes, then peeked through her fingers as both the ball and Wade
raced for the plate. “I can’t look, I can’t look!”

  “But you are looking,” Holly pointed out.

  “Tell me what’s happening!”

  “Safe,” Holly told her, watching as Wade slid into home a fraction of a second before the catcher snatched the ball out of the air and dove onto Wade. “He’s . . . buried, but safe.”

  Samantha dropped her hands from her eyes to her mouth as she stared at the tangle of limbs over home plate, not moving a single muscle until Wade pushed clear, adding an extra adrenaline-fueled shove for good measure as he got to his feet, dirty but safe.

  Samantha fell back into her seat, blew a strand of hair from her eyes, and let out a long breath. “Jesus. This is exhausting.”

  “Yes.” Holly put her tongue firmly in her cheek. “Does it hurt, too?”

  “What?”

  “That horribly painful-looking crush you have going for the Heat’s sexy catcher.”

  “Shh!” Samantha whipped her head right and then left. “Do you want everyone to hear?”

  “I hate to break it to you, but you were the one yelling your head off for him.”

  She looked horrified. “Was I that loud?”

  “I don’t know. The people in China might not quite have heard you.”

  “Oh my God, I know! It’s ridiculous.” She covered her face. “I’m ridiculous.”

  “Why? You’re smart, funny, beautiful. He’s smart, funny, beautiful. Why is it ridiculous?”

  “Oh no. You’re not going to interview me. No way. I’m not my publicity whore brother. I set up the interviews and that’s it.” Sam folded her hands in her lap and returned to the formerly prim, in-charge professional Holly had first sat with. “What were we talking about?”

  Holly smiled. “You mean before you revealed you wanted to jump the catcher’s bones?”

  At Samantha’s growl, Holly laughed. “Come on. It’s true. Off the record, I promise.”

  “It’s complicated.” Sam let out a gusty sigh. “We . . . sort of have a past.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Samantha looked away, the tips of her ears sending out enough heat to light North America. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “Okay.” Holly could understand that all too well. “Well, we were talking about you possibly helping me get that interview with—”

  “We got stuck on an elevator for two hours once,” Sam burst out.

  Holly blinked. “That sounds . . . traumatic. Anyway, I was wondering—”

  “We’d just flown into Atlanta. We had those little bottles of Scotch. I definitely blame the Scotch, but let’s just say we made damn good use of the downtime and leave it at that.”

  Holly looked at the misery on Sam’s face. Misery, and remembered lust. “Huh.”

  “We had wild drunken monkey sex!” Sam clapped her hand over her mouth. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yeah,” Holly said with amusement. “I can see that.”

  “Oh my God. Sorry. Clearly, I’ve been holding onto that for too long.” She shook her head. “We’ve been pretending it didn’t happen. And I really need to shut up now. What were we talking about?”

  “Nothing as good as this.”

  Sam closed her eyes when Holly laughed. “You are lucky, Holly, so damn lucky, that you get to pop in and out of people’s lives without getting involved.”

  Holly paused. Is that what she did?

  “You get to keep yourself distanced, disengaged. I really need to get the knack of doing that, let me tell you.”

  Once upon a time Holly would have taken great pride in that most accurate assessment of her character. But this past week or so, surrounded by the people she was beginning to think of as friends, watching those people live their lives to the fullest in a way she’d never managed, she suddenly realized how much she was missing.

  Chapter 10

  I’m convinced that every boy, in his heart, would rather steal second base than an automobile.

  —Tom Clark

  After the win, Pace poured out of the dugout with the others, telling himself things were good. That they were going to stay good. That the unnamable ball of uneasiness sitting on his chest was ignorable.

  The guys with family in the stands were rushed and hugged and congratulated, and with that odd ache still in place, Pace turned away.

  And then was nearly bowled over by a soft, warm body.

  Holly.

  “I just wanted to say congratulations,” she whispered in his ear, her lips brushing his earlobe, and right there, surrounded by tens of thousands of people, the adrenaline that lingered after every game was whipped into something else entirely, and suddenly he felt like a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal who wanted to drag his woman off to his cave and have his merry way with her. Me want you now . . . He let his arms tighten on her, hauling her against him.

  Oblivious to the sharp need slicing through him, Holly grinned up at him, the woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about through nine innings, the woman with the expressive eyes and soft lips, the woman who’d panted when he’d kissed her neck, making him want to do it again.

  “You’re good at that,” she laughed, pulling free. “Putting up with people hugging you.”

  Not so good with it, not usually.

  “Your shoulder okay?”

  He felt himself tense. “Why?”

  “Because I want to put out the scoop before anyone else.” She shook her head, sarcasm in her eyes. “Because you look like you’re favoring it.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “One of these days you’ll learn to trust me.” She nodded toward Red. “Looks like you have to go. Coach’s gesturing at you.”

  Yeah, he was, and looking apoplectic while he was at it, wanting Pace to get back to icing his shoulder, which wasn’t as okay as he’d pretended it was.

  With one last sweet smile, Holly moved off, and Pace headed to the usual postgame signing. Typically, this was actually fun, especially after a win, but tonight a large group of drunken assholes showed up in line, causing a commotion. After Samantha was harassed when she tried to step in and shut them up, the police were called, and the players were quickly bused back to the hotel and ushered into a private room at the restaurant for the postgame team dinner.

  Well used to the occasional mob riots, Pace and the guys were unfazed and happy to eat. Pace grabbed his plate and looked for a seat. Wade was getting an earful about something from Gage. There was a spot next to Red, but Pace didn’t feel like talking shop.

  Besides, the empty seat next to Holly seemed to be calling out his name, and telling himself it was the closest open one available, he took it.

  “What?” he said to her surprised expression.

  “Nothing. I was just expecting you to do the ignore-me thing, especially after I nearly strangled you on the field with my congrats today.”

  He looked into her eyes and was instantly transported back to the clubhouse, where she’d held on to him as though she were drowning and he was the only thing that could save her. “I just took the closest empty kiss—er, seat. I meant seat,” he said a little weakly.