Double Play Page 2

  But always a sucker for a challenge, she’d chosen to start with Pace, a player three years into his fifty-million-dollar, five-year contract, who’d oddly and very atypically for a ballplayer turned down millions more in alcohol and cologne ads, a guy the tabloid reporters loved to try to dig up dirt on.

  She glanced out to the parking lot. Pace’s classic apple red Mustang GT was hard to miss. Nope, he hadn’t skipped out on her; she wasn’t worried about that.

  But she was curious.

  Why had he pitched for thirty minutes, pushing hard in spite of the fact that he’d clearly been having an off day, and then suddenly dropped to the bench, shoulders and head down, breathing as if he’d run a marathon? He’d just sat there, very carefully not moving a single inch. Only after many minutes had passed had he pushed to his feet and escaped to the clubhouse.

  Was he nursing a heartache?

  A hangover?

  What? She could feel his secrets, and the part of her that needed to get to the bottom of everything, to hurry up and expose the bad so she could relax and get to the good, reared its head just as the clubhouse door finally opened and she caught a quick glimpse of tall-dark-and-attitude-challenged in the flesh.

  Pace Martin.

  “Hi,” she said, gripping her pad of paper and pen, perfectly willing to forgive his tardiness if he made this easy on her. Not that it mattered. Sure, he’d made a secondary career out of being tough, cynical, edgy, and for a bonus, noncommittal. Luckily for her, she specialized in tough, cynical, and edgy. She thrust out her hand. “I’m Holly Hut—”

  “Sure. No problem.” He grabbed her pen and leaning over her, quickly wrote something on her pad.

  As he did, she took her first up-close look at him, searching for that elusive “it” factor that seemed to make men want to be him and women want to do him. Granted, he owed much of that to his packaging, but she’d already known that. He had still-wet-from-his-shower dark hair and movie-star dark eyes, and a face that could have been descended directly from the Greek gods, but she wasn’t moved by such things. As a writer and a people watcher, Holly knew his pull had to go far deeper, that there had to be more to his charisma than genetic makeup.

  Or so she hoped.

  But the good looks sure didn’t hurt. He hadn’t shaved, though she could smell his shampoo or soap, something woodsy and incredibly male that made her nostrils sort of quiver. Which meant People magazine appeared to be correct on the beautiful-people assessment—he clearly had genuine appeal.

  Since she barely came up to his broad shoulders, she had to tip her head up to stare into his face as he straightened and handed her back her pad, giving her just enough time to see that his eyes weren’t the solid brown his bio claimed, but rather had gold swirling in the mix. They weren’t smiling to match his mouth, not even close, and if she had to guess, she’d say Mr. Hotshot was pissed at something.

  Then she glanced down at her pad and saw what he’d done.

  An autograph. He’d just given her an autograph.

  And then, while she was still just staring at the sprawling signature in shock, he handed her back her pen and walked away, heading down the wide hallway with his steady, long-legged, effortlessly confident stride.

  “Hey,” she said. “I didn’t want—”

  But he’d turned a corner and was already gone.

  Chapter 2

  You spend a good chunk of your life gripping a baseball, and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around the whole time.

  —Jim Bouton, professional baseball player and writer

  Unbelievable, Holly thought, stunned enough to stand there while Pace got away. Okay, so maybe she had looked like a fan girl hanging around outside the locker room. And she’d obviously been holding a pen and a pad of paper, just as she imagined the hordes of people who hounded him on a daily basis did.

  But there was something faintly embarrassing about him thinking that all she’d wanted from him was a signature. And for the first time since she’d taken on this assignment, instead of thinking of killing her boss, she thought of Pace Martin as someone more than an overpaid athlete. He was flesh and blood, no doubt complete with a myriad of complex emotions driving him. As a writer she should have known that—which would be her first and last mistake. At least today.

  Shoving the pad in her purse, she hurried after him, through the wide hallways of the multimillion-dollar facility that housed and bred the Heat. The walls on either side of her were adorned with pictures and awards. The imaginative, aggressive team was a multimillion-dollar marketing and merchandising gift from heaven. Posters, collector’s cards, T-shirts, memorabilia . . . and the county of Santa Barbara enjoyed it all, soaking up the love and raining it back down on the players in spades. Especially Pace.

  It fascinated her. And also worried her. She’d been perfectly comfortable when writing about space travel and faulty parts, about what happened to abandoned old West towns, but honestly she wasn’t all that comfortable with beloved athletes, especially potentially knocking them off their public pedestals. Maybe she wouldn’t find a secret to expose this time, but the truth was everyone had one. She’d learned that early enough, and she’d learned it the hard way.

  Plus, there was the fact that two players had been quietly traded from the Heat before the start of this season and then just as quietly suspended for testing positive for illegal enhancers.

  Not that anyone wanted to talk about that.

  She caught up with Pace as he headed through the outside doors, where she was blasted by blinding So-Cal sunshine and blistering heat. Ignoring it, she pulled a file out of her purse.

  Her Heat file. She also grabbed her media pass and slipped it around her neck to prove she wasn’t a groupie, and when she looked up, she found that Pace had stopped and turned to her, his gaze glued to her opened file and the eight-by-ten publicity photo lying on top.

  Which happened to be of him.

  “Fine,” he said, dropping his duffel bag and rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw, looking tall, broad, and undeniably weary. “I’ll sign that, too, but only if you promise not to sell it on eBay. I hate seeing myself on eBay.”

  She’d gotten the photo from Samantha McNead, the Heat’s team publicist, along with some articles already written on the team. The picture had made her blush when she’d first looked at it, and now was no different. In it, Pace was shirtless. He was leaning back against a brick wall, wearing only a pair of threadbare Levi’s so low on his hips as to be almost indecent. His feet were bare, and he had a thumb hooked in his jeans, causing the denim to sink even lower, gaping away from the most amazing set of perfectly cut abs she’d ever seen.

  And that torso. Holy hot tamales, Batman. When she’d first laid eyes on it, she’d actually squirmed as if she’d personally caught him in an intimate act.

  Then she’d drooled.

  Her reaction had disturbed her. She preferred men who made a living with their brains not brawn.

  And yet look where that’s gotten you . . .

  Pace glanced at the photo again, then into her face, his own simmering with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but given his dark edginess, it certainly wasn’t a fairy tale. His eyes were opaque, and beneath his inky black lashes and the straight line of his brow, they swirled with her favorite thing—secrets.

  Interesting. And a little disturbing. If she’d met a dead end, she could have gone back to Tommy and gotten a different assignment, something that would maybe somehow fulfill the empty spot deep inside her, eradicate the odd sense of restlessness that had been dogging her.

  But she had a feeling this was no dead end.

  Pace’s hair was longer now than in the picture, his face more tanned, but other than that, he looked the same, no digital doctoring required. He was, she found herself a little surprised to note, every bit as gorgeous in person. “It’s not for your autograph,” she said. “It’s research. I’m a writer.”

  “A writer.” Cr
ossing his arms, he leaned against the railing of the walkway and looked at her while she tried not to notice how tightly and leanly muscled he was, or how his arms appeared to be ripped and corded with strength.

  “I’m doing a series on the Heat for American Online Living ,” she said. “Your publicist made an appointment with me for an interview and pictures.”

  He didn’t respond, but she could almost hear the resounding “no” come from him nevertheless. “I watched you pitch today,” she said, figuring that might warm him up. People, especially men, liked to talk about themselves. Another lesson from good old mom—or more accurately, from the myriad of men she’d gone through.

  But Pace didn’t warm up. In fact, it was as if he vanished. One moment he was standing there willing to sign his picture for her, and the next he’d completely closed himself off, eyes cold, mouth grim.

  “That was a closed practice,” he finally said, sliding on a pair of mirrored Oakleys that probably cost more than her entire outfit. “You were trespassing.”

  “I sat on the grassy hill outside the facility.”

  “So you didn’t trespass, fine. You were still out of line.” He reshouldered his large duffel bag but then went still. Very still.

  In pain still. And she instinctively took a step toward him. “You okay?”

  Grinding his teeth, he held her off with a lifted hand. After letting out a careful breath, he turned and resumed walking.

  There were other cars in the lot, including two cop cars. The police station was just up the street, and she’d learned that sometimes on breaks, the officers came to watch practices. Apparently that was okay. “Is it your arm?”

  He kept walking.

  “Your shoulder?”

  More of his silence.

  Huh. Sensing a pattern here . . . “When Samantha arranged this time for us to meet, she said you’d be happy to do so.”

  “Happy is the wrong adjective.”

  “I’d settle for resigned.”

  “I told Samantha to cancel the interview. I have another appointment.” His voice was low and husky, with a whisper of the deep South.

  Which meant they had something in common. “Is it to your doctor?”

  “Why would I need a doctor?”

  “Because something made you pitch like crap today.”

  He let out a sound that might have been a laugh and stopped again. Behind his sunglasses, he gave nothing of himself away, just a wry amusement. “You know, most reporters try a different approach. A softer one.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I imagine you get kissed up to quite a bit.”

  “I do.” He pulled down his sunglasses and slid her a long look. “You could try it.”

  A little furl of something dangerous slid into her belly as she looked into his face, at the lines etched around his dark eyes, his strong jaw, the stubble . . . “I don’t kiss up.” But her knees wobbled. Dammit. “All I want is the interview.”

  He let his gaze run over her, and just as she knew he was trying to distract her, she also knew what he saw when he looked at her. Average brown hair, average body, average everything, including clothes. She wore a simple skirt, jacket, and athletic shoes, which she happened to be grateful for since he’d made her run through the lot. She wasn’t exactly a fashion plate. Her budget didn’t allow for it, but even if it had, she wouldn’t have spent more. Her wardrobe made a statement, one that had started out as a protective gesture when she’d been very young but had become hard habit, and that statement said that she was smarter than she was pretty.

  Unlike her, he hadn’t dressed with a budget. He wore a pair of brown cargoes and an untucked white button-down, both clearly made for him, both revealing taste, sophistication, and just enough of that tough athletic body that he demanded so much of on a daily basis.

  And it was a very nice body, she could admit, not that it mattered. His body wasn’t what interested her. Okay, so it did, but it shouldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  Be sweet but firm and distant. That’s what she’d learned in her twenty-eight years, and it was all she’d ever needed to know when dealing with a man, any man. Be sweet but firm and distant, with everything, and ignore all sexual innuendoes unless she planned to get naked—which she most definitely did not. “I’ll make this painless, Pace, I promise.”

  He shot her yet another look, this one with that disconcerting flare of awareness, but also filled with something else she recognized all too well—annoyance and exasperation. Yeah. She got that a lot.

  “Look, any of the other guys would love the press,” he said. “Seriously. Joe. Joe would probably buy you a five-star dinner. Or Henry. He sent the last reporter who interviewed him a bouquet of flowers the size of her car.”

  He was trying to get rid of her. Again, not a new feeling. “I can feed myself, and I’m not much of a flower girl. Besides, I plan to get to them. But you’re first up.”

  “Fine.” He let out a rough breath. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  “Now?”

  “Or yesterday. Take your pick.”

  “Now, thank you.” She once again reached into her purse for her pen and tore the cap off with her teeth while attempting to catch her breath.

  Of course he wasn’t breathing like a lunatic, but then again, he worked out for a living. “Okay, so how do you feel about the reports that the Heat has such great pitching because the ballpark is so hollow and vast that at night the heated, thick Santa Barbara air floats in from the ocean and prevents the fly balls from traveling too far?”

  He made a sound like a tire going flat. “They’ve been saying the same thing about Dodger Stadium for years. People are going to believe what they want, and if they want to believe it’s the stadium and we’re cheating, whatever. Fact is, we win. Period.”

  “You don’t mind that rumors like this take away from those wins?”

  “No. Because it doesn’t.”

  Instead of putting her off, his easy confidence had her taking another, longer look at him. He took up a lot of space and suddenly seemed to be standing close, close enough to be affecting her pulse, and she wasted a few precious seconds trying to unscramble her brain. “By all accounts,” she said, “you’re a close-knit team.”

  “Yes.”

  “How difficult was it when Jim Wicks and Slam Rodriquez got traded, then suspended for testing positive for illegal enhancers just before the start of the season?”

  He arched a brow. “Going for a lighthearted tone, are you?”

  “This is my job.”

  “Well, your job sucks. And losing Jim and Slam sucked.”

  “Are there more of you on the team who are using?”

  His jaw tightened. “Trick question.”

  “How so?”

  “Jim never admitted to anything, and Slam claims innocence.”

  Yes, she’d read all the reports. And he was right. The question hadn’t been kind. Or easy. That was also her job, unfortunately, and it was never kind or easy. “So are there? More of you using?”

  He stopped at his car. “Three and a half.”

  “Three and a half what?”

  “Minutes left in this interview.”

  “What about you personally,” she said without missing a beat. “Did you—”

  “No personal questions.”

  She considered him for a precious few seconds, how he stood there tall and silent and tense with what she’d bet her last dollar was pain. That softened her unexpectedly, and she had the oddest urge to touch him. “People want to read about you, Pace.”

  “They can read about me already. You can, too, just Google me.”

  “Already have. There’s very little known about you other than your ball play, which is by all accounts amazing. You have world-class velocity and control, both reflected in your stats. You always use your head, and you’re never without a game plan.” She pulled a couple of magazines from her file to quote from. “You can pitch in any situation, you have the stuff to make it work, and you have
guts. Newsweek.” She shifted to another. “Batting against you is just about impossible, the balls come out of nowhere, no one can judge your rotation, speed, or the break of the ball. Sports Illustrated.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Use that. You can add that my sexual prowess is unrivaled, if you’re so inclined.”

  She laughed, even as a small part of her wanted to say “Prove it.” “Come on. Give me more.”

  “Like?”

  “Like what’s wrong with your shoulder?”

  “Nothing.”

  She stared at him and he stared back, stoic and tough as nails. “Wow, Pace. I don’t know how I’m going to fit all this great new info into my article.”

  He smiled tightly. “You look capable. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  “Okay, let’s try something easier.”

  He looked at her from behind those dark glasses, eyes hidden, thoughts inaccessible. “Let’s,” he said softly.

  “What would you say makes your team so strangely beloved in the public eye?”

  “Strangely? A real fan, huh?”

  Actually, she did enjoy baseball, and in junior college she’d even made extra money running the scoreboard for home games. The money she’d earned had paid for her books and the Top Ramen noodles that had sustained her through those lean years, which had been virtually rich compared to her childhood. “What I think isn’t relevant here.”

  “Given that you’re the one setting the tone for your article, I think it is.”

  “Articles. Plural. To be run throughout the summer. What is it about your team that the public loves so much?”

  “We win. One more question, that’s it.”

  “And then I go away?”