“The interview.”
“I really did ask Samantha to cancel.” Well, actually, technically, he’d asked his manager to get Sam to cancel. But now that he thought about it, Gage had been surrounded by women at the time, at a high-powered fashion show event they’d all attended for the Heat’s 4 The Kids charity, and Gage’s eyes had been sort of glazed over when Pace had made the request. It was entirely possible Gage hadn’t heard a word Pace had said.
“No worries,” Holly said. “This has worked out for me so far. After all, I got to learn all about your women problems, getting stalked, surrounded—”
“Funny,” he said, and found her smiling at him.
And damn if there wasn’t something contagious about it, about her. She was actually quite sharp, and pretty. But he didn’t want to be amused, or attracted.
He wanted to be alone.
Given how much of his life was spent in the spotlight, he really liked being by himself. At this level of his life, there were two types of ball players: those in it for the money, and those in it for the love of the game. He was in the latter, definitely. He loved the game, period, and would play it with or without the money, preferably also without the reporters, pretty or otherwise.
He just wanted to play. He loved everything about baseball—the feel of the ball in his hand, the whizzing of the air as the ball left his fingers at ninety-plus miles an hour, the smell of the field right after it was cut, the sensation of standing on the mound, watching the batter walk up to the plate, having Wade send him a cocky smile and a sign for the next pitch . . .
Everything.
It was his passion, it was his heart, it was his entire life. So he understood why people wanted to watch.
What he didn’t understand was people wanting to watch him outside the game, as if he were a movie star. It made no sense, and plus, it bugged the hell out of him. “What if I promised you that aside from the game, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about me?”
She arched a brow. “That’s not what Playboy said.”
“You read Playboy?”
“Did you see last month’s cover story, the one where they asked their readers which professional athletes would make the best lovers?”
Ah, Christ. He knew what was coming. “No.”
“You were in the top five, big guy.”
When he shook his head, she laughed. And when he didn’t join her, she sighed. “Trying to lighten the mood here, Pace. Specifically your mood. How come no one ever thinks I’m funny?”
“Because you’re not?”
“I’ll have you know, I was voted class clown.”
Now he laughed. “Sorry, but no. No possible way.”
She was frowning at him, still trying to keep her hair out of her face. “Why do people say sorry before they say something rude?”
“Admit it, you were the bookworm who did the football players’ homework for manicure money, right?”
She crossed her arms, lifted her nose to nosebleed heights.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m right.”
“Basketball team,” she muttered, looking away. “I did the basketball players’ homework.”
He could picture her, all carefully buttoned up and serious, nose buried in a stack of books doing work for a bunch of lazy, entitled jocks. He’d been one of those jocks.
“And I didn’t do it for manicures either,” she told him. “I was never that shallow.”
Now that he believed. She might be a pesky know-it-all, but nothing about her said shallow, trite, or conceited. “I was shallow in high school.”
And more, probably.
“Was?” she asked, looking pointedly around the leather interior of his obviously expensive car.
Yeah, yeah. On the outside looking in, he had it all: the sizzling hot pro-baseball career, women leaving panties with their phone numbers on his hotel room doors . . . a shallow lifestyle.
Sue him.
But ever since his shoulder had started to go and he’d realized he was nothing outside the game, it’d all started to crash down on his head. It was humbling.
Demeaning.
And, if he thought too much, devastating.
He exited the highway and drove down the twisting, narrow roadway now entirely shadowed by the mountains that isolated the city of Santa Barbara from the rest of the world. He pulled into a small, out-of-the way park and took in the athletic field, the low-lying creek next to it, and felt his heart lighten slightly. The field was rundown. The empty lot next to the park had been abandoned long ago, with grass growing through the cracks in the asphalt and graffiti on the walls of the abandoned store that was nothing but a shack now. A For Sale sign had come unnailed on one side and was tipped, hanging to the ground.
The place had been up for sale for years. The last time Pace had checked into it on a whim, his attorney had told him only an idiot would buy it.
“Oh God.” Holly turned to him suspiciously. “You’re not bringing me to a drug deal, are you?”
“Yeah. Because I always bring nosy reporters with me when I buy my drugs.” He sighed when she didn’t smile. “That was a joke. Because I was the class clown. Wait here.”
“But—”
“Wait, or call a cab.” He pulled some cash out of his wallet for the ride back. “Nice meeting you,” he added in case she bailed.
Which he was betting on.
Hoping on.
Chapter 4
If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant’s life, she will choose to save the infant’s life without even considering if there are men on base.
“I really did ask Samantha to cancel.” Well, actually, technically, he’d asked his manager to get Sam to cancel. But now that he thought about it, Gage had been surrounded by women at the time, at a high-powered fashion show event they’d all attended for the Heat’s 4 The Kids charity, and Gage’s eyes had been sort of glazed over when Pace had made the request. It was entirely possible Gage hadn’t heard a word Pace had said.
“No worries,” Holly said. “This has worked out for me so far. After all, I got to learn all about your women problems, getting stalked, surrounded—”
“Funny,” he said, and found her smiling at him.
And damn if there wasn’t something contagious about it, about her. She was actually quite sharp, and pretty. But he didn’t want to be amused, or attracted.
He wanted to be alone.
Given how much of his life was spent in the spotlight, he really liked being by himself. At this level of his life, there were two types of ball players: those in it for the money, and those in it for the love of the game. He was in the latter, definitely. He loved the game, period, and would play it with or without the money, preferably also without the reporters, pretty or otherwise.
He just wanted to play. He loved everything about baseball—the feel of the ball in his hand, the whizzing of the air as the ball left his fingers at ninety-plus miles an hour, the smell of the field right after it was cut, the sensation of standing on the mound, watching the batter walk up to the plate, having Wade send him a cocky smile and a sign for the next pitch . . .
Everything.
It was his passion, it was his heart, it was his entire life. So he understood why people wanted to watch.
What he didn’t understand was people wanting to watch him outside the game, as if he were a movie star. It made no sense, and plus, it bugged the hell out of him. “What if I promised you that aside from the game, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about me?”
She arched a brow. “That’s not what Playboy said.”
“You read Playboy?”
“Did you see last month’s cover story, the one where they asked their readers which professional athletes would make the best lovers?”
Ah, Christ. He knew what was coming. “No.”
“You were in the top five, big guy.”
When he shook his head, she laughed. And when he didn’t join her, she sighed. “Trying to lighten the mood here, Pace. Specifically your mood. How come no one ever thinks I’m funny?”
“Because you’re not?”
“I’ll have you know, I was voted class clown.”
Now he laughed. “Sorry, but no. No possible way.”
She was frowning at him, still trying to keep her hair out of her face. “Why do people say sorry before they say something rude?”
“Admit it, you were the bookworm who did the football players’ homework for manicure money, right?”
She crossed her arms, lifted her nose to nosebleed heights.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m right.”
“Basketball team,” she muttered, looking away. “I did the basketball players’ homework.”
He could picture her, all carefully buttoned up and serious, nose buried in a stack of books doing work for a bunch of lazy, entitled jocks. He’d been one of those jocks.
“And I didn’t do it for manicures either,” she told him. “I was never that shallow.”
Now that he believed. She might be a pesky know-it-all, but nothing about her said shallow, trite, or conceited. “I was shallow in high school.”
And more, probably.
“Was?” she asked, looking pointedly around the leather interior of his obviously expensive car.
Yeah, yeah. On the outside looking in, he had it all: the sizzling hot pro-baseball career, women leaving panties with their phone numbers on his hotel room doors . . . a shallow lifestyle.
Sue him.
But ever since his shoulder had started to go and he’d realized he was nothing outside the game, it’d all started to crash down on his head. It was humbling.
Demeaning.
And, if he thought too much, devastating.
He exited the highway and drove down the twisting, narrow roadway now entirely shadowed by the mountains that isolated the city of Santa Barbara from the rest of the world. He pulled into a small, out-of-the way park and took in the athletic field, the low-lying creek next to it, and felt his heart lighten slightly. The field was rundown. The empty lot next to the park had been abandoned long ago, with grass growing through the cracks in the asphalt and graffiti on the walls of the abandoned store that was nothing but a shack now. A For Sale sign had come unnailed on one side and was tipped, hanging to the ground.
The place had been up for sale for years. The last time Pace had checked into it on a whim, his attorney had told him only an idiot would buy it.
“Oh God.” Holly turned to him suspiciously. “You’re not bringing me to a drug deal, are you?”
“Yeah. Because I always bring nosy reporters with me when I buy my drugs.” He sighed when she didn’t smile. “That was a joke. Because I was the class clown. Wait here.”
“But—”
“Wait, or call a cab.” He pulled some cash out of his wallet for the ride back. “Nice meeting you,” he added in case she bailed.
Which he was betting on.
Hoping on.
Chapter 4
If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant’s life, she will choose to save the infant’s life without even considering if there are men on base.
