“Yeah.”
She stared at his mouth. “I wouldn’t have minded kissing you.” A smile curved her lips. “For the cause and all.”
He felt a stupid, helpless smile hit him. “No?”
She shook her head, and she leaned in. “Maybe we should . . . I don’t know . . .”
His heart leapt hard against his ribs. “Practice?”
“Great minds,” she said, repeating his own words from Atlanta back at him.
Yeah, now see that’s what he liked about her, he thought, sliding a hand to the nape of her neck. Always game. The leather seats crinkled comfortably as he shifted closer, and he watched as her lips parted in anticipation.
Oh yeah. His parted, too, and he let his eyes drift shut as he kissed—
Gage’s hand. Because Gage had shot it between them from the seat behind them.
“You couldn’t be bothered to kiss her earlier, but you’ll do it now?” came the Skip’s pissed-off whisper, the one that could skin alive. “Fuck, no. Not on my f**king plane.”
“No disrespect, Skip,” Pace said, eyes still on Holly, “but I can kiss whoever I want.”
“Get off my plane.”
Holly laughed, but Pace knew Gage was only half kidding. Maybe only one-quarter kidding.
“No kissing,” Gage instructed. “And absolutely no fu—”
“Okay,” Pace said quickly. “Somebody needs a nap.”
“No,” Gage grounded out. “Somebody needs a win.”
That night, back at home in his own house, Pace retrieved his e-mail, which included a link to Holly’s latest blog, sent by Sam. This time Holly had tackled America’s fascination /obsession with the players—the good, the bad, and the ugly, from the little kids just wanting an autograph, to the drunk fans wanting a piece of action after the game, to women wanting body parts signed.
Pace shook his head. “Had a good time writing this one, didn’t you?” he murmured, reading on to where she’d outlined the innate problems with the players being treated like royalty, how the fast celebrity status could lead to a false sense of reality, an inflated ego, and even a distance from the game and fans that paid them their millions.
False sense of reality? Not so much, not in Pace’s case anyway.
Inflated ego? Maybe, and yet hopefully not.
But distance? Check. And it was that, he figured, that finger right on the pulse of his own personal problem, that bothered him the most.
He absolutely felt distanced from his own damn life.
The next day, he pitched in the bullpen for practice, badly, and in spite of Red making him stop early, his shoulder hurt like hell.
Gage blew his equivalent of a gasket and hauled Pace’s ass to medical, where he was assessed.
Severely strained rotator cuff.
Red pulled out his hanky for the diagnosis, and Pace felt like shit. Management called a meeting to make the decision—either put him on the DL for a fifteen day stay, or listing him as day-to-day until he recovered.
With Red’s help, Pace fought long and hard for day-to day status, convincing the Skip that he’d do fine with physical therapy. It put a lot of pressure on him to recover quickly, but hell, he was used to pressure.
That night, Wade brought him pizza and they had a pity party, but it didn’t help.
Without Pace, the Heat pulled Ty up to a starter. He was good, but not good enough to take the Dodgers, and they lost their next two games. The press continued their massacre of the entire team, and the uneasiness in Pace’s chest swelled, tightening against his rib cage.
Because no matter how he tried to spin it, things had gone straight to hell.
Chapter 11
Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the
Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona.
—George F. Will
Sam was extremely careful with the press release regarding Pace’s injury. Careful and optimistic, stating only that Pace had a strained his rotator cuff, to be treated with PT. Then Gage made him go into seclusion—no cell calls, no computer, nothing but PT and rest for three days.
He was kept busy with that and icing, along with lower-body workouts.
On the forth day, feeling caged in, he used Wade’s cell phone and called Holly. He didn’t know why, other than he just wanted to hear her or better yet, see her. “How about dinner?” he asked when she answered.
“Why, Wade,” she murmured in his ear. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Funny,” he said dryly, nearly laughing for the first time in days. “Say yes.”
“Yes to dinner, and yes to news on you.”
“I didn’t offer news on me.”
She sighed in his ear, a soft, anxious sound that made him feel like a jerk. “Just tell me this,” she murmured. “Are you okay?”
“Fantastic.”
“The truth, Pace.”
“I’m working on being okay.”
“Fair enough. Dinner would be great. So would an interview.”
Hell. “I was thinking steak and a drink, and no interview.”
“Fine, be mysterious. Name the place and I’ll meet you. I’m in Los Angeles at a meeting with my publisher, but I’ll be back in a few hours.”
They arranged a time and place, but when Pace showed up at the restaurant, Wade and Henry were already there. He stared at them, knowing he wasn’t going to like this. “What are you doing?”
“Gage sent us.” Wade wisely handed Pace a drink to go with that news. “We’re on babysitting duty.”
She stared at his mouth. “I wouldn’t have minded kissing you.” A smile curved her lips. “For the cause and all.”
He felt a stupid, helpless smile hit him. “No?”
She shook her head, and she leaned in. “Maybe we should . . . I don’t know . . .”
His heart leapt hard against his ribs. “Practice?”
“Great minds,” she said, repeating his own words from Atlanta back at him.
Yeah, now see that’s what he liked about her, he thought, sliding a hand to the nape of her neck. Always game. The leather seats crinkled comfortably as he shifted closer, and he watched as her lips parted in anticipation.
Oh yeah. His parted, too, and he let his eyes drift shut as he kissed—
Gage’s hand. Because Gage had shot it between them from the seat behind them.
“You couldn’t be bothered to kiss her earlier, but you’ll do it now?” came the Skip’s pissed-off whisper, the one that could skin alive. “Fuck, no. Not on my f**king plane.”
“No disrespect, Skip,” Pace said, eyes still on Holly, “but I can kiss whoever I want.”
“Get off my plane.”
Holly laughed, but Pace knew Gage was only half kidding. Maybe only one-quarter kidding.
“No kissing,” Gage instructed. “And absolutely no fu—”
“Okay,” Pace said quickly. “Somebody needs a nap.”
“No,” Gage grounded out. “Somebody needs a win.”
That night, back at home in his own house, Pace retrieved his e-mail, which included a link to Holly’s latest blog, sent by Sam. This time Holly had tackled America’s fascination /obsession with the players—the good, the bad, and the ugly, from the little kids just wanting an autograph, to the drunk fans wanting a piece of action after the game, to women wanting body parts signed.
Pace shook his head. “Had a good time writing this one, didn’t you?” he murmured, reading on to where she’d outlined the innate problems with the players being treated like royalty, how the fast celebrity status could lead to a false sense of reality, an inflated ego, and even a distance from the game and fans that paid them their millions.
False sense of reality? Not so much, not in Pace’s case anyway.
Inflated ego? Maybe, and yet hopefully not.
But distance? Check. And it was that, he figured, that finger right on the pulse of his own personal problem, that bothered him the most.
He absolutely felt distanced from his own damn life.
The next day, he pitched in the bullpen for practice, badly, and in spite of Red making him stop early, his shoulder hurt like hell.
Gage blew his equivalent of a gasket and hauled Pace’s ass to medical, where he was assessed.
Severely strained rotator cuff.
Red pulled out his hanky for the diagnosis, and Pace felt like shit. Management called a meeting to make the decision—either put him on the DL for a fifteen day stay, or listing him as day-to-day until he recovered.
With Red’s help, Pace fought long and hard for day-to day status, convincing the Skip that he’d do fine with physical therapy. It put a lot of pressure on him to recover quickly, but hell, he was used to pressure.
That night, Wade brought him pizza and they had a pity party, but it didn’t help.
Without Pace, the Heat pulled Ty up to a starter. He was good, but not good enough to take the Dodgers, and they lost their next two games. The press continued their massacre of the entire team, and the uneasiness in Pace’s chest swelled, tightening against his rib cage.
Because no matter how he tried to spin it, things had gone straight to hell.
Chapter 11
Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the
Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona.
—George F. Will
Sam was extremely careful with the press release regarding Pace’s injury. Careful and optimistic, stating only that Pace had a strained his rotator cuff, to be treated with PT. Then Gage made him go into seclusion—no cell calls, no computer, nothing but PT and rest for three days.
He was kept busy with that and icing, along with lower-body workouts.
On the forth day, feeling caged in, he used Wade’s cell phone and called Holly. He didn’t know why, other than he just wanted to hear her or better yet, see her. “How about dinner?” he asked when she answered.
“Why, Wade,” she murmured in his ear. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Funny,” he said dryly, nearly laughing for the first time in days. “Say yes.”
“Yes to dinner, and yes to news on you.”
“I didn’t offer news on me.”
She sighed in his ear, a soft, anxious sound that made him feel like a jerk. “Just tell me this,” she murmured. “Are you okay?”
“Fantastic.”
“The truth, Pace.”
“I’m working on being okay.”
“Fair enough. Dinner would be great. So would an interview.”
Hell. “I was thinking steak and a drink, and no interview.”
“Fine, be mysterious. Name the place and I’ll meet you. I’m in Los Angeles at a meeting with my publisher, but I’ll be back in a few hours.”
They arranged a time and place, but when Pace showed up at the restaurant, Wade and Henry were already there. He stared at them, knowing he wasn’t going to like this. “What are you doing?”
“Gage sent us.” Wade wisely handed Pace a drink to go with that news. “We’re on babysitting duty.”
