Double Play Read online

  The Philly crowd booed.

  “Jesus, did you see that curveball?” someone on Holly’s left said in disbelief. “It must have curved a foot and a half!”

  Holly had no idea how low it really curved, because she couldn’t take her eyes off Pace. He went on to pitch a textbook no-hitter, and if he felt any of the pain she’d sensed the other day, he didn’t let it show. In fact, he let nothing show. He was a solid, tough rock of determination from the start to the seventh inning, when Gage pulled him to save his arm for the next series.

  Ty went in, allowing several runs, but still holding their lead, and the Heat won eight to four.

  The informal after party was set in one of the bars of the hotel, free drinks on management. Holly found herself with a lingering headache, probably from the hot sun, not to mention the cheering she’d done. She thought about escaping to her room to work on her next article, which she’d decided would be about the public’s view of baseball, from past to present, focusing on kids and how much the game and the players meant to them.

  But looking around at the growing crowd, she decided to stay a few more minutes in case she heard anything interesting.

  Which was really just an excuse.

  She wanted to see Pace. Knowing it, she made her way through the gang to the open bar and tried to get the attention of one of the two pretty, young bartenders, one blonde, one brunette, spending more time looking at the players than making drinks. She waited.

  And waited.

  “You don’t have a penis, so I’d give up.” Samantha smiled at her and opened her purse to pull out a flask. “It’s Scotch. I carry it when I fly because I’m such a wuss. Take it.”

  “Oh, no, I—”

  But Sam had moved on. Holly shook her head and tried once more in vain to get a much lighter drink from either of the bartenders. “I’m invisible,” she finally decided.

  “Aw. Not to me, darlin’.” Wade nudged her shoulder with his as he worked his way in next to her, all three-day scruff and Prada sunglasses.

  She’d learned several things about the Heat’s star catcher. For one, he was a world-class flirt and yet somehow, when he looked into her eyes, he made her feel like the only woman on the planet.

  That he looked like a surfer didn’t hurt. Nope, all that sun-kissed beauty from head to toe really worked for him. Like the others, he was gorgeously built, but beneath that laid-back exterior was a sharp mind, a quick wit, and a fierce loyalty to those he cared about, making him about as easy to crack open as a brick wall. He was both cocky and discreet, a paradox she’d learned while trying to ask him some hard-hitting questions; she’d gotten nowhere. Nope, those deep sea green eyes of his had gone from sparkling to closed up tighter than a drum in a single heartbeat.

  The entire team had that in common—tight lips.

  “What can I get you to drink?” Wade asked her now.

  “A wine cooler, if you can get it, thanks.”

  He gestured to the closest bartender, the cute little blonde one, who ran over to him so fast she nearly killed her coworker.

  Holly had been a bartender in college. Actually, she’d been a lot of things in college, since it had taken many, many jobs to pay her way. But she’d served quickly and efficiently, with a nice but distant smile, ensuring that she’d get tips but not hit on. The tactic hadn’t always worked. Sometimes she’d gotten stiffed, sometimes she’d gotten hit on in spite of her distance, and sometimes she’d gotten both stiffed and hit on, which had always pissed her off.

  Wade winked at the blonde as he gave their order, then grinned at Holly as the woman rushed to get the drinks. “They like us here. We tip well.”

  “I bet.”

  He studied her while reaching for the bowl of mixed nuts on the bar. “You know, I didn’t peg you for a pansy-ass drinker. I’d have guessed you’d drink beer. Maybe a Scotch. Something tough anyway.”

  She thought of Sam’s Scotch in her purse. Maybe she should have stuck with that. “You think I’m tough?”

  “Well, not as tough as me, but close. Hey, Skipper,” he said to Gage as the manager bellied up to the bar with smooth ease, gesturing with a nod of his chin to the brunette bartender.

  Gage was built like his players. Plus, he had the rugged dark looks of his Latino heritage going for him, along with a smile that could slice an ump—or charm a reporter. Holly should know. He’d charmed her at the continental breakfast that morning, where she’d gotten almost nothing out of him except stats and a detailed account of how much volunteer work the guys did with their 4 The Kids charity.

  “You getting lucky tonight?” Wade asked him.

  “I already did with the win,” he said as the pretty bartender brought him a beer and a smile as he turned to Holly, gesturing to the makeup-covered bruise on her forehead. “How’s that bump Pace got you?”

  “Better, thank you. Speaking of Pace, where is he tonight?”

  Look at her, all casually working that into the conversation.

  But Gage saw right through her as he took a pull of his drink, and offered an easy smile. “Oh, around, I imagine.” With a friendly clap on Wade’s shoulder, he moved off, heading for a pretty woman waving at him from across the room.

  The first bartender was finally back with their drinks. Holly’s came without a backward glance. Wade’s came on a napkin with a phone number on it. He pocketed the napkin and winked at Holly, who rolled her eyes and turned to eye the crowd, which had doubled, filling with locals and fans who wanted to see the players.

  And still no sight of Pace. She really should go to her room and take some Advil. Sleep. Write . . .

  Ty and Joe pressed in close to the bar near Wade and Holly, trying to get a drink, but both bartenders were now at the other end, even more slammed than before. Since the drinks were free, Holly simply moved around the bar and filled their order, to their eternal gratitude.

  “You’re handy,” Wade noted.

  “I really am.” With an easy camaraderie, they sat there and people-watched, and there was a lot of watching to be had. The women were everywhere, in all shapes and sizes—big and petite, sexy and cute, beautiful and not—and they all had one thing in common: they wanted to be with the players, wanted to see them, meet them, talk to them.

  Sleep with them.

  Several, in fact, were eyeing Wade as if he were sin on a stick. “Am I cramping your style?” she asked.

  “Nah.” He shot her an easy smile. “I’m taking a break.”

  “Aw. You get your heart hurt, Wade?”

  That caused a deep chuckle to rumble from his chest, as if the idea was utterly laughable. “I meant I’m taking a break for the next hour or so.” His gaze snagged on one of the women staring at him with naked desire all over her face. “Maybe half an hour.”

  She shook her head, then her own gaze caught on Pace as he finally walked in. He was looking rough and tumble, ready for anything, and from across the crowd and above all the noise, their eyes met.

  A little shiver of thrill went through her. Actually, a big shiver.

  Like the other players, he was dressed nice, wearing a jacket fitted to his athletic body as if it’d been made for him, and it probably had. He looked expensive, cultured, gorgeous, and on top of his world—which by all accounts, he was.

  And he headed right for them.

  Wade gestured to the cute blonde bartender for a drink for Pace, then said when he got close, “I was getting worried I was going to have to fly solo, no wingman.”

  Pace smirked and shook his head. “Like you need a wingman.”

  Wade grinned. “Remember our first time at one of these things? New York, right? The place was loaded with beautiful women. Good times.”

  Pace nodded. “For you especially. You had two homers that night.”

  Wade shrugged modestly. “Possibly.”

  “After the game, we walked into the hotel bar,” Pace told Holly, “which was packed with fans. One of the women dancing with us asks Wade if he’s ga