Double Play
Page 22
“You settled in okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
With a slow nod, he kept looking at her with that steady gaze, his brows knit together as he stepped a little closer, his gait easy and relaxed now, as if preserving his energy for other things, like chucking a ball at a batter at ninety-five miles an hour.
Or maybe having sex . . . Good God, what was wrong with her? “I was just getting some air,” she said a little weakly. “I’m good now.”
He held the hotel door open for her, and as she brushed by his damp, hot body, she had to restrain herself from leaning in and touching.
Pathetic. She was pathetic.
But knowing that didn’t stop her gaze from drifting over him, down his damp throat, down the T-shirt covering his broad chest, or from remembering how in the last doorway they’d stood together, they’d kissed. When she looked up, she found that dark gaze locked on hers, his solemn and quiet. “In?” he asked when she didn’t move.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Thanks.” She managed a smile, and with a nod, he moved off, heading toward the elevators. It wasn’t until he was out of sight that she realized she was standing there in the center of the lobby, mouth open, staring after him.
“He does seem to have that affect on women.”
Holly turned to face Samantha. “Hi. I was just—”
“Don’t try to talk until you’ve had a healthy dose of chocolate.” She nodded with her chin toward the café, just off the lobby. “Dessert?”
“Sure,” Holly managed. “Dessert sounds good.” In lieu of sex, it would have to do.
As it had for far too long now.
They seated themselves and ordered fudge brownies, which came pronto, warm on their plates and then melting in their mouths.
“So,” Samantha said after a mutual moan-fest over the deliciousness. She was a tall, willowy blonde who was as attractive as some of the players she represented. Today she wore a yellow business suit revealing mile-long legs, making Holly feel like a run-down Pinto standing next to a brand-new BMW. “What do you think about the guys?”
“I’m wondering if they always behave so well on the road, or is it a show for my benefit?”
“They don’t do shows. What you see is what you get.” Sam dug into a brownie with clear relish. “It’s why I love them. My brother, Jeremy, is the publicist for the Bucks. They’re a logistical, diva-run, trouble-filled nightmare. He has his hands full. Not me. They’re all good guys here on the Heat. The best.”
“So far, I’d agree with you. So no problems?”
“Like?”
“I don’t know. Drugs?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Sam said firmly. “There’re no secrets here, Holly.”
Holly liked these guys, and she wanted to believe Sam, but experiences had taught her one thing: no one was as they appeared to be, especially not with the sheer amount of money and fame they dealt with on a daily basis. “What about jealousy?”
“Jealousy?”
“Pace Martin, for instance, one of the highest ranked pitchers in the league and the ace in your starting lineup. How do the other pitchers on the team feel about playing second fiddle to him? Like Ty, a strong up-and-coming player, and yet he’s Pace’s relief pitcher, maybe not getting the playing time he might somewhere else because Pace is so good. Does he—”
“Honey.” Sam smiled like pure melted butter as she reached out and squeezed Holly’s hand. “It’s been a long day and we’re far from home. We’re eating a thousand-calorie dessert together. Now I know you like to dig, but all you’re going to come up with is a bunch of holes and tired arms. So don’t you think we might enjoy ourselves instead of trying to find problems that don’t exist?”
Holly blinked. “Oh. Okay, sure.”
Sam laughed at her. “You’re allowed to take a breather, you know. And do nothing. I won’t tell anyone.”
Holly let out a self-conscious smile, a little startled that Sam had read her so easily. “It’s going to take some practice, this sitting-around thing. I don’t usually have so much downtime.”
“Well, we’ll reform you yet.”
The next day, in the packed Philly stadium, Holly sat in the stands with a sense of anticipation and excitement as Pace jogged out to the pitcher’s mound looking tall, leanly muscled, and focused.
In his element.
“He’s my fantasy pick,” a teenage boy said reverently, sitting just behind her.
Hers, too, she thought, watching Pace through her camera lens—but not necessarily for his competitiveness, focus, dedication, or pitching ability. No, her fantasy was much more female based than that . . .
The late afternoon was steaming hot. The air smelled of popcorn, hot dogs, and freshly cut grass, and shimmered with the heat.
Pace put on his glove and adjusted his cap. Game face on, he turned to view his outfield, and Holly experienced a little frisson of thrill at the sight of his name stitched across his back.
Good Lord, she thought, lowering her camera. She’d turned into a rabid fan.
The first batter stepped up to the plate to wild cheers from his home crowd. Holly knew that a successful batter got a hit only thirty percent of the time he went to bat, less when Pace was pitching.
She held her breath.
Pace wound up and let the ball go, where it promptly whizzed right into Wade’s mitt with a loud smack.
“Yes. Thank you.”
With a slow nod, he kept looking at her with that steady gaze, his brows knit together as he stepped a little closer, his gait easy and relaxed now, as if preserving his energy for other things, like chucking a ball at a batter at ninety-five miles an hour.
Or maybe having sex . . . Good God, what was wrong with her? “I was just getting some air,” she said a little weakly. “I’m good now.”
He held the hotel door open for her, and as she brushed by his damp, hot body, she had to restrain herself from leaning in and touching.
Pathetic. She was pathetic.
But knowing that didn’t stop her gaze from drifting over him, down his damp throat, down the T-shirt covering his broad chest, or from remembering how in the last doorway they’d stood together, they’d kissed. When she looked up, she found that dark gaze locked on hers, his solemn and quiet. “In?” he asked when she didn’t move.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Thanks.” She managed a smile, and with a nod, he moved off, heading toward the elevators. It wasn’t until he was out of sight that she realized she was standing there in the center of the lobby, mouth open, staring after him.
“He does seem to have that affect on women.”
Holly turned to face Samantha. “Hi. I was just—”
“Don’t try to talk until you’ve had a healthy dose of chocolate.” She nodded with her chin toward the café, just off the lobby. “Dessert?”
“Sure,” Holly managed. “Dessert sounds good.” In lieu of sex, it would have to do.
As it had for far too long now.
They seated themselves and ordered fudge brownies, which came pronto, warm on their plates and then melting in their mouths.
“So,” Samantha said after a mutual moan-fest over the deliciousness. She was a tall, willowy blonde who was as attractive as some of the players she represented. Today she wore a yellow business suit revealing mile-long legs, making Holly feel like a run-down Pinto standing next to a brand-new BMW. “What do you think about the guys?”
“I’m wondering if they always behave so well on the road, or is it a show for my benefit?”
“They don’t do shows. What you see is what you get.” Sam dug into a brownie with clear relish. “It’s why I love them. My brother, Jeremy, is the publicist for the Bucks. They’re a logistical, diva-run, trouble-filled nightmare. He has his hands full. Not me. They’re all good guys here on the Heat. The best.”
“So far, I’d agree with you. So no problems?”
“Like?”
“I don’t know. Drugs?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Sam said firmly. “There’re no secrets here, Holly.”
Holly liked these guys, and she wanted to believe Sam, but experiences had taught her one thing: no one was as they appeared to be, especially not with the sheer amount of money and fame they dealt with on a daily basis. “What about jealousy?”
“Jealousy?”
“Pace Martin, for instance, one of the highest ranked pitchers in the league and the ace in your starting lineup. How do the other pitchers on the team feel about playing second fiddle to him? Like Ty, a strong up-and-coming player, and yet he’s Pace’s relief pitcher, maybe not getting the playing time he might somewhere else because Pace is so good. Does he—”
“Honey.” Sam smiled like pure melted butter as she reached out and squeezed Holly’s hand. “It’s been a long day and we’re far from home. We’re eating a thousand-calorie dessert together. Now I know you like to dig, but all you’re going to come up with is a bunch of holes and tired arms. So don’t you think we might enjoy ourselves instead of trying to find problems that don’t exist?”
Holly blinked. “Oh. Okay, sure.”
Sam laughed at her. “You’re allowed to take a breather, you know. And do nothing. I won’t tell anyone.”
Holly let out a self-conscious smile, a little startled that Sam had read her so easily. “It’s going to take some practice, this sitting-around thing. I don’t usually have so much downtime.”
“Well, we’ll reform you yet.”
The next day, in the packed Philly stadium, Holly sat in the stands with a sense of anticipation and excitement as Pace jogged out to the pitcher’s mound looking tall, leanly muscled, and focused.
In his element.
“He’s my fantasy pick,” a teenage boy said reverently, sitting just behind her.
Hers, too, she thought, watching Pace through her camera lens—but not necessarily for his competitiveness, focus, dedication, or pitching ability. No, her fantasy was much more female based than that . . .
The late afternoon was steaming hot. The air smelled of popcorn, hot dogs, and freshly cut grass, and shimmered with the heat.
Pace put on his glove and adjusted his cap. Game face on, he turned to view his outfield, and Holly experienced a little frisson of thrill at the sight of his name stitched across his back.
Good Lord, she thought, lowering her camera. She’d turned into a rabid fan.
The first batter stepped up to the plate to wild cheers from his home crowd. Holly knew that a successful batter got a hit only thirty percent of the time he went to bat, less when Pace was pitching.
She held her breath.
Pace wound up and let the ball go, where it promptly whizzed right into Wade’s mitt with a loud smack.
