Double Play
Page 5
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?”
“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?”
