Double Play
Page 6
“Minutes left in this interview.”
“What about you personally,” she said without missing a beat. “Did you—”
“No personal questions.”
She considered him for a precious few seconds, how he stood there tall and silent and tense with what she’d bet her last dollar was pain. That softened her unexpectedly, and she had the oddest urge to touch him. “People want to read about you, Pace.”
“They can read about me already. You can, too, just Google me.”
“Already have. There’s very little known about you other than your ball play, which is by all accounts amazing. You have world-class velocity and control, both reflected in your stats. You always use your head, and you’re never without a game plan.” She pulled a couple of magazines from her file to quote from. “You can pitch in any situation, you have the stuff to make it work, and you have guts. Newsweek.” She shifted to another. “Batting against you is just about impossible, the balls come out of nowhere, no one can judge your rotation, speed, or the break of the ball. Sports Illustrated.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Use that. You can add that my sexual prowess is unrivaled, if you’re so inclined.”
She laughed, even as a small part of her wanted to say “Prove it.” “Come on. Give me more.”
“Like?”
“Like what’s wrong with your shoulder?”
“Nothing.”
She stared at him and he stared back, stoic and tough as nails. “Wow, Pace. I don’t know how I’m going to fit all this great new info into my article.”
He smiled tightly. “You look capable. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Okay, let’s try something easier.”
He looked at her from behind those dark glasses, eyes hidden, thoughts inaccessible. “Let’s,” he said softly.
“What would you say makes your team so strangely beloved in the public eye?”
“Strangely? A real fan, huh?”
Actually, she did enjoy baseball, and in junior college she’d even made extra money running the scoreboard for home games. The money she’d earned had paid for her books and the Top Ramen noodles that had sustained her through those lean years, which had been virtually rich compared to her childhood. “What I think isn’t relevant here.”
“Given that you’re the one setting the tone for your article, I think it is.”
“Articles. Plural. To be run throughout the summer. What is it about your team that the public loves so much?”
“We win. One more question, that’s it.”
“And then I go away?”
“That would be great,” he said with such feeling she laughed.
And as impatient as she might be, she also knew when to back off. “Fine. Last one—tell me what happened to you out in the pen today.”
When his eyes lit with something that looked suspiciously like triumph, she knew she’d been had, that he’d successfully distracted her from something else. “Wait—”
“Oh no. Too late.” He had his cover-boy smile in place. “Just a bad day. We all have them.” He spread his hands. “Okay then, thanks for your time, buh-bye.” He turned, and his bag fell off his shoulder to his forearm, jerking a wordless sound of pain from his lips.
Bad day, my ass. “You’re in pain, Pace. A great deal of it.”
“Yes. Doing interviews is f**king painful.” Pale now, he let out a tight breath. “But I answered your single question. We’re done here.”
She touched him when he would have moved off, just a hand on his arm, and felt the heat and strength of him beneath her fingers. “Would you like some Advil?”
“No. Thanks.”
His car was shiny and undoubtedly fast, and as a lead-foot herself, she felt a twinge of envy. “Would you say that your personal life often collides with your professional one?”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re relentless?” His color hadn’t come back, but she was still breathing hard from their run out here, and it didn’t escape her that he wasn’t. “Or that you might want to consider cardio exercise?”
She was never insulted at the truth. “Maybe we could talk during one of your cardio workouts,” she suggested.
His expression burned with challenge, even right through his dark lenses. “I run five miles every day. Feel free to join me.”
A dare, uttered with the utmost confidence that she wouldn’t even try. But Holly never backed away from a dare, especially one spoken with the certainty that she couldn’t measure up. He could have no idea that she’d spent a lifetime practicing at measuring up, and she was getting damned good at it.
Clearly confident he’d scared her off, he fished his keys from his pocket as she eyed the Mustang, itching to give it a spin. “Nineteen sixty . . . ?”
“Eight,” he said.
“Nice collision of professional and personal.” She’d bet this baby never conked out on him on Highway 1 during morning traffic—unlike hers, which had done exactly that only two weeks before.
“Yeah. Still not going to comment on my personal life.”
Dammit.
Looking amused at her expression, and maybe at himself, too, he tossed his bag into the car, where it landed on one of the soft leather seats, then sucked in a breath at the movement.
Yeah, he was in bad shape, not that he wanted her to know given that trademark smile he managed to keep in place, the one that was designed to melt away a woman’s panties.
“What about you personally,” she said without missing a beat. “Did you—”
“No personal questions.”
She considered him for a precious few seconds, how he stood there tall and silent and tense with what she’d bet her last dollar was pain. That softened her unexpectedly, and she had the oddest urge to touch him. “People want to read about you, Pace.”
“They can read about me already. You can, too, just Google me.”
“Already have. There’s very little known about you other than your ball play, which is by all accounts amazing. You have world-class velocity and control, both reflected in your stats. You always use your head, and you’re never without a game plan.” She pulled a couple of magazines from her file to quote from. “You can pitch in any situation, you have the stuff to make it work, and you have guts. Newsweek.” She shifted to another. “Batting against you is just about impossible, the balls come out of nowhere, no one can judge your rotation, speed, or the break of the ball. Sports Illustrated.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Use that. You can add that my sexual prowess is unrivaled, if you’re so inclined.”
She laughed, even as a small part of her wanted to say “Prove it.” “Come on. Give me more.”
“Like?”
“Like what’s wrong with your shoulder?”
“Nothing.”
She stared at him and he stared back, stoic and tough as nails. “Wow, Pace. I don’t know how I’m going to fit all this great new info into my article.”
He smiled tightly. “You look capable. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Okay, let’s try something easier.”
He looked at her from behind those dark glasses, eyes hidden, thoughts inaccessible. “Let’s,” he said softly.
“What would you say makes your team so strangely beloved in the public eye?”
“Strangely? A real fan, huh?”
Actually, she did enjoy baseball, and in junior college she’d even made extra money running the scoreboard for home games. The money she’d earned had paid for her books and the Top Ramen noodles that had sustained her through those lean years, which had been virtually rich compared to her childhood. “What I think isn’t relevant here.”
“Given that you’re the one setting the tone for your article, I think it is.”
“Articles. Plural. To be run throughout the summer. What is it about your team that the public loves so much?”
“We win. One more question, that’s it.”
“And then I go away?”
“That would be great,” he said with such feeling she laughed.
And as impatient as she might be, she also knew when to back off. “Fine. Last one—tell me what happened to you out in the pen today.”
When his eyes lit with something that looked suspiciously like triumph, she knew she’d been had, that he’d successfully distracted her from something else. “Wait—”
“Oh no. Too late.” He had his cover-boy smile in place. “Just a bad day. We all have them.” He spread his hands. “Okay then, thanks for your time, buh-bye.” He turned, and his bag fell off his shoulder to his forearm, jerking a wordless sound of pain from his lips.
Bad day, my ass. “You’re in pain, Pace. A great deal of it.”
“Yes. Doing interviews is f**king painful.” Pale now, he let out a tight breath. “But I answered your single question. We’re done here.”
She touched him when he would have moved off, just a hand on his arm, and felt the heat and strength of him beneath her fingers. “Would you like some Advil?”
“No. Thanks.”
His car was shiny and undoubtedly fast, and as a lead-foot herself, she felt a twinge of envy. “Would you say that your personal life often collides with your professional one?”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re relentless?” His color hadn’t come back, but she was still breathing hard from their run out here, and it didn’t escape her that he wasn’t. “Or that you might want to consider cardio exercise?”
She was never insulted at the truth. “Maybe we could talk during one of your cardio workouts,” she suggested.
His expression burned with challenge, even right through his dark lenses. “I run five miles every day. Feel free to join me.”
A dare, uttered with the utmost confidence that she wouldn’t even try. But Holly never backed away from a dare, especially one spoken with the certainty that she couldn’t measure up. He could have no idea that she’d spent a lifetime practicing at measuring up, and she was getting damned good at it.
Clearly confident he’d scared her off, he fished his keys from his pocket as she eyed the Mustang, itching to give it a spin. “Nineteen sixty . . . ?”
“Eight,” he said.
“Nice collision of professional and personal.” She’d bet this baby never conked out on him on Highway 1 during morning traffic—unlike hers, which had done exactly that only two weeks before.
“Yeah. Still not going to comment on my personal life.”
Dammit.
Looking amused at her expression, and maybe at himself, too, he tossed his bag into the car, where it landed on one of the soft leather seats, then sucked in a breath at the movement.
Yeah, he was in bad shape, not that he wanted her to know given that trademark smile he managed to keep in place, the one that was designed to melt away a woman’s panties.
