Double Play (8 page)

There are three things in my life which I really love:
God, family, and baseball. The only problem—once
baseball season starts, I change the order around a
bit.

—Al Gallagher, 1971

 

 

 

 

That
night Pace skipped his usual five-mile run to give his body a rest. He also skipped the Dr Pepper he wanted more than his next breath and drank water as he packed for the three-game run in Philly.

Since prepping for travel was as familiar as breathing, his mind wandered as he threw clothes into his bag. Holly was going to be fine. He’d made sure of it before driving her back to her car. He hoped—in spite of her having the most compelling eyes he’d ever had the discomfort of being leveled by, and in spite of that very intriguing hot kiss they’d shared—to never see her again.

But he was fairly certain he wouldn’t get that lucky. She wanted his secrets, and given that her picture was probably in the dictionary next to
tenacious
, not to mention
stubborn
and
ornery
, she wouldn’t be discouraged by a ball to the forehead.

She was going to be a pain in his ass, and he knew it. But she was also sharply funny and sharply smart, and damn if when she’d pitted her wits against his, he didn’t forget to feel sorry for himself—something he appeared to have down to a science tonight, thanks to the news from his doctor.

When his cell phone rang, he considered ignoring it, but the display revealed it was Gage, and it was never smart to ignore the manager. Not if he wanted to play, and he was scheduled for tomorrow. “Hey, Skip.”

“I hear you clocked a reporter in the head.”

Pace dropped to his bed and stretched out, staring at the ceiling, picturing Holly and her pretty hair and amazing eyes, and how she’d felt in his arms when he’d scooped her off the grass after taking River’s pitch.

And then there’d been that kiss . . . “Not exactly. Is she suing or something?”

“Or something.” Gage was a hands-on TM. He loved the game, he loved the guys, and because of it there was little of the usual management-versus-the-players attitude on the Heat. At thirty-four years old, their “Skipper” as they called him was the youngest MLB team manager in the country and possibly the hardest working, a fact that everyone on the Heat wholeheartedly appreciated. Gage was loyal to a fault, calm at all times, and utterly infallible when it came to supporting the Heat in every possible way, including, apparently, helping one of his players get out of a mess created by his own stupidity. “What the hell happened, man?”

“It was an accident,” Pace told him. “I took her to the doctor and she checked out. Is she not okay?”

“You could ask Ty, Joe, and Henry, all of whom she met for dinner. Or better yet, ask her yourself.”

The guys had probably charmed the hell out of her. And he’d been worried about Wade. “I don’t have her number.”

“Well lucky for you, I do.”

Shit.
He took the number, then spent a few minutes procrastinating with his TV remote, but when the local anchor questioned Pace’s stats and said he was “getting up there” in age, it was drink a Dr Pepper from his private stash or call Holly. Up there his ass, he thought as he pounded in her number. He was thirty-one. A damn
young
thirty-one, too—

Holly answered her phone in a soft, sleep-roughened voice, and he immediately went from pissed off to concerned. “Hey, you shouldn’t be sleeping after a bump to the head.” He shouldn’t have just dumped her off. He should’ve—

“You paid the doctor bill, Pace,” she said calmly. “You know I’m not concussed. But that you’re worrying like a mother hen is very sweet. And interesting, as I’ve never seen
sweet
on any of your bios. I’ll have to make sure to put that in any article about you.”

“I’m just afraid you’re going to sue. How’s
that
for sweet?”

“Aw.” She laughed. “You’re so full of shit. I met your teammates tonight. They were great company, full of stories.”

He just bet.

“But oddly enough, when I tried to get the scoop on you from them, they all clammed up.”

“It’s called friendship.”

“Well, I have to admit, as a reporter, it’s annoying.” Her voice softened. “But as a person? Also incredibly sweet.”

“So you’re saying the entire team is sweet.” Now he laughed. “Good luck with your credibility if you print that. We’re not exactly known for the sweetness, Holly.”

“No,” she admitted with a smile in her voice. “You’re not, are you? I’m hoping to figure out what makes you guys tick.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I do. I like to furrow deep.”

“And expose secrets.”

“Yes, when they need to be exposed.” She was quiet a moment. “But to ease your mind, I haven’t found any yet. Oh, and the only reason I was sleeping is because we have an early flight. You can stop worrying about me, sweet or otherwise.”

His gut tightened as a very bad feeling came over him. “We?
We
have an early flight?”

“Didn’t anyone tell you? I’ll be traveling with the Heat.”

Christ. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. How’s your shoulder? And don’t bother trying to give me the standard line. This isn’t Holly the reporter asking but the friend who rescued you from your stalker.”

He let out a low breath. “A little sore, that’s all.”

“Okay, we’ll stick with that for now, since you don’t trust me.”

“You’re still a reporter.”

“Which is what, synonymous with bad guy?”

“No, of course not.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked at his open duffel bag. Why had he called her? “I just don’t want it plastered all across the Internet that I’m in trouble.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

She was quiet a moment, as if taking the time to read right through him. “I understand the Heat has a lot riding on this next series.”

“Yeah.” In Pace’s life it was fact that people always said
he
had a lot riding on the next game,
he
had a lot riding on the next series, or whatever they were facing. Not the Heat, but
him
. Pace had always hated that. Yeah, he was a good pitcher, maybe even at times a great one. But he was also part of a damn team.

And in only a few words, Holly had just made it clear that she was one of the few who recognized that. Pace would like her for that alone—if he hadn’t already decided not to like her at all. “Okay, well, I just wanted to check on you, so . . .”

“And you’re already sorry you called.”

Yes. Yes, he was.

Sounding amused again, she said, “That’s okay, Pace. You can take me off your list of things to be concerned about. I’m not going to hold it against you that I have a lovely black-and-blue bruise in the center of my forehead.”

He winced for her. “In my experience, women tend to remember these things.”

“We’ve already agreed you’ve been hanging out with the wrong women. ’Night, Pace.”

“ ’Night.” He closed his cell phone and stared at it for a minute, debating whether or not to hunt up her address and go over there to check on her in person. But he had to be honest with himself. If he did that, it wouldn’t be just to look at her bruise.

And that, more than anything else, made the decision for him.

He wasn’t going anywhere near her.

When Red knocked on the door only a minute later with the tapes of the Phillies’ last game and some sub sandwiches, the decision was all the easier. Watching tapes before an away series was a tradition. Often Wade came, too, and some of the other guys as well, but tonight it was just Red and his son Tucker, who had baseball in his blood the same as his father.

Tucker and Pace went way back as well. They’d played against each other at their respective rival high schools the one year Pace hadn’t had to move to accommodate his father’s military career. That’d been the same year Tucker had made a string of bad choices including mixing alcohol and street racing, and had ended up with his car in a ditch and several pins in his right leg. Unable to play baseball but equally unable to shake loose his love for the game, Tucker now repped for a vitamin company, the one which exclusively supplied the Heat with their own vitamin enriched water.

Father and son were mirror images of each other. They had matching carrot-top, trademark messy hairstyles, stark green eyes that saw everything, quick smiles, and two big, warm hearts.

Tucker limped across Pace’s large, undeniably plush living room, and Pace couldn’t help the twinge that always hit him. If not for some shitty choices made all those years ago, Tucker might be right where Pace was, with the MLB contract and fat retirement account.

Tucker wouldn’t want the pity, but knowing that didn’t assuage Pace’s discomfort. They sat in front of the TV and watched the tape. Usually it was a good time, the calm before the storm, but tonight, it felt like an effort to be social. So did listening to Red point out the Phillies different pitching idiosyncrasies.

“Pace, watch his foot, see? He’s not pushing off with his back leg. He’s leaving the fastball up and his curve’s flat. You don’t do that. You’re too smart to do that.”

Pace didn’t feel so smart. If he’d been smart, he’d have figured out how to avoid his injury.

“Look at that.” Red poked a bony finger toward the TV. “The way he changed his grip right there, see?”

“Pace knows how to win, Dad,” Tucker said with a laugh. “He’s done it a time or two.”

Yeah. What Pace didn’t know was if he could
keep
winning.

Tucker helped himself to Pace’s refrigerator and shook his head at the six-pack of Dr Pepper in the way back. “Thought you gave this shit up since it made you feel like—surprise—shit.”

“I did.” He just liked to look at it sometimes. Like a junkie.

Tucker pulled out a bottle of water instead and slapped it to Pace’s chest, along with a vitamin pack. “Our newest stuff. One a day. It speeds up healing and promotes strength, both of which you need. Gives you energy, too.”

Pace raised a brow. He really hated taking anything, even Advil—a throwback to the old man who’d always believed such things showed weakness. “Sounds like HGH.”

Human growth hormones were banned, with a strict MLB ruling that required a fifty-game suspension for a first-time offense. A second offense was a one-hundred-game suspension, which was nothing next to the third offense—life banishment from the majors.

Harsh, but extremely effective. The MLB was just as hard on banned stimulants. A second test for those resulted in an automatic twenty-five game suspension.

Red, a firm old-schooler from the days before the commissioner had stopped the steroid use, rolled his eyes. “The new regulations are shit.”

“Oh boy,” Tucker muttered to Pace. “Here we go.”

“Well, Jesus on a stick,” Red griped. “They put athletes on the cover of the Wheaties box and say the cereal gives you strength, but a guy can’t take something to promote that strength? Should we ban Wheaties then? Hell, let’s also ban Tylenol while we’re at it.” He said this so vigorously he started coughing.

Tucker sighed and smacked him on the back. “Maybe we should ban your cigarettes, Dad. How about that?” He turned to Pace. “The vitamins are all natural. Nothing manufactured, no drugs in the mix. Ty’s been taking them and his energy level is way up.”

Ty occasionally had a problem with his energy levels, something left over from the leukemia he’d faced as a teen. Or more correctly, the meds he’d taken to fight the disease.

In any case, in theory Pace understood the appeal of enhancers. Pro athletes were paid to be strong. If there were drugs to help build strength and muscle, then that’s what some would choose to do. It was life. It just wasn’t for him, simply because while he believed certain drugs absolutely could make him stronger, he didn’t believe strength was what made a pitcher. Pitching came from a complexity of arm and shoulder movements combined with the science involved in directing the baseball.

“Just try them for a week,” Tucker said at the look on Pace’s face. “I swear you’ll feel like a new man.”

With his doctor’s prognosis ringing in his ear, Pace nodded. A little extra boost, whether real or perceived, couldn’t possibly hurt.

“What’s the matter with you?” Red asked. “You seem off.”

“Just tired.”

“Yeah?” Red’s sharp gaze ran over him. “Or maybe you have a late date and want us out?”

“Jesus, Dad,” Tucker muttered.

“What? Women throw themselves at him in every city we go to. Did I tell you in Dallas someone left their panties on his hotel room door?”

“Well, lucky him.” Tucker rolled his eyes in sympathy at Pace. “Sorry. He actually still believes sex takes away from a guy’s game.”

“It does!” Red insisted.

A sentiment Pace wholeheartedly disagreed with, but it wasn’t as if sex was on the table for the evening anyway.

“Fine. Get your rest, Sleeping Beauty.” Red took his tape and, heading to the door, added, “If you keep winning, I just might get my pennant yet.”

“You mean if
we
win this series.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said if
I
win.”

“Well, what the hell’s the difference?”

“I’m not the whole team.”

“This year you are.”

Pace’s doctor would disagree. He’d remind Pace what he’d said just this afternoon, that his rotator cuff was possibly beyond strained, that it might be torn, which meant that it needed to be repaired. He had two choices: laser surgery now, or stick with physical therapy and hope it didn’t get worse.

Two perfectly reasonable and perfectly shitty choices.

Tucker tapped the plastic bag of vitamins he’d pushed into Pace’s arms. “Take these, daily.
Especially
if you have a hot date.”