Double Play

by Shalvis, Jill

  “Shut up.” Pace unbuttoned and jerked down his pants to the tune of the laughs of his supposed friends.

  Holly kept her eyes on his as he handed over the pants. Then she sat on the bench, her head bent as she worked, her hair slipping in a soft, silky looking curtain around her face, her fingers moving nimbly and ably while he stood there in his compression shorts.

  Feeling . . . exposed.

  And not just physically. Annoyed at himself, at his ridiculously juvenile teammates, at everyone including the smooth, unruffled, and unknowingly sexy Holly Hutchins, he took his pants-less self off for a moment alone.

  Holly fixed the zipper, then went looking for Pace, trying to avoid the area where guys tended to be naked and scratching things that she didn’t need to see scratched or otherwise.

  The visitors’ clubhouse was much smaller than the one at the Heat’s complex. In Santa Barbara, they had a huge facility, where anything the players could possibly want was readily available—flat screen TVs, a state of the art sound system, a refrigerator full of goodies, a whirlpool, video games, leather chairs all over the place.

  A baseball player’s self-contained biosphere.

  But here, on the road, there was little of that. Just the guys and their gear. And most interesting, the overwhelming levels of testosterone, male camaraderie, and genuine sense of affection and good humor.

  If it’d been filled with women, Holly doubted the atmosphere would be the same. These guys spent more time in close, confined quarters with each other than they spent in their own homes. In fact, she knew that more teams had been brought down by in-team fighting than poor play, but that didn’t seem to be an issue with the Heat.

  She found Pace alone in the shower room, staring off into space. She’d caught him rubbing his shoulder several times in the locker room, and she wondered if he was in pain. The urge to reach for her camera was strong. He could have walked off a glossy magazine ad. His jersey open over a clean, softly worn white T-shirt, both clinging to broad-as-a-mountain shoulders; tight compression shorts that hit mid-thigh and looked like something a cyclist would wear, revealing legs longer than a country mile. His feet were bare, and she had no idea why, but that was sexy as hell. Yeah, he could have been a model, but she’d never seen one with that hard of a gaze and that much going on behind it.

  He was so deep in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear her enter, giving her an extra moment to stare at him, which frankly, was enough to make her start to perspire.

  The man was beautiful, though she could admit to wondering just how deep that beauty went. She could try to find out, but that hadn’t worked out for her so well in the past, and in spite of being willing, even hopeful, she was feeling a little gun-shy. “Hey.”

  He didn’t move, just let out a breath, making her realize he’d been aware of her all along. She cocked her head. “You okay?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Of course.”

  He didn’t move an inch, but she sensed him relax. “I’d be better if I had a Dr Pepper,” he admitted.

  “I thought you gave them up to watch your girlish figure.” She smiled when he slanted her a look. “I could get you one, if you’d like.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  Though he was being friendly enough, he was still speaking in the polite tone he reserved for the press and pushy fans, which she knew all too well because it’d been the very first tone he’d used with her. “I’m not looking for a canned response, Pace. You don’t have to be fine with me.”

  The look in his eyes sent a little lust-ridden thrill racing along her spine. He was tall, dark, and full of attitude, with tension coming off him in waves. She wondered if it was the upcoming game or something else. She tossed over his pants, which he caught in midair but didn’t move to put them on.

  “You’re not what I expected,” he finally said.

  “Ditto. But curiously speaking, what did you expect?”

  “For you to be more on guard for one thing. And as bossy as you were at first. You know, a typical reporter.”

  She smiled. “First appearances are rarely accurate.”

  “I don’t know.” He smiled back. “I called you for nosy, too. And you’re definitely that.”

  “I was nosy long before I was a reporter.” The shower room was clean but a little dark and damp. It felt humid and musky.

  Intimate.

  Pace pulled on his pants and buttoned up his shirt. He slipped his hand in his opened waistband to do a half-assed tucking in of his shirt, which seemed to further rev her engine.

  She was out of control.

  Completely. Out. Of. Control.

  “Are you . . . blushing?” he asked, and with a curious light in his eyes, stopped tucking. “Yeah. You are.”

  And possibly drooling again, too. And as if all that wasn’t enough, he smelled amazing. “I’m not.”

  He traced a finger over her cheekbone. “And lying.” He tsked softly, his gaze dipping over her face. “Thought you never lied.”

  “I—” She broke off when the pad of that finger, calloused and very warm, slid over her throat, stopping at the very base where she imagined her pulse was drumming out of control. Suddenly, she felt extremely aware that his pants were unfastened. “Pace, I . . . I’m—” She let out a breath and shook her head.

  He was still looking at her, his expression almost grave. “You’re attracted to me.”

  “Which is obviously a mistake.” She wrapped her fingers around his forearm to pull his hand away from her, but he shook his head and stepped closer.

  “I’m attracted back, Holly.”

  She went still, then tipped her head up at him.

  “Yeah.” A small smile curved his lips. “And I’m no more happy about it than you are.”

  Her own accelerated breathing echoed in her ears, an admission that maybe she wasn’t so unhappy about it.

  His smile faded. Slowly, he shifted so that they were brushed up against each other, and though she hadn’t been the one to walk around without pants, she felt exposed.

  Raw.

  And more than a little wary.

  Especially since he didn’t want to be attracted, and knowing it had an old insecurity rising to the surface, the one stemming from always having to push for what she wanted, and damn if she wasn’t more than a little tired of that. Someday, just once, she wanted a man to push for her. “Well, you could just ignore . . . this,” she said. “I’m sure that will help—”

  Snagging her wrist, he pulled her back around, closer now in the dimly lit room.

  “Pace—”

  “Shh a second.” Hand low on her back, he dipped his head so that their lips were only a fraction of an inch apart.

  Oh God.

  “Maybe,” he whispered huskily, his gaze locked on her mouth. “Maybe there’d be no real chemistry.”

  Her knees wobbled, and not because she’d taken a ball to the forehead. They were still barely touching in this strange and erotically charged embrace and yet her nipples were hard and achy, her thighs quivering.

  No real chemistry?

  Ha.

  He smoothed his fingers along her throat, then the curve of her jaw, his gaze following his every movement. “There’s something that’s been driving me crazy.”

  “What?”

  “Do you always kiss as careful as you look?”

  “I kiss careful?” She blinked. “I look careful?”

  “It’s the craziest thing. And sexy,” he murmured. “Really sexy. Because all I keep thinking is how much I want to ruffle you up.”

  Her heart took one good hard leap into her throat, further compromising her breathing. His breathing wasn’t all that steady either, which was an odd comfort.

  She turned him on.

  Just the thought made her want to float on air, or do the happy dance, except she’d lost control of her limbs.

  He was going to kiss her. She thought about what else he might do, how it would feel, how
he’d actually thought there might be no chemistry—

  Which was as far as she got with her obsessing before he bent his head and opened his mouth over hers.

  Chapter 9

  Baseball was made for kids. Grown-ups only screw it up.

  —Bob Lemon

  Chemistry, Holly thought as Pace kissed her. Oh God, lots and lots of chemistry . . .

  In apparent agreement of that, Pace let out a low, rough rumble deep in his chest and slid a hand into her hair, cupping her head, holding her to him. His other hand squeezed her waist, drawing her in even tighter before gliding up her back, slowly fisting in her shirt as his tongue touched hers.

  And in less than two seconds she knew this little experiment was only going to fuel the fire, not extinguish it. In the next two beats, she knew she wanted more.

  Lots more.

  He gave it. His mouth was warm, giving, and quite talented, and she let out a helpless little hum as desire and hunger crowded her brain, squeezing out all that carefulness he’d accused her of. Needing to touch, needing to feel the heat of him radiating through his jersey, she slid her hands up his chest, absorbing the hard, sinewy lines of him. Through it all came the steady beat of his heart, steady but picking up speed, and she thought maybe it was that more than anything else that reeled her in.

  He took a step into her, urging her back as his tongue delved in long, lazy strokes that were having a serious affect on her brain capacity. Another step and he’d backed her against the tile wall, holding her there with his deliciously built body as he continued the sexy, hot assault on her mouth.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that this was supposed to be just a little test, a one-time deal, she might have let it all go, thrown down the gauntlet—or her clothes—and completely lost herself in him as he kissed her as though she were his greatest fantasy come true. Because there, between the hard wall and his equally hard body, she felt desired. Beautiful.

  Wanted.

  It staggered her, literally staggered her. For so long she’d been by herself, on her own. Strong, independent, fine, and yet with just one kiss, that unraveled a little bit, and she knew that this man, this one man, was going to shake her to her very core. Which meant that she should step free and—

  “Mmm,” he murmured huskily, gliding a hand up and down her back, fingers spread wide as if he wanted, needed, to touch as much of her as possible. His other hand was still tangled in her hair, his big palm cupping her head for the kiss that was quickly becoming the mother of all kisses, hot and wet and deep, and she changed her mind about stepping free. She wanted it to never stop.

  Never.

  Beneath her fingers, his heart was no longer even close to steady, but thudding in a heavy, erratic beat that matched hers as he dragged his hands over her, cupping her bottom, squeezing as another rough moan of raw need rumbled from his chest. Then his hands went on the move again, heading north, thumbs brushing her ribs, so close to her breasts she caught her breath and wished.

  Touch me . . .

  Instead, he stopped. Stopped kissing her, stopped moving, just remained utterly still with his mouth on hers, sharing air, his fingers nearly but not quite touching her breasts.

  She tried to collect herself and failed. “Huh,” she finally managed.

  A low sound escaped him, a half laugh, half groan, and he dropped his hands to her waist, touching his forehead to hers. “Yeah. Huh.”

  “That was . . .”

  He lifted his head, meeting her gaze. “Unexpected?”

  “To say the least.” Her breathing was still ragged, her body still trembling, and all she could think was, he had to go out there and play in front of tens of thousands of fans and she wanted another kiss. His eyes were so dark now, so dark they were almost black, and filled with so much heat she nearly melted on the spot. “So,” she said. “No chemistry, right?”

  “Right.”

  At his lie, she laughed and dropped her head back so that it thunked against the wall. “This is crazy.”

  “Agreed.” He slid one hand up to cup her head again, protecting it from the wall, and it was that, that one little gesture more than anything else he’d done, that told her the truth.

  He was sexy, smart, funny, and hot. Very hot.

  But he was also kind.

  Dammit.

  She could resist a whole hell of a lot of things, but a basic kindness wasn’t one of them. The guy ran from stalkers instead of having them arrested. He helped out kids. He took stupid writers who got conked in the head to the doctor for X-rays . . .

  And he kissed so amazingly that she knew she’d be dreaming of him for days.

  Weeks.

  “Pace.”

  “Holly.”

  She let out a small smile when what she really felt like doing was stripping him naked and eating him for dinner. “That had more than a tad bit of chemistry to it.”

  There was something about the way he looked at her that made the backs of her knees sweat. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It did.”

  “Maybe . . .” She tipped up her head and looked at his beautiful mouth, still wet from hers. “Maybe we didn’t try hard enough to not want each other.”

  His other hand tightened lightly on her waist as a slow smile curved his lips. “Great minds,” he murmured, and oh God yeah, once again covered her mouth with his.

  It was insane to wrap her arms around his neck and go for it with more gusto than she had anything in recent memory. But she’d been so . . . restless. Bored. Unsettled, and missing something.

  And yet here in his arms, his tongue dancing to hers, she wasn’t restless or bored.

  Not unsettled at all.

  And missing exactly nothing . . .

  In fact, she wanted to crawl inside him and keep feeling like this, for as long as she could, and given how he had her backed up to the wall, a certain portion of his anatomy pressing into her belly, she knew he felt the same. So she gave herself over to it, lost herself in his scent, his taste, the feel of him—

  Until someone behind them cleared his throat.

  With a startled gasp, she yanked her hands off Pace, peering around his wide shoulders.

  Red stood there, clearly unhappy. “Goddamn, Pace.” He pulled out his inhaler. “Before a fucking game?”

  Pace sighed. “We need a minute.”

  “Yeah, we do,” Red said, glancing meaningfully at Holly.

  “I meant Holly and me,” Pace said.

  Red tossed up his hands. “Jesus.”

  “A minute,” Pace repeated.

  At that, Red stalked off, leaving a deafening silence.

  Through it, Pace reached out and stroked a strand of hair from Holly’s jaw, tucking it behind her ear. “I have no idea what to do about you.”

  That much she knew. “I suppose you could pretend that there’s no chemistry, that you got it out of your system.”

  “Could we?”

  “We? No.” She shook her head. “I’m not all that good at pretending anything.”

  His lips quirked, but he didn’t smile. “Good thing I am then.”

  Holly found herself seated next to Samantha for the game. The publicist was dressed in her usual princess-with-a-Nordstrom’s-account style, in a fitted business suit that dripped sophistication and elegance. She’d topped it off with a straw hat that had a Heat orange flower stuck in the band.

  It would be easy to underestimate Sam, easier still to chalk her off as a trophy piece given that her father owned the Heat and that her uncle owned the Charleston Bucks expansion team, where her brother worked as well, but beneath that beauty beat a heart of steel—and she had the will to match.

  Besides, in Holly’s book, anyone who loved fudge brownies and didn’t judge her for being a reporter was a keeper as a friend.

  It was a gorgeous but steady hot day. Holly inhaled the afternoon air and the scent of freshly cut grass as she and Sam stuffed their faces with hot dogs, peanuts, and lemonade. They talked stats, about the game itself, and bes
t of all, the guys.

  “Aren’t they cute in their uniforms?” Sam asked as the Heat took the field.

  Oh yeah, Holly thought, keeping her eyes on Pace as he jogged to the mound, though she wasn’t sure cute covered it. As he began the inning, she found herself once again mesmerized by the process that went into each throw. Gage stood just inside the dugout, giving signs to Wade, long, complicated gestures that Holly couldn’t begin to follow. Wade then repeated the signs to Pace, who’d either nod or shake his head or give a sign of his own. Lifting her camera, she caught his expression as he wound up and released one of his famed fastballs.

  “Ah,” Sam said at the next pitch. “He pulled the string.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An off-speed pitch, which after that first high heat, was genius. Keeps the batter off balance.”

  By the end of the fifth inning, Holly was in awe. “Oh my God—he’s got a no-hitter going—”

  “Shh!” Sam cut her off by motioning the sliding of a finger across her throat. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t even think about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s bad luck. You’ll jinx him—I’m serious,” she said when Holly laughed. “Haven’t you noticed? Even the announcer hasn’t mentioned it. They’re all superstitious, every last one of them.”

  “No.”

  “See Mason out there, the toughest first baseman in the league? He’s wearing the same pair of underwear he wears to every game.”

  “Come on.”

  “And Henry? He drinks a soda after the bottom of the sixth inning, watch him. And Gage has to wear his lucky cap and touch it a certain way after each pitch. Hell, even Wade’s superstitious. He’s been rumored to sleep with his bat, though it’s never been proven. No one messes around with this stuff, trust me. They’ve all got something.”

  And just like that, Holly knew she had the idea for next week’s blog. “What’s Pace’s?”

  “He keeps things pretty close to the vest. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  “I’ll do that.” She took some more pictures and listened to Sam’s ongoing commentary. It was all positive, of course. It was Sam’s job to spin things that way, especially given what Holly did for a living, but she knew the publicist’s affection for each and every player was real.