Chapter 19
Baseball is a game where a curve is an optical illusion, a screwball can be a pitch or a person, stealing is legal and you can spit anywhere you like except in the umpire’s eye or on the ball.
—Jim Murray
Pace slept like crap and woke up before dawn, wishing he could skip the next few hours.
Surgery day.
To give himself a few quiet moments before facing that, he read Holly’s latest blog entry. She’d written about the players’ support teams—the wives, girlfriends, and significant others—and the pressures these people faced alongside their famous mates. She’d written about how those pressures led players to do things to keep up with other players that they normally wouldn’t do.
Things like steroids and stimulants.
She pointed out how some of these drugs came in varieties so new and unstudied they weren’t yet even on the banned list, but they would be added as the commissioner discovered them, in spite of the fact that these substances weren’t mind-altering like other illegal substances. Nor were they as potentially dangerous as a few too many beers before going on the road, which put other people in danger, not just the athlete. She pointed out the irony of such contradictions, and then brought up drugs that weren’t banned, like muscle relaxants and simple ibuprofen, and posed the question, should those things be added to the list as well?
As all her articles had been, it was incredibly well written and thought out, and, he was forced to admit, she’d nailed both the glory and the inherent problems of the sport.
He took a long hot shower, gritted his teeth at the movement required to towel off, then dressed and looked at the clock. Five thirty. He had to be at the hospital in thirty minutes, so he headed out, stopping short at the sight of Holly in his driveway, leaning on her car, arms and feet casually crossed, watching him. On her trunk sat a grocery bag, and she picked it up and held it out.
“What is it?” he asked warily.
“Well, it’s not a hammer to hit you over the head with.” Her lips curved briefly. “Which you look like you’re expecting. The kids packed you a care package. Cookies and Dr Pepper, the apparent breakfast of champions.”
“My favorites,” he murmured, not even trying to hide his surprise.
“Interesting palette, but yeah, they wanted to bring you a comfort snack.” Her smile warmed. “They love you. They’re worried. I promised to take care of you.”
“And in return they gave up all my secrets?”
“Yeah. And I only had to string them up by their fingernails and beat them to get those secrets.”
Okay, so he no longer believed she was going to try to sneak one past him. He was just feeling a little raw, a whole lot scared, and he preferred to be vulnerable in private.
But she had his number. “You can try to piss me off all you want, Pace, I’m not leaving. As for the kids, they were worried about you. They wanted to get you something, so I drove them to the store. I also promised to bring them to visit you after your surgery, so brace yourself for that.”
She’d eased their fears. She’d driven them to the store. She was going to bring them to visit him. “Saint,” he wondered aloud. “Or witch?”
“I use my powers for mostly good these days.”
He looked into her fathomless eyes and saw her worry for him. “I’m going to be okay, Holly.”
“I know. I also know I’m driving you to the hospital.”
“I can—”
“Look, I know you’d rather have Wade or Gage, or just about anyone other than me take you because heaven forbid I see you weak, but we both know they’re all in Baltimore for a two-game series and you’re on your own.”
A two-game series that he should be pitching. A two-game series that the Heat needed to take. He’d never missed games in the majors due to injury, never. It was a bone of contention, a point of pride.
“Get in the car, Pace.”
He eyed her piece of shit and then his own Mustang. Again, pride warred with ego, even more so when she took one look at his face and laughed, making him scowl. “What’s so damn funny?”
“You don’t want to go in my car, but you don’t want me to have to drive yours home from the hospital. You still don’t trust me.”
He winced. “Fine. I’m an asshole. We’ll take my car.”
“Good. I’ll drive now so you can give me tips for later.” She held out her hand for his keys. “Come on,” she coaxed when he didn’t move. “You can do it.”
Yes, apparently he could do a lot of things. Such as crave her, the smart, funny, beautiful, warm woman who’d come to him when he’d needed her most. He couldn’t have imagined that first day he’d met her, when she’d irritated him by wanting that interview, that all these weeks later he’d still be so intrigued and fascinated by her.
Contrary to his first impression of her, she was open and sweet and wildly passionate. In fact, he had nothing on her in the passion department. She was passionate about writing, about kids, about people, passionate about everything that crossed her path. She did nothing half-assed, not one single thing, and as a man who’d been passionate only about baseball all his life, he found the way she went about life incredibly . . .
Appealing.
It made no sense. His entire life was crumbling. He couldn’t hold onto a damn pencil much less pitch a ball at ninety-six miles per hour. He was going to let everyone down from the Heat’s owners to the fans . . .
And it was killing him.
Killing.
Him.
And yet just looking at Holly, some of the pain and confusion and anger seemed to fade away.
Even if she wanted to drive his car. “I was going to call a cab.”
“Listen, I’ve only had one accident,” she said. “And it wasn’t my fault. It was an old car and I ran out of brake fluid on a hill in San Francisco and I rolled into a house. That’s all.”
Jesus. “That’s all, huh?”
“Well, there’re the three speeding tickets, which really, if you think about it, just proves I can handle myself.”
That choked a real laugh out of him. A laugh, when he was on his way to being cut open.
She held out her hand, palm up, looking quite sure of herself and, dammit, hot. “Want to know something else?” she asked.
What the hell. “Sure.”
“I’m wearing a bra, but since you still have the panties that match it, I’m commando.”
His mouth fell open, and she twirled for him to see. He drank her in, but she was wearing cargo pants, low on her hips but too loose so he couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered, the view was mouth-watering regardless. He dropped the keys into her hand, dropped his whole damn life in her hand just to watch her walk around the car.
Holly paced the hospital waiting room, unaccustomed to the pit of anxiety in her gut. One thing about the way she moved in and out of people’s lives for her job—she hadn’t done a lot of worrying about them.
This time was completely different. She worried about the people she’d come to care about, a lot, but she also worried about herself because here was something new to obsess over, something that had never bothered her until now—she was halfway through her series and had no idea what she’d do when she was done. She’d always known by now, but this time she had nothing.
Because this time, she didn’t want to leave.
Pace woke up from his surgery feeling no pain thanks to a pretty nurse shooting some very good stuff into his IV. “Hey, is that MLB sanctioned?” he quipped.
She smiled and patted his arm, and when he woke up again, Holly was sitting by his bed, tapping on the keys of her laptop. She looked up at his movement and offered him one of those fake smiles people gave to people who are dying.
Uh-oh. “They operate on the wrong shoulder?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She got up and put her hand to his cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“No pain.” In fact, the room was spinning pleasantly, cen
tered by her hand on him. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She plumped the pillow behind his back when he tried to sit up, fussing over him.
Stalling.
“Holly.”
She was busy straightening his covers now, like he was a damn invalid.
Which he wasn’t.
In fact, he was feeling the exact opposite of an invalid because every time she leaned over him, her button-up T-shirt gaped open and revealed a white silky demi-bra that had her breasts nearly spilling out over the top.
Which reminded him—she wasn’t wearing panties. He had no idea why that fact so fascinated him. He’d seen her body. It was fantastic, but he sure as hell shouldn’t be drooling to see her again. “It’s the meds.”
Her eyes met his. “What is?”
“The reason I’m getting a boner looking down your top. Nice bra.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you hallucinating?”
“If I say yes, will you take off the bra? It would complete my collection.”
“Okay, that’s it. I’m calling the doctor.”
He snagged her wrist with his good hand, which still had an IV in it. Because yeah, he wanted to see her breasts again, but mostly he wanted to know what had put that look in her eyes. The one that said he was fucked. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I told you, nothing.”
“You’re a shitty liar, Holly. Spill it.”
“I snooped and read your chart.”
He just gave her a long look.
“I wanted to make sure you were really okay. You were sleeping so heavily and I was worried.”
“Concern or a reporter’s cutthroat curiosity?”
“It was concern,” she said tightly. “And your curmud geonly cynicism is really getting old. Pace—”
“Just tell me. I’m dying, right?”
“No. You’re—”
His doctor entered. “Look at you, awake and alert. Perfect.” He looked at Holly. “I need a moment with the patient, please.”
Holly gave Pace an indecipherable look and left the room.
And for a guy who prized his alone time, who craved it like some craved water, he experienced the oddest sense of loneliness he’d ever felt.
And fear. Let’s not forget the fear, because there was plenty of that, too. “So. What’s up, Doc?”
Chapter 20
Strikeouts are boring—besides that, they’re fascist.
Throw some ground balls. More democratic.
—Crash Davis in Bull Durham
Pace’s surgeon didn’t answer right away, waiting until the hospital room door shut behind Holly, until he’d opened Pace’s chart. “How are you feeling?”
“A little uptight, actually, which is ruining my happy drug buzz. What’s going on?”
“Good news and bad news. Are you in pain?”
Pace turned his head and looked at the door that Holly had just left through, thinking that when it came to her he felt plenty of pain. She made him ache like hell. “I’m fine. Tell me the bad.”
“No. Good first. You didn’t have a tear to the rotator cuff. You had an inflamed bursa.”
“A what?”
“Yeah, it’s almost impossible to see on an MRI in the position you were in. You have 160 bursae in your body, located adjacent to the tendons near large joints, such as your shoulder. You had one become inflamed from an injury, in this case probably your strained rotator cuff, and it got infected. I removed the fluid, cleaned it all up a bit. You should be good now. Relatively simple fix, at least compared to a torn rotator cuff.”
Relief made his head swim. “Jesus, really?”
“Really. I know those suckers are a bitch on pain but the recovery is going to be a hell of a lot easier than a repaired tear would have been, and you can cut the down time in half—maybe three weeks instead of two months.”
Pace felt the rush of emotion clog his throat. “Okay, now the bad.”
“Yeah. That’s not going to be as easy.” The doctor sat back on his little round stool and eyed Pace.
It was the same expression Holly had been wearing, and he braced himself. “I wish people would stop looking at me like that.”
“Yesterday you had the standard operating procedure presurgery lab work done. Per the request of your commissioner, and with your permission, you had your drug testing done at the same time.”
“Yes.”
“You tested positive for stimulants.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid it’s fact. And I’ve got to report it.”
“There’s been a mistake. Test me again. I don’t use.”
“Look, you’ll need three weeks off anyway for recovery, which should cover a good part of your discipline, which I believe can be a twenty-five game suspension.”
“No.” No fucking way. “You have to retest.”
The doctor rose. “You’ll be released in a few hours. I’ve prescribed pain meds to take you through the next seven days, after which I’ll need to see you for stitches removal.”
His doctor didn’t believe him. Hell, who would? “I want a retest. I’m within my rights to request one.”
“Pace—”
“And I want my lawyer and agent, too.” And for some reason, Holly. He wanted Holly.
Holly drove a virtually silent Pace home from the hospital. He was dressed in his warm-up sweats, sitting very still in the passenger seat next to her, his long legs stretched out, his right arm held to his chest by a complicated sling and sprint, both covered in a huge ice pack. She knew he was still fuming over the drug-test results and the backlash that was liable to hit him over that. His agent and attorney had come to the hospital and they’d talked, which had included a conference call with Gage, but she had no idea the outcome other than they’d demanded a retest.
Pace hadn’t said one word to her when he’d gotten off the phone with Gage or when his agent and attorney had left. In fact, he’d called a cab, but she’d sent the cab off and had put him into his car, which she was enjoying the hell out of.
He sat in the passenger seat, head back, eyes covered in his mirrored Oakleys, giving nothing away. She even revved the engine to try to get a rise out of him. Nothing. He was silent and pale, and after a few minutes, also a little green, so she slowed down. “The doctor said nausea was normal after anesthesia.”
He didn’t respond.
“He also said you’d feel like crap for a few days, but that you’d be fine in a month.”
“Two weeks.”
“Ah, I forgot. You’re Superman.”
He didn’t respond, but it didn’t take a psychic to sense the irritation level, which was rising, possibly due to the fact that his phone kept beeping from some mysterious depth in one of his pockets. “You want me to play secretary for you?”
“No.”
He wasn’t just hurting, he was angry. Vibrating with it. “Are you mad at the doctor, or the lab, or—”
“Pretty much everyone, thank you,” he said with silky ire.
“Including your driver, I’m guessing.”
“You snooped and read my chart.”
“Out of concern.”
“The test results are wrong,” he said flatly. “So I’d better not be reading about this in your next article.”
“Ah, so we’re back to the mistrust.” She sighed. “I’m going to cut you some slack since you’re hurting.”
“I’m not hurting. High as a kite, but not hurting.”
Okay, then. Good to know where she stood with him.
Or didn’t.
His phone rang again and he swore roughly, making her realize it was in his right pants pocket. With his arm freshly cut open and sewn shut and completely protected, he had no way of getting to it. She pulled over to the side of the highway and put her hand on his thigh.
“Fine,” he said, unhooking his seat belt and taking off his sunglasses. “Angry sex works for me. But you’re going to have to do all the wo
rk.”
“Shut up, Pace.” She frisked him for the phone, indeed finding it in his right pants pocket.
“A little to the left.”
A little to the left and she’d be wrapping her fingers around something else entirely. She slid him a look.
“Hey, I’m drugged up nice and good,” he said. “Go ahead, take advantage of me. I’ll suffer through it.” His voice was low and hoarse, not with passion but pain. The ass. She wanted to hug him.
Or smack him. “I prefer my men willing and able.”
“Move your hand over a little and you’ll see I’m both.”
She pulled out the phone, and then because she couldn’t help herself, glanced to the left of his zipper. He was hard. Her eyes met his glazed but amused ones. “Seriously?”
“Apparently you have the touch.”
His phone rang again and she eyed the ID. “It’s Wade.”
“Tell him I can’t talk right now, I’m in your hands.” He laughed at his own joke.
Rolling her eyes, she opened the phone and assured Pace’s best friend that he was okay. Or as okay as he could be under the circumstances of having just tested positive for stimulants. Then she handed the phone to Pace, and listened to him proceed to tell Wade that he hadn’t had a rotator cuff tear after all, that he’d be good to go in a few weeks. He shut the phone and acknowledged her soft gasp of surprise. “Guess you didn’t read far enough.”
“Oh, Pace,” she breathed. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy and relieved for you.”
He looked at her, clearly saw the emotion in her eyes, and closed his. “Thanks.”
When she got them back on the road and pulled up to Pace’s house, there were flowers on his doorstep. “From Tia,” she said, reading the card. “Yours, forever.”
“Good to know some things don’t change. I’m good,” he added when she followed him in.
Meaning don’t follow him in.
She didn’t listen. His house was huge and sparsely but decently furnished with big, soft, comfy-looking furniture, a plasma TV the size of an entire wall, a bunch of sports equipment everywhere, and the sense that this place was a real home, not just an MTV Cribs showcase. “Let me help you into bed, make sure you have food—”
Double Play Page 19