by Jill Shalvis
sweats, in jeans, or even the suits they wore for traveling. Hell, she was even used to seeing half of them nude, given how much she was in the clubhouse during the season, but she’d never get used to the sight of them, big and bad and gorgeous, in tuxes.
Their dates looked beautiful and excited about the evening ahead. Sam wished she could say the same, but as she was dateless, she could summon little excitement. She handed over her ticket to the hotel greeter at the doors, waiting while the woman consulted her clipboard as instructed by Sam herself and frowned. “Says here you’re a party of two,” the woman said. “Where’s your date?”
Ah. Well, wasn’t that perfect? She was going to have to say it aloud. Her heart pinged once, hard, and she opened her mouth to say she was flying solo tonight, and that the way she was feeling, she’d be flying solo until the cows came home, when a warm hand settled on the small of her back. She didn’t have to look to see whose hand, or whose hard chest, was brushing her spine, because both brought a heat that pooled low in her belly.
“Her date’s right here,” Wade said.
The woman took in the sight of Wade in a tux and her mouth fell open.
Sam couldn’t blame her. She was nearly drooling herself. And shaking a little bit. “W-Wade.” Her tongue tripped all over itself because she honestly hadn’t figured on him doing this. She was embarrassed that he thought he had to, and also suddenly incredibly nervous that she was going to do something stupid, like throw herself at him. “I didn’t expect—”
“Excuse us a minute,” Wade said to the woman, and took Sam’s hand, pulling her away from the doors, off to the side.
She looked up into his face, which was tight with strain, and she immediately clutched his arms. “What is it? Your dad? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. They still won’t let me talk to him, but they swear he’s great. And I got a text from him today.”
Her eyes searched his, waiting.
“He wanted me to know that sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree.” He let out a small smile. “That I rolled all the way down the hill and then showed him the way.”
She felt her throat tighten, and she slowly smiled. “That’s sweet.”
“I texted him back, told him to get the thirty days under his belt, then come back to my house to finish his rehab.”
It took her a moment to be able to speak. “You’re a good man, Wade O’Riley. A really good man.” Her heart was having a rough time. It’d skipped a few beats and couldn’t seem to get back on track. And she was still trembling, shaking from the strain to keep it light, to keep smiling.
“Sam.” His voice was low, husky. “Look at me.”
God. Okay. She slowly met his gaze. She’d promised him no awkwardness, but she was dying at the sight of him, tall and gorgeous and far too close. She gestured to the photographers who were taking so many pictures of them the flashes were making her dizzy. “They’re having a field day with this, the whole are-we-or-aren’t-we thing. Making for good press, I guess.”
“I don’t care about the press.” He pulled her closer. “What I care about is what you said to me on my front steps, about how you feel.”
“Yeah.” She cringed at the memory. “Listen, I’m really bad at telling people how I feel. Please don’t make me explain it again.”
“We’re both really bad at telling people how we feel,” he said softly. “In fact, I never told you at all. That makes me worse at it than you.”
Again she tried to pull free. “I really need to get in there—”
“I know. This first. You’ve been there for me, Sam, and tonight I’m here for you.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She smiled and nodded, but though she could pretend with the best of them, she thought this one last night might do her in. She walked into the ballroom, and though her throat and eyes were burning, she did her best to handle it. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Though she was tempted to guzzle it, she sipped slowly as she took in the ballroom. It was full and getting fuller, the dance floor beginning to fill up as well.
“Sam.”
God. What now?
Wade took the glass from her fingers and set it on a table, then held out a hand.
Her first thought was no. No slow dancing. No possible way could she handle the forced intimacy. But that thought was fleeting because she understood something that she’d possibly always known—she couldn’t tell him no. And in any case, he didn’t give her a choice. He pulled her into his arms and then she was up against that body that knew hers inside and out. In spite of herself, she melted into him. He was warm and smelled like heaven, and she set her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest.
He murmured something soft and wordless in her ear and stroked a hand up her back. Beneath his jacket she could feel the steady beat of his heart, in sharp contrast to hers, which was racing. Worse, she was still shaking like crazy; she couldn’t seem to stop.
“It’s okay, Sam,” he said very softly in her ear, running that big, warm, callused hand up and down her back with terrifying gentleness. “It’s going to be okay.”
How? How was it ever going to be okay? An involuntary shiver wracked her, one he chased away with his hand. “Sam,” he murmured, regret heavy in his husky voice.
“Please.” She tensed against him. “I don’t want to do this. I lied. I can’t do this. I can’t fake this with you, not even for the team.”
Wade tipped up her chin and looked directly into her eyes. “I know. I can’t either. When I’m with you, I can’t fake anything, I’ve never faked anything. That’s what tripped me up at first, I think.”
She just stared up at him, not sure if he was speaking the same language as she was. “Tripped you up?”
“You didn’t like me for the usual reasons,” he said. “The fame, the fortune, the fun. In fact, I’m not even sure why you liked me at all. All I know is that when I’m with you, I feel more like myself than when I’m not.”
“Wade O’Riley!” A woman reporter shoved a microphone in their faces. “Nice tux. Dolce&Gabbana?”
“Uh . . .” He looked down at himself as if he couldn’t remember. “Armani. If you could give us a minute—”
“And your date. Samantha McNead, right?” the reporter asked smoothly. “Gorgeous dress. Can I get a shot of you two kissing?”
Sam felt herself tense. The last time someone had asked this of them had been at Mark’s wedding—the first day of their “relationship.”
Wade pulled her into his warmth and pressed his mouth to her ear, his voice soft. “The real thing this time, Sam. No pretending. Because when I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend at all, and neither do you. It’s just us. And there is an us.”
“It’s not just us now,” she said. “I have Tag—”
“I know. I love that kid. And I have my dad in my life, too. No, it’s not just us, but that makes it even better.”
She stared up at him, some of the tension leaving her body. He was right, he’d always been right. And she needed to see this through, fear or not. She loved him too much not to. The rest of her tension left when he dipped his head and kissed her, a kiss that went on for so long the reporter gave up on them. Finally Wade pulled back a fraction to whisper, “Truth or dare.”
“Wade—”
“Truth or dare.”
“Dare,” she said, not ready for a truth.
“Kiss me again.”
She did, with all the pent-up adrenaline and fear and love she felt for him. He touched her face, gentling her, and when she pulled back, she knew she had tears in her eyes.
“Now ask me,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers.
“Wade—”
“Ask me.”
“Truth or dare?” Her voice was low and thick, she could barely speak.
“Truth.”
She stared into his eyes. “Do you love me?”
“Yes, I love you. More than you can possibly imagine.”
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Double Play
by Jill Shalvis
Available now from Berkley Sensation!
Chapter 1
A guy’s definition of baseball: you don’t have to buy the other team dinner to get game.
If Pace Martin had the choice between sex and a nap, he’d actually take the nap, and wasn’t that just pathetic enough to depress him. But his shoulder hurt like a mother and so did his damn pride.
Go home and rest, Pace.
That had been his physical therapist’s advice, but Pace could rest when he was old and far closer to dead than thirty-one. In the locker room, he bent down to untie his cleats and nearly whimpered like a baby.
This after only thirty minutes of pitching in the bullpen. Thirty minutes doing what he’d been born to do, playing the game that had been his entire life for so long he couldn’t remember anything before it, and the simple art of stripping out of his sweats had him sweating buckets. When he peeled off his T-shirt, spots swam in his eyes. An ace pitcher in the only four-man starting rotation in the majors, and he could hardly move.
Pushing away from the locker, he made it through the Santa Barbara Pacific Heat’s luxurious clubhouse—thank you, Santa Barbara taxpayers—and into the shower room, grabbing a can of Dr Pepper on his way. Lifting his good hand, he probed at his shoulder and hissed out a breath.
Sit out tomorrow’s game.
That had been his private doctor’s orders. Pace had managed to escape the team doc all in the name of not being put on the disabled list. Being DL’d would give him a required minimum fifteen-day stay out of action.
No, thank you.
Not when they were nearing the halfway mark of their third season, and as a newbie expansion team, they had everything to prove. Three seasons in and anything could happen, even the World Series, especially the World Series, and management was all over that.
Hell, the players were all over that.
They wanted it so bad they could taste it. But to even get to any postseason play, Pace had to pull a miracle, because as everyone from ESPN to Sports Illustrated loved to obsess over, he was the Heat’s ticket there. Sure the team had ten other pitchers in various degrees of readiness, but none were putting out stats comparable to his. Which meant that everyone was counting on him. He was it, baby, the fruition of their hopes and dreams.
No pressure or anything.
Reminding himself that he hated whiners, he stepped into the shower. Under the hot spray, he rolled his shoulder, then nearly passed out at the white-hot stab of pain. Holy shit, could he use a distraction.
Wild monkey sex.
That had been Wade’s suggestion. Not surprising, really, given the source. And maybe the Heat’s top catcher and Pace’s best friend was on to something. Too bad Pace didn’t want sex, wild monkey or otherwise.
And wasn’t that just the bitch of it. All he wanted was the game that had been his entire life. He wanted his shot at the World Series before being forced by bad genetics and a strained rotator cuff to quit the only thing that had ever mattered to him.
He didn’t have to call his father to find out what the old man would suggest. The marine drill instructor, the one who routinely terrified soldiers, whose motto was “Have clear objectives at all times,” would tell his only son to get the hell over himself and get the hell back in the game before he kicked the hell out of Pace’s sorry ass himself for even thinking about slacking off.
And wouldn’t that just help.
Tired of the pity party for one, Pace ducked his head and let the hot water pound his abused body until he felt slightly better, because apparently he’d gotten something from his father after all. He had fourteen wins already this season, dammit. He’d thrown twenty-four straight scoreless innings. He was having his best season to date; he was on top of his game. Lifting his head and shaking off the water, he opened his eyes and found Red standing there.
The Heat’s pitching coach was tall, reed thin, and sported a shock of hair that was the color of his nickname, though it was also streaked with gray that came from four decades in the business. He had a craggly face from years of sun, stress, and the emphysema he suffered from because he refused to give up either his beloved cigarettes or standing beside the bullpen surrounded by the constant dirt and thick dust.
Red’s doctors had been after him to retire, but like Pace, the guy lived and breathed baseball. He also lived and breathed Pace, going back to their days together at San Diego State. Wherever Pace had gone, Red had followed. Red always followed. Truth was, he’d been far more than a coach to Pace.
All the guy wanted was to see Pace get a piece of the World Series. That was it, the culmination of a life’s dream, so Pace’s arm would have to be literally falling off before he’d admit that he couldn’t play.
“What are you doing here?” Red asked, taking Pace’s Dr Pepper from the tile wall, tossing it to the trash before replacing it with a vitamin infused water, the same brand the whole team drank so much of that they’d been given their own label. “Usually you guys are all over a day off.”
“I was drinking that.”
“Soda makes you sluggish.”
No, his bum shoulder made him sluggish.
“Why are you here?” Red pressed.
They didn’t get many days off. Pace pitched every fourth game, and in between he had a strict practice and workout schedule. “Maybe I just like the shower here better than my own.”
“The hell you do. You throw?”
“A little.”
Red’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And I’m great.”
“Don’t bullshit me, son. You were favoring the shoulder yesterday in the pen.”
“You need glasses. My ERA’s 2.90 right now. Top of the league.”
“Uh-uh, 3.00.” Red peered into the shower, all geriatric stealth, trying to get a good look at his shoulder, but Pace had cranked the water up to torch-his-ass hot so that the steam made it difficult to see clearly.
“It’s fine.” Pace didn’t have to fake the irritation. “I’m fine, everything’s fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Red pulled out his phone, no doubt to call in the troops—management—to have the multimillion-dollar arm accessed.
It was one of the few cons to hitting the big time: from April to October, Pace’s time wasn’t his own, and neither was his body. Reaching out, water flying, he shut Red’s phone. “Relax.”
“Relax?” Red shook his head in disbelief. “There’s no relaxing in baseball!”
Okay, so he had a point. The Heat had been gaining momentum with shocking speed, gathering huge public interest. With that interest came pressure. They were hot, baby, hot, but if they didn’t perform, there would be trades and changes. That was the nature of the game, and not just for players.
Red was getting up there and not exactly in the best health. Pace didn’t know what would happen if management decided to send the old guy back down to the minors instead of letting him walk out with his dignity intact and retire on his own terms. Well, actually, Pace did know. It would kill Red. “Just taking a shower, Red. No hidden agenda.”
“Good then.” Red coughed, wobbling on his feet at the violence of it, glaring at Pace when he made a move to help. When Red managed to stop hacking up a lung, he laid Pace’s towel over the tile wall. “You’ve had enough hot water. You’re shriveling.”