Surf's Up

by MaryJanice Davidson

  Go home and rest, Pace. That had been his physical therapist’s advice.

  He’d rest when he was old and closer to dead, he thought as he practically crawled through the clubhouse to his locker. With slow precision, he bent down to untie his cleats, feeling as if he’d been hit with a Mack truck.

  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 he felt far closer to old than he wanted to admit. Stripping out of his sweats had him sweating buckets. When he peeled off his T-shirt, spots swam in his eyes. Yeah, look at him; three years as the ace pitcher in the only four-man starting rotation in the majors, now he wanted to whimper like a damn baby. He sagged against his locker and let out a careful breath.

  At least no one was here to witness his humiliation—no paparazzi, no press of any kind, none of his Santa Barbara Heat teammates; otherwise, he might have to start a fight just to distract everyone from the fact that he could barely stand.

  And that he’d just thrown like complete shit.

  Except picking a fight would probably do him in for good, and then he’d need a distraction from that . . . Ah, hell. He eyed the distance to the showers and gritted his teeth. Pushing away from the locker, he made it through the luxurious clubhouse—thank you, Santa Barbara taxpayers—and into the shower room where he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the floor-length mirrors. Stopping to stare had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with a growing sense of doom. His shoulder was visibly swollen. Not good. Lifting his good hand, he probed at it and hissed out a breath.

  Sit out tomorrow’s game had been his private doctor’s orders. The team doc hadn’t gotten a look at him yet, nor had Gage, the Heat’s team manager. Hell, he’d even managed to escape Red, his pitching coach, all in the name of not being put on the disabled list. Being DL would give him a required minimum fifteen-day stay out of action.

  Yeah. No, thank you. The Heat was nearing the halfway mark of their third season, and as a newbie expansion team notably filled with young players—eighteen out of twenty-five of them had been born in the ’80s—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. Everyone wanted it so bad they could taste it. But to even get to any postseason play at all, Pace had to pull a miracle, because as everyone loved to obsess over, he was the Heat’s ticket there. Sure, the team had twenty other pitchers in various degrees of readiness, but none were anywhere close to giving what he gave. Which meant that just about everyone he knew, from the owners down to the very last fan, was counting on him. He was it, baby, the fruition of their dreams.

  No pressure or anything.

  Reminding himself that he could sit and whine when he was far closer to death than just thirty, he stepped into the shower, rolled his shoulder, and then nearly passed out at the white-hot stab of pain. Holy shit. He was going to need a distraction.

  Wild monkey sex. That had been Wade’s suggestion. Not surprising, really, given the source. And maybe the Heat’s catcher and Pace’s best friend was onto 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 loose 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 and 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 help.

  Jesus, now he was pouting. Pace ducked his head beneath the shower and let the hot water pound his abused body until he felt 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 shutout innings. He was having his best season to date; he was on top of his game. The very top—

  “Pace? You good?”

  Pace shifted so that his shoulder was out of view and under the stream of water as he lifted his head and looked at Gage Pasquel. At thirty-four years old, their “Skipper,” as they called him, was the youngest 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, coming in on a rare day off.

  Just last night they’d all celebrated Skip’s birthday at the Playboy mansion, and when Pace had left him at two in the morning, the birthday boy had been fairly impaired, singing charmingly off-key to several exotic bunnies in the grotto.

  “I didn’t expect to see you up and moving today,” Pace told him with a smile he hoped didn’t looked like a pain-filled grimace.

  “Same goes.” Gage had the coloring of his Latin father and the contagious smile of his supermodel mother, the one that got him as many women as any of the guys on the team. But that easygoing, laid-back air hid the temperament of a pit bull. Pace had seen him cut down an ump with a single look, take out an opposing team manager with nothing more than an arched brow, and cower a newbie with a single jab of a finger. And yet when it came to his players, he was more like a momma bear. “Need anything?”

  Yeah, a new shoulder would be great. Pace would just put it on his Christmas list. “I’m good.” And then prayed that was true.

  Gage, not one to pry unless absolutely necessary, nodded and left him alone. Pace took a breath in relief as he washed his hair—not easy with the bad shoulder. When he shook the water out of his eyes, Red stood right on the other side of the tile wall.

  “Jesus,” Pace muttered. “It’s Grand-fucking-Central Station.”

  The Heat’s pitching coach was tall, reed thin, and sported a shock of hair that was both the color of his nickname and streaked with gray that came hard-earned after four decades in the business. He had an old face for his nearly sixty years, thanks to the sun, the stress, and the emphysema he suffered through 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 for a long time, 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. When Pace had landed here with the Heat, Red had followed. Red always followed, which worked for Pace. Red was far more than a coach to Pace, always had been.

  All Red wanted was to see the Heat get to the World Series. That’s it, and it would kill him to retire before that happened. Knowing it, Pace also knew his arm would have to be falling off before he’d admit any pain to Red and add to his roster of things to worry about.

  “What are you doing here?” Red asked in his been-smoking-and-coughing-for-half-a-century voice. “It’s a day off. Usually you guys are all over that.”

  Because they didn’t have many. Pace pitched every fourth game, and in between he had a strict practice and work-out 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.”

  “Your shoulder—”

  “What about it?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, son. You were favoring it yesterday in the pen.”

  “You need glasses. I’m pitching 2.90, one of the top five in the league right now.”

  “3.00.” Red peered into the shower, all geriatric stealth, trying to get a goo
d look, but Pace had cranked the water up to torch-his-ass hot, and 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 Pace’s multimillion dollar arm assessed.

  It was one of the few cons to hitting the big time—from April to October his 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. “Are you shitting me? There’s no relaxing in baseball!”

  Okay, so he had a point. The Heat had done shockingly well their first year, even better their second, gaining momentum as they came out from beneath the radar to gather huge public interest.

  With that interest came pressure.

  In this, their third year, 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 Red down to the AA’s before he retired on his own terms and walked out with his dignity intact. Well, actually, Pace did know. It would kill him.

  And after losing in the playoffs three times in a row prior to coming to the Heat, Pace didn’t want another trade. He wanted wins. He was hungry for it. And so was Red, with every agitated, emphysema-ridden breath he took. “Just taking a shower here,” Pace assured him. “No hidden agenda.” No way was he breaking the guy’s big old soft heart. Not yet. Not until he had to.

  “Good then.” Red coughed, gripped the tile wall, glaring at Pace when he made a move to help. When Red finally managed to stop hacking up a lung, he lay Pace’s towel over the tile wall. “I think you’ve had enough hot water.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Your choice, but you’re shriveling your junk.”

  When Pace looked down at himself, Red snorted. “Get out of that hot water, boy.”

  Boy.

  He hadn’t been a boy in a damn long time, but he supposed to Red he’d always be a kid. Waiting until Red shuffled away, Pace turned the water off and touched his shoulder. Better, he told himself, and carefully stretched. Good enough.

  It had to be.

  Because Red had lot at stake. The Pacific Heat had a lot at stake.

  And knowing it, Pace had everything at stake.

  Holly Hutchins prided herself on her razor-sharp instincts, which hadn’t failed her yet—okay, so maybe they routinely failed her when it came to men, but other than that, she always followed her hunches. Following them today had led her to the Pacific Heat’s clubhouse, where she waited on one Pace Martin, the celebrated, beloved badass ace starting pitcher she’d just watched in the bullpen.

  Not that he knew she’d been observing his closed and clearly very private practice. There’d not been a manager or another player in sight, and certainly no outsiders, including reporters or writers—of which she happened to be both.

  She’d sat on the grassy hill high above the Pacific Heat’s stadium, surrounded on one side by the Pacific Ocean and on the other by the steep, rugged Santa Ynez mountains. There she’d studied Pace from the shadow of an oak tree.

  She hadn’t used her camera. Not yet. That would have been an invasion of privacy, and she might be the epitome of a curious reporter, but she had a tight grip on her own personal compass of right and wrong. Taking pictures when he wasn’t aware of her even being there would have been wrong.

  Which was a shame, because he’d looked fine in his black warm-up sweats and gray Heat T-shirt, his name in flame orange across his broad back. Damn fine. Not a surprise, really, since he was currently gracing the cover of People magazine’s Most Beautiful People issue.

  But what had been a surprise—his pitching had sucked.

  She’d done her research and knew that didn’t happen often, if ever. The baseball phenom was the best of the best. He had three Cy Young awards and two Gold Gloves. He routinely won a minimum of twenty games a season. He had a 3000 ERA last year and was even slightly beneath that this year—an amazing feat. He’d weathered the steroid scandals without a single whisper or hint of being involved.

  But in spite of all that, the Heat needed a fantastic year and everyone knew it. The pressure had to be enormous.

  She understood pressure. She wrote under enormous pressure. She wasn’t a tabloid reporter. Making up tidbits and taking racy pictures didn’t turn her on. No, the truth turned her on, secrets turned her on, and she was damn good at sniffing out both. Some would say too good. One in particular, rocket scientist Alex Possier, had said it, and more.

  So she was a tough cookie. So she was determined to get her story no matter what. And so maybe she was a little pushy. So what. She was who she was, and her ex-boyfriend Alex had known that going in.

  He’d known it better going out. Besides, he’d been the one on the wrong side of the law—not her.

  No regrets.

  Reminding herself of that very fact, she looked down at her watch. Dammit. She was on a tight schedule and her phenom was running late. Lateness was rude, an opinion left over from her Southern upbringing, the one she liked to pretend hadn’t scarred her—ha!—and she eyed the clubhouse door, willing him to hurry up.

  She hated waiting.

  Too bad women were allowed in by invite only—which she had for the upcoming game but not today. If only she had a penis, she could just walk right in and interview him in his element, asking him what the hell had been wrong with him out there today.

  Not that she wanted a penis. They were way too much trouble. In fact, given her last fiasco, she’d given up penises.

  Or was it peni?

  It didn’t matter, single or plural, they were a thing of her past. Not a huge loss, as they’d never really done all that much for her except give out brief orgasms and a whole lot of grief.

  Her cell rang, and she knew exactly who it’d be. “Hey, Boss.”

  “You get him yet, Doll?”

  Tommy White could have been a man to admire. The American Living online editor-in-chief had hired her out of a hundred hopefuls, and she’d never forget that. What she would do is forget how many times he’d asked her to lie, badger an eye witness, or get drunk and sleep with him.

  Fact was, he’d given her a weekly blog on his site that had become extremely popular because she picked subjects of national interest, then profiled that subject in depth for three months at a time with an interesting aside—secrets. She’d discovered everyone had one and that people loved to read about them. Her last ongoing series had been on space travel, and she’d won awards for exposing the dangerous use of inferior, cheaper parts, which had resulted in two tragic accidents.

  Before that she’d blogged about the ghost towns of the great Wild West, including her own photographs of what had been left behind when those towns had failed. That had ended up getting her a segment on 60 Minutes.

  She was on top of her game, or so everyone said, so why she felt an odd sense of restlessness, she had no idea. She’d thought about taking some time off, but having been born practically in the gutter, doing so felt too luxurious. Besides, Tommy was nothing if not persistent. So here she was, jumping right into this baseball thing, profiling America’s favorite pastime and favorite MLB team for the next few months, figuring she’d just have to get over herself.

  She’d thought she’d start easy, focusing her first article toward a personal angle, and she could have picked any of the young, aggressive, charismatic Heat players: Joe Pick ler, the second baseman, who had given up medical school to play AA ball and then spent five years working his way up to the majors. Ty Sparks, the relief pitcher who’d overcome childhood leukemia and was trying to work his way up to the starting rotation. Henry Weston, the left fielder turned shortstop, who’d left the Dodgers, where his twin brother played,
to join the new Heat in spite of it causing a major family rift. Wade O’Riley, the catcher, by all accounts a happy, affable guy who’d come from abject poverty, something Holly knew all too much about.

  A sucker for a challenge, she was starting with Pace, a player three years into his fifty-million-dollar, five-year contract, who’d oddly and very atypically turned down millions more in alcohol and cologne ads, a player the tabloid reporters loved to try to dig up dirt on.

  And Tommy’s favorite player. “Tell me you got him,” he said.

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you mean, he’s not there? He stand you up?”

  “He’s just running a few minutes behind.”

  Pace hadn’t sneaked out on the interview, not with his car still in the parking lot, and as it was a classic candy-apple red Mustang convertible, it was hard to miss. Nope, he was still inside, and she’d get him. She wasn’t worried about that. What she was, however, was curious.

  Why had he pitched for thirty minutes, punishingly hard in spite of the fact that he’d clearly been having an off day, and then suddenly dropped to the bench, shoulders and head down, breathing as if he’d run a marathon? He’d just sat there, carefully not moving a single inch. Only after many minutes had passed had he pushed to his feet and escaped to the clubhouse.

  Was he nursing a heartache?

  A hangover?

  What?

  “He’s going to stand you up, Doll,” Tommy said sourly.

  She’d told him a million times not to call her doll. She’d given up. “He’ll come.”

  And if he’d managed to elude her somehow, she’d figure it out. She was a pro and enjoyed the taste and thrill of the chase, including the adrenaline that rushed through her when the clubhouse door finally opened.

  Finally. She hung up on Tommy and hurriedly flashed her friendly, secret-inducing smile just as a tall, dark, and jaw-droppingly gorgeous guy strode out.