It wasn’t too late.

Question was, did she want Pace to be a string . . .

Chapter 8

A baseball game is simply a nervous breakdown divided into nine innings.

—Earl Wilson

The Heat took the Phillies two out of three and then flew straight to Atlanta. As usual, the players gathered in the guest clubhouse five to seven hours before the game, where they ate, hung out, played video games, and practiced.

The sounds of Advil being shaken into hands and athletic tape being ripped into strips filled the air, as did the scent of muscle cream, along with the commotion from the support crowd, which included a horde of press and the GM’s family, who’d flown in for his birthday.

Pace sat in front of his locker absently rubbing his shoulder as he watched Holly work the group with ease, taking pictures with her ever-present Canon. She did that, made things look easy. Charming the guys, charming the staff, having fun. Making herself at home in his world . . .

There was no reason to care, except he did.

He cared that he not allow her to make herself at home in his head, because for some reason he didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, he knew that she could.

She’d put out another article—still not about him. Apparently she’d given up, which relieved him. This entry had been a thought-provoking piece about the youngest fans of baseball, the kids, and how they worshipped the players, emulating their behaviors and actions. Those behaviors and actions were mostly honorable, she’d written, but since the athletes were only human, they were susceptible to the same downfalls as everyone else, and when they screwed up, kids also screwed up. She’d concluded with the pressures on the athletes today as if she really got it, with a nice little section detailing the Heat’s volunteer work with 4 The Kids, and how they were doing their part to try to remain positive role models.

The entire blog had gotten picked up by several ESPN sports shows, and also highlighted in the Santa Barbara local press, and—

Henry’s sweatband hit Pace in the chest. “Wake up, man. You’re pitching in an hour. What planet are you on tonight anyway?”

Planet Holly. Pace simply held up the sweatband, nearly passing out at the smell. “You could clear out the entire stadium with this thing. Open a new pack.”

“Can’t. It’s my good-luck charm. You might be having a hot season, but some of us are cold.”

Pace grabbed a water bottle. It wasn’t his, and he didn’t care because as he drank, he heard Holly laugh, and he turned back to his locker, telling himself he had other stuff to be thinking about than how contagious her laugh was. Tonight’s game, for one.

Or how she looked all careful and pretty in her daisy yellow sundress and white cropped jacket . . .

Next to him, Red stood talking to another of their pitching coaches. “In that game against the Rockies,” he was saying, “he struck out twelve and walked one. Come on, who does that consistently?”

He did. He did that consistently.

Gage was on his other side talking animatedly with the third-base coach. “Last time we were here, he was hit on the upper right leg by a line drive for a single in the first inning. I don’t want that happening again.”

More of him. Jesus, he was really tired of himself.

“It’s the only reason we lost,” Gage said. “He was hurting too bad to throw.”

Not true. Well, he had been hurting, but that’s not why they lost. He’d been pitching like shit before the hit. It happened.

Hopefully it wouldn’t happen tonight.

“Hey, that’s mine.” Wade snagged the water from Pace’s hand and tipped it up to his mouth, but it was empty. With a shake of his head, he tossed it aside as the crowd in the visitors’ clubhouse began to thin out. Joe and Henry were nearby, getting ready to go back out for the pregame field practice. Across from them were Mike and Kyle, now flirting with Holly, who looked good enough to gobble up whole. Pace opened his mouth to remind them to get their asses out for warm-up, but he gritted his teeth instead. None of your business, he reminded himself, and bent to tie his shoes-

And split the zipper on his grey away-game uniform pants. His third this season. “Shit.”

Wade turned, took in Pace’s opened fly, and shook his head. “You know, I’ve never seen a guy with less body fat go through more zippers. Maybe you ought to ask for Magnum-sized pants.”

“It’s not the pants.”

“You wish.”

Pace considered Wade’s smug smile. “Have you ever burst your zipper?”

The guys around them cracked up, and Wade rounded on them until they shut up.

“Holly can fix it,” Ty said. “Hey, Holly. Emergency here.”

“What are you doing?” Pace asked him incredulously.

“She used to be a seamstress. Hol, look. Our poor pitcher’s sail is broken at half-mast. Think you can help?”

Holly slid Pace a look, her gaze curiously dropping down the front of him to figure out what Ty was talking about. He knew the exact moment she caught on because her brows shot straight up so far they vanished into her hair.

“That looks . . . problematic,” she ventured.

Ty laughed. “Nationally televised game in one hour? You think?”

“I have an extra pair.” Pace pulled open the locker. “Probably—”

“I can fix it.” Holly pulled her purse off her shoulder and began digging through its mysterious depths with one hand while gesturing to Pace for the pants with her other.