Shoving the pad in her purse, she hurried after him, through the wide hallways of the multimillion-dollar facility that housed and bred the Heat. The walls on either side of her were adorned with pictures and awards. The imaginative, aggressive team was a multimillion-dollar marketing and merchandising gift from heaven. Posters, collector’s cards, T-shirts, memorabilia . . . and the county of Santa Barbara enjoyed it all, soaking up the love and raining it back down on the players in spades. Especially Pace.
It fascinated her. And also worried her. She’d been perfectly comfortable when writing about space travel and faulty parts, about what happened to abandoned old West towns, but honestly she wasn’t all that comfortable with beloved athletes, especially potentially knocking them off their public pedestals. Maybe she wouldn’t find a secret to expose this time, but the truth was everyone had one. She’d learned that early enough, and she’d learned it the hard way.
Plus, there was the fact that two players had been quietly traded from the Heat before the start of this season and then just as quietly suspended for testing positive for illegal enhancers.
Not that anyone wanted to talk about that.
She caught up with Pace as he headed through the outside doors, where she was blasted by blinding So-Cal sunshine and blistering heat. Ignoring it, she pulled a file out of her purse.
Her Heat file. She also grabbed her media pass and slipped it around her neck to prove she wasn’t a groupie, and when she looked up, she found that Pace had stopped and turned to her, his gaze glued to her opened file and the eight-by-ten publicity photo lying on top.
Which happened to be of him.
“Fine,” he said, dropping his duffel bag and rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw, looking tall, broad, and undeniably weary. “I’ll sign that, too, but only if you promise not to sell it on eBay. I hate seeing myself on eBay.”
She’d gotten the photo from Samantha McNead, the Heat’s team publicist, along with some articles already written on the team. The picture had made her blush when she’d first looked at it, and now was no different. In it, Pace was shirtless. He was leaning back against a brick wall, wearing only a pair of threadbare Levi’s so low on his hips as to be almost indecent. His feet were bare, and he had a thumb hooked in his jeans, causing the denim to sink even lower, gaping away from the most amazing set of perfectly cut abs she’d ever seen.
And that torso. Holy hot tamales, Batman. When she’d first laid eyes on it, she’d actually squirmed as if she’d personally caught him in an intimate act.
Then she’d drooled.
Her reaction had disturbed her. She preferred men who made a living with their brains not brawn.
And yet look where that’s gotten you . . .
Pace glanced at the photo again, then into her face, his own simmering with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but given his dark edginess, it certainly wasn’t a fairy tale. His eyes were opaque, and beneath his inky black lashes and the straight line of his brow, they swirled with her favorite thing—secrets.
Interesting. And a little disturbing. If she’d met a dead end, she could have gone back to Tommy and gotten a different assignment, something that would maybe somehow fulfill the empty spot deep inside her, eradicate the odd sense of restlessness that had been dogging her.
But she had a feeling this was no dead end.
Pace’s hair was longer now than in the picture, his face more tanned, but other than that, he looked the same, no digital doctoring required. He was, she found herself a little surprised to note, every bit as gorgeous in person. “It’s not for your autograph,” she said. “It’s research. I’m a writer.”
“A writer.” Crossing his arms, he leaned against the railing of the walkway and looked at her while she tried not to notice how tightly and leanly muscled he was, or how his arms appeared to be ripped and corded with strength.
“I’m doing a series on the Heat for American Online Living ,” she said. “Your publicist made an appointment with me for an interview and pictures.”
He didn’t respond, but she could almost hear the resounding “no” come from him nevertheless. “I watched you pitch today,” she said, figuring that might warm him up. People, especially men, liked to talk about themselves. Another lesson from good old mom—or more accurately, from the myriad of men she’d gone through.
But Pace didn’t warm up. In fact, it was as if he vanished. One moment he was standing there willing to sign his picture for her, and the next he’d completely closed himself off, eyes cold, mouth grim.
“That was a closed practice,” he finally said, sliding on a pair of mirrored Oakleys that probably cost more than her entire outfit. “You were trespassing.”
“I sat on the grassy hill outside the facility.”
“So you didn’t trespass, fine. You were still out of line.” He reshouldered his large duffel bag but then went still. Very still.
In pain still. And she instinctively took a step toward him. “You okay?”
Grinding his teeth, he held her off with a lifted hand. After letting out a careful breath, he turned and resumed walking.
There were other cars in the lot, including two cop cars. The police station was just up the street, and she’d learned that sometimes on breaks, the officers came to watch practices. Apparently that was okay. “Is it your arm?”
He kept walking.
“Your shoulder?”
More of his silence.