“Just say when,” Wade told her. “I’ll be there.”
Holly sent a smug smile in Pace’s direction that said, See how easy that was?
“He’s a publicity slut,” Pace said in his own defense. “And an attention slut, too.”
“Hey,” Wade said. “True. But hey.”
“I want to hear more about Pace and the women surrounding his car,” Holly said to the phone. “Sounds like a good story.”
“No.” Pace didn’t need a recap of how he’d been spotted at the grocery store and besieged. Wade had come to his rescue, happily answering questions and signing autographs, ending up with a date every night for two weeks running as a reward.
They’d been best friends for years, and Pace still had no idea how Wade handled all the attention the way he did, letting everything bead off his back.
But Pace didn’t need saving now. He could handle one damn woman. The wind had whipped her hair, making a mess of it. She was trying to smooth it back into place, but failing miserably. Inexplicably, she looked softer with it all wild, and more approachable. Even pretty.
Clearly, the pain in his shoulder was going to his head.
“So about that drink,” Wade said. “Bring Holly. There’s a nice crowd, not too many bunnies.”
“Bunnies?” Holly asked, giving up on corralling her hair to look at Pace.
“A group of fans.”
“Female fans,” Wade amended. “They follow our season. They appreciate our talent and enjoy our . . . great attitudes. One’s named Sweet Pea.”
Pace felt Holly studying him, taking mental notes. “I see the talent,” she said. “But only a bad attitude.”
Wade laughed.
“Nice,” Pace said, nodding at her. “Thanks.”
“Hey, I say that about you all the time,” Wade told him. “Great talent, bad ’tude.”
Pace rolled his eyes. Some wingman. “Say good-bye, Wade.”
“Come on. Drive over here. Prove you haven’t forgotten how to have fun.”
But he very possibly had. “I have stuff.”
“Stuff? What could be more important than wooing that pretty lady in your car?”
“There is no wooing going on.”
“See now, that’s why you never get laid anymore—”
“Reporter,” Pace said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “In my car.”
“Which is why you should—”
Pace reached out and shut his phone.
“That wasn’t very nice of you,” Holly said.
“He’ll get over it.”
“So . . . you get stalked by women a lot?”
He opened his window again, which didn’t stop her from talking.
“I’m just making conversation, Pace. Being friendly. You should try it sometime.”
They were on a stretch of highway where he had nowhere to turn around, and nowhere to dump her out. Which meant he was stuck with her. “I’m not feeling all that friendly.”
“Should have taken the Advil.”
The wind was working wonders on her again. Besides her hair—which had rioted completely now—her cheeks were tinged pink. Her jacket was whipping around, too, opening a little, making her look a whole hell of a lot less buttoned-up. Oddly disoriented by that, he glanced at the clock on the dash. “Listen, I really do have to be somewhere.” Several somewheres. It’d been a long while since his time had been his own. “I’ll call you a cab, have it meet up with us to take you back to your car.” He reached for his cell phone. “I’m sure Tia’s gone by now.”
“I can’t believe you’re afraid of her.”
She could be amused by this all she wanted, but Tia was more than just a five foot pain in his neck. Twice she’d gotten into the practice arena and climbed onto the field during home games. She’d attempted to break into the clubhouse as well, and he’d swear under oath that she’d been at his own house, walking the perimeter of his yard trying to find a way inside there, too. “Just do me a favor and stay clear of her. For your sake. Now I really have to—”
“How about this . . .” She pulled the cell phone from his hand and shut it. “I just come along to wherever you’re going.”
Yeah. Hell. That’s what he’d figured she’d say.
“Did you know that baseball players, pitchers especially, are usually blessed—or cursed, depending on how you look at it—with a natural physical prowess and acute mental agility? It manifests into self-confidence and mental toughness. Or, as some would say more clearly, arrogance.”
When he didn’t respond, she slid him an amused look. “It seems to be most prevalent in successful players. It stems from the desire to make things happen.”
“Good to know.”
“Did you also know you have to be one in two million to have the total package of physical and psychological abilities required to succeed in baseball at its highest level of competition?”
No. That was a new one.
“What’s fascinating about that is you’ve climbed this incredibly steep pyramid of players to make it to the top of a highly selective and narrow pool, which means you’re incredible under pressure, and yet you crumble like a little girl at the thought of an interview. Interesting, Pace. Very interesting.”
He stared at her in bafflement. “What do you want from me?”