When the elevator opened on Pace’s floor, she went straight to his room and knocked. But either she was wrong and he’d gone off for his own fun for the night, or she was right and he was ignoring her, because he didn’t answer.

And she slept alone, granting Gage his wish.

The Heat flew home, and Holly’s next article came out. This time she’d written about the pitfalls of the sport, the number one thing being injuries—the ugly side of an industry that required so much from a person’s body. She’d blamed the owners, trainers, and managers for pushing the players. She’d blamed the players for caving to the pressure and not knowing their own limits well enough to back off when necessary.

Up until now, the articles had been extremely popular with her readers and the industry. But today, the industry wasn’t sending the love; they were sending hate mail.

Tommy was in heaven, loving the increase of traffic to the site, negative or otherwise. “That’s what you’re there for, doll. To air the laundry and stir things up.”

And to raise his ad rates.

“But I still need a secret,” he reminded her. “The readers keep asking for the big one.”

“Maybe there isn’t one this time.”

“There’s always a secret. Now go find it.”

Sure. She’d just go find it.

The next day, she still hadn’t heard any news from Pace, or about Pace, and she wondered what the final outcome on his shoulder injury was. She wondered how he was.

If he was doing okay . . .

Going stir-crazy, she grabbed her camera and headed to the Heat’s facilities. She told herself that she needed some pictures of the team, but if she ran into Pace, so much the better. They had a few things to discuss.

Okay, maybe it was just her. She had a few things to discuss.

And she wanted her underwear back.

His fancy car was in the lot. There were plenty of other cars, too, including a few police units, who were probably watching practice on their lunch break again. That was good; she and Pace wouldn’t be alone. If they weren’t, she had a fighting chance of not losing today’s underwear as well.

Not that having people around had stopped her before . . .

That she was even thinking that way had her rolling her eyes at herself. She was not letting him anywhere near her underwear! She’d just reached for the door of the facility when someone behind her yelled, “Hey!”

Turning, she came face to face with Tia, who wore Pace’s jersey again—or still—and a tight smile. “You,” Tia said stiffly.

“Hello.”

Tia didn’t crack a smile. “I told you he was mine.”

Oh boy. “Are you supposed to be here?”