“Really. I know those suckers are a bitch on pain but the recovery is going to be a hell of a lot easier than a repaired tear would have been, and you can cut the down time in half—maybe three weeks instead of two months.”

Pace felt the rush of emotion clog his throat. “Okay, now the bad.”

“Yeah. That’s not going to be as easy.” The doctor sat back on his little round stool and eyed Pace.

It was the same expression Holly had been wearing, and he braced himself. “I wish people would stop looking at me like that.”

“Yesterday you had the standard operating procedure presurgery lab work done. Per the request of your commissioner, and with your permission, you had your drug testing done at the same time.”

“Yes.”

“You tested positive for stimulants.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I’m afraid it’s fact. And I’ve got to report it.”

“There’s been a mistake. Test me again. I don’t use.”

“Look, you’ll need three weeks off anyway for recovery, which should cover a good part of your discipline, which I believe can be a twenty-five game suspension.”

“No.” No fucking way. “You have to retest.”

The doctor rose. “You’ll be released in a few hours. I’ve prescribed pain meds to take you through the next seven days, after which I’ll need to see you for stitches removal.”

His doctor didn’t believe him. Hell, who would? “I want a retest. I’m within my rights to request one.”

“Pace—”

“And I want my lawyer and agent, too.” And for some reason, Holly. He wanted Holly.

Holly drove a virtually silent Pace home from the hospital. He was dressed in his warm-up sweats, sitting very still in the passenger seat next to her, his long legs stretched out, his right arm held to his chest by a complicated sling and sprint, both covered in a huge ice pack. She knew he was still fuming over the drug-test results and the backlash that was liable to hit him over that. His agent and attorney had come to the hospital and they’d talked, which had included a conference call with Gage, but she had no idea the outcome other than they’d demanded a retest.

Pace hadn’t said one word to her when he’d gotten off the phone with Gage or when his agent and attorney had left. In fact, he’d called a cab, but she’d sent the cab off and had put him into his car, which she was enjoying the hell out of.

He sat in the passenger seat, head back, eyes covered in his mirrored Oakleys, giving nothing away. She even revved the engine to try to get a rise out of him. Nothing. He was silent and pale, and after a few minutes, also a little green, so she slowed down. “The doctor said nausea was normal after anesthesia.”