“I really did ask Samantha to cancel.” Well, actually, technically, he’d asked his manager to get Sam to cancel. But now that he thought about it, Gage had been surrounded by women at the time, at a high-powered fashion show event they’d all attended for the Heat’s 4 The Kids charity, and Gage’s eyes had been sort of glazed over when Pace had made the request. It was entirely possible Gage hadn’t heard a word Pace had said.

“No worries,” Holly said. “This has worked out for me so far. After all, I got to learn all about your women problems, getting stalked, surrounded—”

“Funny,” he said, and found her smiling at him.

And damn if there wasn’t something contagious about it, about her. She was actually quite sharp, and pretty. But he didn’t want to be amused, or attracted.

He wanted to be alone.

Given how much of his life was spent in the spotlight, he really liked being by himself. At this level of his life, there were two types of ball players: those in it for the money, and those in it for the love of the game. He was in the latter, definitely. He loved the game, period, and would play it with or without the money, preferably also without the reporters, pretty or otherwise.

He just wanted to play. He loved everything about baseball—the feel of the ball in his hand, the whizzing of the air as the ball left his fingers at ninety-plus miles an hour, the smell of the field right after it was cut, the sensation of standing on the mound, watching the batter walk up to the plate, having Wade send him a cocky smile and a sign for the next pitch . . .

Everything.

It was his passion, it was his heart, it was his entire life. So he understood why people wanted to watch.

What he didn’t understand was people wanting to watch him outside the game, as if he were a movie star. It made no sense, and plus, it bugged the hell out of him. “What if I promised you that aside from the game, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about me?”

She arched a brow. “That’s not what Playboy said.”

“You read Playboy?”

“Did you see last month’s cover story, the one where they asked their readers which professional athletes would make the best lovers?”

Ah, Christ. He knew what was coming. “No.”

“You were in the top five, big guy.”

When he shook his head, she laughed. And when he didn’t join her, she sighed. “Trying to lighten the mood here, Pace. Specifically your mood. How come no one ever thinks I’m funny?”

“Because you’re not?”

“I’ll have you know, I was voted class clown.”

Now he laughed. “Sorry, but no. No possible way.”