There are three things in my life which I really love:
God, family, and baseball. The only problem—once
baseball season starts, I change the order around a
bit.

—Al Gallagher, 1971

That night Pace skipped his usual five-mile run to give his body a rest. He also skipped the Dr Pepper he wanted more than his next breath and drank water as he packed for the three-game run in Philly.

Since prepping for travel was as familiar as breathing, his mind wandered as he threw clothes into his bag. Holly was going to be fine. He’d made sure of it before driving her back to her car. He hoped—in spite of her having the most compelling eyes he’d ever had the discomfort of being leveled by, and in spite of that very intriguing hot kiss they’d shared—to never see her again.

But he was fairly certain he wouldn’t get that lucky. She wanted his secrets, and given that her picture was probably in the dictionary next to tenacious, not to mention stubborn and ornery, she wouldn’t be discouraged by a ball to the forehead.

She was going to be a pain in his ass, and he knew it. But she was also sharply funny and sharply smart, and damn if when she’d pitted her wits against his, he didn’t forget to feel sorry for himself—something he appeared to have down to a science tonight, thanks to the news from his doctor.

When his cell phone rang, he considered ignoring it, but the display revealed it was Gage, and it was never smart to ignore the manager. Not if he wanted to play, and he was scheduled for tomorrow. “Hey, Skip.”

“I hear you clocked a reporter in the head.”

Pace dropped to his bed and stretched out, staring at the ceiling, picturing Holly and her pretty hair and amazing eyes, and how she’d felt in his arms when he’d scooped her off the grass after taking River’s pitch.

And then there’d been that kiss . . . “Not exactly. Is she suing or something?”

“Or something.” Gage was a hands-on TM. He loved the game, he loved the guys, and because of it there was little of the usual management-versus-the-players attitude on the Heat. At thirty-four years old, their “Skipper” as they called him was the youngest MLB team manager in the country and possibly the hardest working, a fact that everyone on the Heat wholeheartedly appreciated. Gage was loyal to a fault, calm at all times, and utterly infallible when it came to supporting the Heat in every possible way, including, apparently, helping one of his players get out of a mess created by his own stupidity. “What the hell happened, man?”

“It was an accident,” Pace told him. “I took her to the doctor and she checked out. Is she not okay?”