Tucker and Pace went way back as well. They’d played against each other at their respective rival high schools the one year Pace hadn’t had to move to accommodate his father’s military career. That’d been the same year Tucker had made a string of bad choices including mixing alcohol and street racing, and had ended up with his car in a ditch and several pins in his right leg. Unable to play baseball but equally unable to shake loose his love for the game, Tucker now repped for a vitamin company, the one which exclusively supplied the Heat with their own vitamin enriched water.

Father and son were mirror images of each other. They had matching carrot-top, trademark messy hairstyles, stark green eyes that saw everything, quick smiles, and two big, warm hearts.

Tucker limped across Pace’s large, undeniably plush living room, and Pace couldn’t help the twinge that always hit him. If not for some shitty choices made all those years ago, Tucker might be right where Pace was, with the MLB contract and fat retirement account.

Tucker wouldn’t want the pity, but knowing that didn’t assuage Pace’s discomfort. They sat in front of the TV and watched the tape. Usually it was a good time, the calm before the storm, but tonight, it felt like an effort to be social. So did listening to Red point out the Phillies different pitching idiosyncrasies.

“Pace, watch his foot, see? He’s not pushing off with his back leg. He’s leaving the fastball up and his curve’s flat. You don’t do that. You’re too smart to do that.”

Pace didn’t feel so smart. If he’d been smart, he’d have figured out how to avoid his injury.

“Look at that.” Red poked a bony finger toward the TV. “The way he changed his grip right there, see?”

“Pace knows how to win, Dad,” Tucker said with a laugh. “He’s done it a time or two.”

Yeah. What Pace didn’t know was if he could keep winning.

Tucker helped himself to Pace’s refrigerator and shook his head at the six-pack of Dr Pepper in the way back. “Thought you gave this shit up since it made you feel like—surprise—shit.”

“I did.” He just liked to look at it sometimes. Like a junkie.

Tucker pulled out a bottle of water instead and slapped it to Pace’s chest, along with a vitamin pack. “Our newest stuff. One a day. It speeds up healing and promotes strength, both of which you need. Gives you energy, too.”

Pace raised a brow. He really hated taking anything, even Advil—a throwback to the old man who’d always believed such things showed weakness. “Sounds like HGH.”