The sounds of Advil being shaken into hands and athletic tape being ripped into strips filled the air, as did the scent of muscle cream, along with the commotion from the support crowd, which included a horde of press and the GM’s family, who’d flown in for his birthday.

Pace sat in front of his locker absently rubbing his shoulder as he watched Holly work the group with ease, taking pictures with her ever-present Canon. She did that, made things look easy. Charming the guys, charming the staff, having fun. Making herself at home in his world . . .

There was no reason to care, except he did.

He cared that he not allow her to make herself at home in his head, because for some reason he didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, he knew that she could.

She’d put out another article—still not about him. Apparently she’d given up, which relieved him. This entry had been a thought-provoking piece about the youngest fans of baseball, the kids, and how they worshipped the players, emulating their behaviors and actions. Those behaviors and actions were mostly honorable, she’d written, but since the athletes were only human, they were susceptible to the same downfalls as everyone else, and when they screwed up, kids also screwed up. She’d concluded with the pressures on the athletes today as if she really got it, with a nice little section detailing the Heat’s volunteer work with 4 The Kids, and how they were doing their part to try to remain positive role models.

The entire blog had gotten picked up by several ESPN sports shows, and also highlighted in the Santa Barbara local press, and—

Henry’s sweatband hit Pace in the chest. “Wake up, man. You’re pitching in an hour. What planet are you on tonight anyway?”

Planet Holly. Pace simply held up the sweatband, nearly passing out at the smell. “You could clear out the entire stadium with this thing. Open a new pack.”

“Can’t. It’s my good-luck charm. You might be having a hot season, but some of us are cold.”

Pace grabbed a water bottle. It wasn’t his, and he didn’t care because as he drank, he heard Holly laugh, and he turned back to his locker, telling himself he had other stuff to be thinking about than how contagious her laugh was. Tonight’s game, for one.

Or how she looked all careful and pretty in her daisy yellow sundress and white cropped jacket . . .

Next to him, Red stood talking to another of their pitching coaches. “In that game against the Rockies,” he was saying, “he struck out twelve and walked one. Come on, who does that consistently?”

He did. He did that consistently.