Knowing Allie was right, Holly made brownies and drove to Pace’s house, which was huge and new and on the bluffs overlooking the beach. It was gorgeous.

And empty. Through the window next to his front door, she could see his entire foyer. There was a large pile of duffel bags and three bats leaning in one corner, and along a wide bench sat his glove and a batting helmet, beneath which was a dizzying array of athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, spikes, cleats, running shoes . . .

No sign of movement, though.

She left the brownies on his porch with a note.

He didn’t call. She didn’t get anything but a silent message, loud and clear. Either he believed she was the media leak or . . .

She was the only one yearning and aching.

She had no idea which was worse.

The next day, Ty’s and Henry’s mandated drug tests came back inconclusive. With the lack of evidence, the two were cleared to play.

Holly was fascinated and horrified by the whole thing. Fascinated by the baseball drug culture in general. Over the history of the sport, much of it had been knowingly swept under the rug by the very people who governed it. But in the past few years, fan pressure and bad press had forced a change. A change not everyone had been happy to make.

Her articles were supposed to be about the guys and their popularity, what made them so beloved, but she found herself shifting gears, wondering if maybe the secret she’d been looking for had been right under her nose the whole time.

At the next game, she went early to take pictures of the pregame practice.

There was no sign of Pace.

Not that it mattered. She had a job to do. Period.

She sat in the stands with Sam and her brother, Jeremy, who was as tall and elegant and well dressed as his sister, with a smooth smile that could sell flint to the devil. The three of them made small talk until, with thirty minutes before the start, Holly got a call.

“Can you get to the clubhouse?” Gage asked. “Now?”

“Sure.” She went running, heart in her throat, picturing . . . Hell, she didn’t know exactly. “What?” she gasped when Gage pulled her inside the moment she arrived, tugging her through the luxurious front room to the Heat’s shower room. “What is it?”

“Wait here.”

She blinked when he slammed the door, and then again when less than twenty seconds later it whipped open.

Gage pushed Pace inside. Pace turned back to the door only to have Gage slam it in his face. He was in warm-up sweats and a shoulder brace, his face dark and edgy and quite pissed off.

Which was interesting, as she should be the pissed off one. She’d tried to contact him. She’d even stopped by with her amazing brownies—and they were amazing.

And he’d ignored her.