Shoving the pad in her purse, she hurried after him, through the wide hallways of the multimillion-dollar facility that housed and bred the Heat. The walls on either side of her were adorned with pictures and awards. The imaginative, aggressive team was a multimillion-dollar marketing and merchandising gift from heaven. Posters, collector’s cards, T-shirts, memorabilia . . . and the county of Santa Barbara enjoyed it all, soaking up the love and raining it back down on the players in spades. Especially Pace.

It fascinated her. And also worried her. She’d been perfectly comfortable when writing about space travel and faulty parts, about what happened to abandoned old West towns, but honestly she wasn’t all that comfortable with beloved athletes, especially potentially knocking them off their public pedestals. Maybe she wouldn’t find a secret to expose this time, but the truth was everyone had one. She’d learned that early enough, and she’d learned it the hard way.

Plus, there was the fact that two players had been quietly traded from the Heat before the start of this season and then just as quietly suspended for testing positive for illegal enhancers.

Not that anyone wanted to talk about that.

She caught up with Pace as he headed through the outside doors, where she was blasted by blinding So-Cal sunshine and blistering heat. Ignoring it, she pulled a file out of her purse.

Her Heat file. She also grabbed her media pass and slipped it around her neck to prove she wasn’t a groupie, and when she looked up, she found that Pace had stopped and turned to her, his gaze glued to her opened file and the eight-by-ten publicity photo lying on top.

Which happened to be of him.

“Fine,” he said, dropping his duffel bag and rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw, looking tall, broad, and undeniably weary. “I’ll sign that, too, but only if you promise not to sell it on eBay. I hate seeing myself on eBay.”

She’d gotten the photo from Samantha McNead, the Heat’s team publicist, along with some articles already written on the team. The picture had made her blush when she’d first looked at it, and now was no different. In it, Pace was shirtless. He was leaning back against a brick wall, wearing only a pair of threadbare Levi’s so low on his hips as to be almost indecent. His feet were bare, and he had a thumb hooked in his jeans, causing the denim to sink even lower, gaping away from the most amazing set of perfectly cut abs she’d ever seen.

And that torso. Holy hot tamales, Batman. When she’d first laid eyes on it, she’d actually squirmed as if she’d personally caught him in an intimate act.

Then she’d drooled.

Her reaction had disturbed her. She preferred men who made a living with their brains not brawn.