It would be easy to underestimate Sam, easier still to chalk her off as a trophy piece given that her father owned the Heat and that her uncle owned the Charleston Bucks expansion team, where her brother worked as well, but beneath that beauty beat a heart of steel—and she had the will to match.

Besides, in Holly’s book, anyone who loved fudge brownies and didn’t judge her for being a reporter was a keeper as a friend.

It was a gorgeous but steady hot day. Holly inhaled the afternoon air and the scent of freshly cut grass as she and Sam stuffed their faces with hot dogs, peanuts, and lemonade. They talked stats, about the game itself, and best of all, the guys.

“Aren’t they cute in their uniforms?” Sam asked as the Heat took the field.

Oh yeah, Holly thought, keeping her eyes on Pace as he jogged to the mound, though she wasn’t sure cute covered it. As he began the inning, she found herself once again mesmerized by the process that went into each throw. Gage stood just inside the dugout, giving signs to Wade, long, complicated gestures that Holly couldn’t begin to follow. Wade then repeated the signs to Pace, who’d either nod or shake his head or give a sign of his own. Lifting her camera, she caught his expression as he wound up and released one of his famed fastballs.

“Ah,” Sam said at the next pitch. “He pulled the string.”

“What’s that?”

“An off-speed pitch, which after that first high heat, was genius. Keeps the batter off balance.”

By the end of the fifth inning, Holly was in awe. “Oh my God—he’s got a no-hitter going—”

“Shh!” Sam cut her off by motioning the sliding of a finger across her throat. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s bad luck. You’ll jinx him—I’m serious,” she said when Holly laughed. “Haven’t you noticed? Even the announcer hasn’t mentioned it. They’re all superstitious, every last one of them.”

“No.”

“See Mason out there, the toughest first baseman in the league? He’s wearing the same pair of underwear he wears to every game.”

“Come on.”

“And Henry? He drinks a soda after the bottom of the sixth inning, watch him. And Gage has to wear his lucky cap and touch it a certain way after each pitch. Hell, even Wade’s superstitious. He’s been rumored to sleep with his bat, though it’s never been proven. No one messes around with this stuff, trust me. They’ve all got something.”

And just like that, Holly knew she had the idea for next week’s blog. “What’s Pace’s?”

“He keeps things pretty close to the vest. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I’ll do that.” She took some more pictures and listened to Sam’s ongoing commentary. It was all positive, of course. It was Sam’s job to spin things that way, especially given what Holly did for a living, but she knew the publicist’s affection for each and every player was real.

If there were secrets within the Heat, Holly was not going to learn them from Sam, so she concentrated on the game. Okay, she concentrated on Pace, on watching him pitch with that easy but intense concentration. How he stood on the mound and surveyed his opponent, his every muscle taut and ready before he nodded to Wade, then executed.

The whole process mesmerized her completely, and by the seventh inning she couldn’t believe he could still be throwing so strong, with no sign of needing to be taken out for the closer. She used her camera as an excuse to watch him through her lens. His uniform was dirty from the top of the third when he’d hit a double, then tussled at second base, and he had a long streak of dirt down one hip and over a great set of buns. He was sweating.

She had no idea how they’d get that uniform clean for the start of the next game, which set her mind to thinking about how he’d look without his pants, how he’d look without any of it, all six-plus feet of tough, hard muscle naked and-

“Are you?”

She blinked and turned to Sam, horrified to realize she’d obviously missed a question. “I’m sorry, what?”

Fully aware of what Holly had been busy staring at, Sam grinned. “Are you getting everything you need from the guys?”

Well, wasn’t that a loaded question, one she was momentarily distracted from when Pace struck out his batter, ending the inning.

“I’m still hoping for a one on one with Pace,” she admitted. She’d had a one on one, and it’d been amazing. “A one-on-one interview.”

“You haven’t gotten that yet? Pace, Pace, Pace . . .” Samantha sighed with a fond smile. “He’s a tricky one—” She broke off when the eighth inning began and the announcer called out Wade’s name as he came up to bat.

Holly watched Wade take a warm-up swing. “Maybe you could remind him he owes me an interview—”

“Oh God. Look at him.” Samantha’s gaze was locked on Wade in the batter’s box, who swung at a wicked curveball and missed.

“Dammit.” Samantha stood up and cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Come on, Wade O’Riley, show us what you’re made of.”

Holly blinked at the heretofore completely put-together, sophisticated, elegant publicist, who was suddenly looking like a rabid fan.

Wade swung again and this time connected with a solid line drive right up the middle.