“Nothing.” She plumped the pillow behind his back when he tried to sit up, fussing over him.

Stalling.

“Holly.”

She was busy straightening his covers now, like he was a damn invalid.

Which he wasn’t.

In fact, he was feeling the exact opposite of an invalid because every time she leaned over him, her button-up T-shirt gaped open and revealed a white silky demi-bra that had her br**sts nearly spilling out over the top.

Which reminded him—she wasn’t wearing panties. He had no idea why that fact so fascinated him. He’d seen her body. It was fantastic, but he sure as hell shouldn’t be drooling to see her again. “It’s the meds.”

Her eyes met his. “What is?”

“The reason I’m getting a boner looking down your top. Nice bra.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you hallucinating?”

“If I say yes, will you take off the bra? It would complete my collection.”

“Okay, that’s it. I’m calling the doctor.”

He snagged her wrist with his good hand, which still had an IV in it. Because yeah, he wanted to see her br**sts again, but mostly he wanted to know what had put that look in her eyes. The one that said he was f**ked. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I told you, nothing.”

“You’re a shitty liar, Holly. Spill it.”

“I snooped and read your chart.”

He just gave her a long look.

“I wanted to make sure you were really okay. You were sleeping so heavily and I was worried.”

“Concern or a reporter’s cutthroat curiosity?”

“It was concern,” she said tightly. “And your curmud geonly cynicism is really getting old. Pace—”

“Just tell me. I’m dying, right?”

“No. You’re—”

His doctor entered. “Look at you, awake and alert. Perfect.” He looked at Holly. “I need a moment with the patient, please.”

Holly gave Pace an indecipherable look and left the room.

And for a guy who prized his alone time, who craved it like some craved water, he experienced the oddest sense of loneliness he’d ever felt.

And fear. Let’s not forget the fear, because there was plenty of that, too. “So. What’s up, Doc?”

Chapter 20

Strikeouts are boring—besides that, they’re fascist.

Throw some ground balls. More democratic.

—Crash Davis in Bull Durham

Pace’s surgeon didn’t answer right away, waiting until the hospital room door shut behind Holly, until he’d opened Pace’s chart. “How are you feeling?”

“A little uptight, actually, which is ruining my happy drug buzz. What’s going on?”

“Good news and bad news. Are you in pain?”

Pace turned his head and looked at the door that Holly had just left through, thinking that when it came to her he felt plenty of pain. She made him ache like hell. “I’m fine. Tell me the bad.”

“No. Good first. You didn’t have a tear to the rotator cuff. You had an inflamed bursa.”

“A what?”

“Yeah, it’s almost impossible to see on an MRI in the position you were in. You have 160 bursae in your body, located adjacent to the tendons near large joints, such as your shoulder. You had one become inflamed from an injury, in this case probably your strained rotator cuff, and it got infected. I removed the fluid, cleaned it all up a bit. You should be good now. Relatively simple fix, at least compared to a torn rotator cuff.”

Relief made his head swim. “Jesus, really?”

“Really. I know those suckers are a bitch on pain but the recovery is going to be a hell of a lot easier than a repaired tear would have been, and you can cut the down time in half—maybe three weeks instead of two months.”

Pace felt the rush of emotion clog his throat. “Okay, now the bad.”

“Yeah. That’s not going to be as easy.” The doctor sat back on his little round stool and eyed Pace.

It was the same expression Holly had been wearing, and he braced himself. “I wish people would stop looking at me like that.”

“Yesterday you had the standard operating procedure presurgery lab work done. Per the request of your commissioner, and with your permission, you had your drug testing done at the same time.”

“Yes.”

“You tested positive for stimulants.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I’m afraid it’s fact. And I’ve got to report it.”

“There’s been a mistake. Test me again. I don’t use.”

“Look, you’ll need three weeks off anyway for recovery, which should cover a good part of your discipline, which I believe can be a twenty-five game suspension.”

“No.” No f**king way. “You have to retest.”

The doctor rose. “You’ll be released in a few hours. I’ve prescribed pain meds to take you through the next seven days, after which I’ll need to see you for stitches removal.”

His doctor didn’t believe him. Hell, who would? “I want a retest. I’m within my rights to request one.”

“Pace—”

“And I want my lawyer and agent, too.” And for some reason, Holly. He wanted Holly.

Holly drove a virtually silent Pace home from the hospital. He was dressed in his warm-up sweats, sitting very still in the passenger seat next to her, his long legs stretched out, his right arm held to his chest by a complicated sling and sprint, both covered in a huge ice pack. She knew he was still fuming over the drug-test results and the backlash that was liable to hit him over that. His agent and attorney had come to the hospital and they’d talked, which had included a conference call with Gage, but she had no idea the outcome other than they’d demanded a retest.