![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() “Good then.” Red coughed, wobbling on his feet at the violence of it, glaring at Pace when he made a move to help. Pace didn’t know what would happen if management decided to send the old guy back down to the minors instead of letting him walk out with his dignity intact and retire on his own terms. Red was getting up there and not exactly in the best health. That was the nature of the game, and not just for players. They were hot, baby, hot, but if they didn’t perform, there would be trades and changes. ![]() The Heat had been gaining momentum with shocking speed, gathering huge public interest. “Relax?” Red shook his head in disbelief. Reaching out, water flying, he shut Red’s phone. It was one of the few cons to hitting the big time: from April to October, Pace’s time wasn’t his own, and neither was his body. “Uh-huh.” Red pulled out his phone, no doubt to call in the troops-management-to have the multimillion-dollar arm assessed. “It’s fine.” Pace didn’t have to fake the irritation. “Uh-uh, 3.00.” Red peered into the shower, all geriatric stealth, trying to get a good look at his shoulder, but Pace had cranked the water up to torch-his-ass hot so that the steam made it difficult to see clearly. You were favoring the shoulder yesterday in the pen.” ![]()
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