Strike Out: Mustangs Baseball #6

Strike Out

By

Roz Lee

eBooks are not transferable. Please do not sell, share or reproduce in any way as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental and the product of the authors imagination or have been used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2014 by Roz Lee

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the copyright holder.

http://www.rozlee.net

ISBN: 978-0-9911687-6-7

Dedication

To my readers.

You make the work worthwhile.

CHAPTER ONE

Royce gazed down at the sparkling emerald and rust diamond he considered home. Devoid of players at this hour, the smell of sweet-mown grass and the silence of thousands of empty seats called to him. He closed his eyes, imagining lying in the center of the outfield, arms outstretched, and the peace he would find there. Inhaling deep, he held the stale, chilled office air in his lungs for a moment before exhaling.

Turning to the Mustangs’ manager, he asked, “Why me?”

Doyle Walker raised one eyebrow. “Why not you?”

“Everyone else said no, right?”

“They all have their reasons, but trumped-up excuses aside, you make the most sense. I have no idea if this technology has any value or not, but if there is any possibility it can help you regain ground, then we have to give it a try.”

“You mean
I
have to give it a try.”

The older man acknowledged the truth in Royce’s statement with a slight nod. “Yes,
you
have to give it a try. Conventional means aren’t working for you, and since I can’t make you see a shrink, this is my next best option.”

He didn’t need a shrink to tell him his lack-luster performance on the field was all in his head. Other players had played through divorce without a ripple in their career. But not him. Intellectually, he understood his marriage had been over for a long time before Hannah asked for a divorce, but still, the hurt in her eyes, in her voice, when she uttered those words had turned him inside out.

Failure was new to him. Always the golden boy, he’d succeeded at everything he’d ever tried—except making Hannah happy. Since he first laid eyes on her in junior high school, all he’d wanted to do was make her smile. Knowing he’d failed at such an important task had changed him. He’d lost his mojo. He was off his game, physically.

He gave his all on the field, but suddenly, his all sucked. Doyle was right. He had to do something, or his career would be over sooner rather than later.

Returning his gaze to the field some five stories below, he knew he had no choice. He was going to become a guinea pig in the name of science.

“When?”

“Dr. Reed will be here this afternoon. Two o’clock. Martin’s old office.”

“How long?”

“We agreed on a month with the stipulation you would be available the entire time, however many hours it takes.”

He felt the heavy weight of obligation on his shoulders, turning his blood to slow-moving sludge. “A whole freakin’ month?”

“You’ve got something else to do?” Doyle’s statement was laden with sarcasm. Royce’s time belonged to the Mustangs, and they both knew it.

“No. A month just sounds like a long time to spend on one research subject.” Like he knew jack-shit about scientific research.

“If things go well, Dr. Reed may add players. But the first two weeks, at least, it’s only you.”

“Great.” He could do sarcasm, too. With one last look at the field, Royce turned his back on the expansive plate-glass window. His gaze swept the office. He’d never wanted a regular job, one that included a desk in an office, but as offices went, Doyle’s was the best he’d ever seen. Years of memorabilia from his playing years, along with awards and photos from his stint as the Mustangs’ manager lined the walls. Royce admired the wide bookcase to the right of the manager’s desk. He imagined how it would look in the library of his new house. Mentally noting to search for something similar, he crossed the room for a closer look.

“Don’t you want to know about the research?”

“Nope.” The edict had come down from the mountain, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to change it. “What’s with the bat?” He’d noticed it before but never had the opportunity to examine it. On a stand, encased in glass, it was unmistakably old. He edged closer, trying to make out the signature on the barrel.

“It was my granddad’s.” Doyle joined him in front of the artifact. “He used it during the 1936 season.”

He felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t he put two and two together before? “Your grandfather was Jimmy Doyle Walker? I thought you were just named after him or something.”

“I
was
named after him. I’ve always gone by Doyle though.”

“He was a great player.”

“He was.” Hearing the reverence in his voice, Royce turned to see him gazing at the keepsake. “I keep it here to remind me that everyone deserves a second chance. Even you.”

He swallowed hard. “I appreciate it. I really do.”

Doyle clapped him on the back. “Look, Royce. There’s another reason I chose you to head up this research project.” With a sweep of his hand, the manager indicated a casual grouping of chairs across the room. Royce took a seat and waited for the other shoe to fall.

“I want you to be my ears and eyes on this project. It sounds good on the surface, but in the wrong hands….” He shook his head. “I’ve been in this game my entire life. I know everything there is to know about baseball, and one thing I’m absolutely sure of is the most important factor in winning and losing is the human factor. No amount of empirical data can account for what’s going on in a person’s head.”

Doyle leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, his hands clasp together in front of him. “The game is dynamic, changing with the times. We’ve got instant replay now. Cameras everywhere, recording every possible angle. Economists analyzing players, valuing them based on individual plays instead of the person as a whole and what he brings to the team. You can’t quantify team spirit, and sometimes heart is more valuable than the ability to hit consistently or strike batters out.”

Royce’s heart thudded. “I’ll get back in the game. I promise.”

Doyle sat up, relaxed. “I know you will. You love the game, and it shows. Whatever is wrong, you’ll fix it. I’ve never had any doubt about that, son. As I said, if there’s any merit in this research, then take advantage of it. But I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.” He meant it. Everyone on the team knew how lucky they were to play for Doyle Walker, him included. He’d do whatever the man asked.

“Keep a close watch on this research project. Find out everything you can about the kind of data being collected and how this Dr. Reed plans to use it. The order to participate in this project came down from the League offices. I couldn’t say no, but my acceptance doesn’t mean I’m one hundred percent onboard with it. Maybe I’m old school, but I don’t think everything has to be computer analyzed. Some things should be left alone.”

***

Royce stalked down the hall to the training room. He’d spent the last four hours dreading his participation in this experiment, but Doyle was right, there was more to it than fixing his pitching—though he was at the point he’d try just about anything. He owed it to the team to give this a try. Hell, he owed it to Hannah, too. All his ex-wife had ever wanted for him was to be a success at the one thing he loved—baseball. She’d stuck by him through college and the lean years in the Minor League, offering encouragement and support when he’d needed it the most.

The irony of his present situation wasn’t lost on him. Without Hannah’s support, he might not have realized his dream of making it to the Major League, and now, here he was with his career on the line because he’d fucked up the single most important relationship of his life. He hadn’t been there when his wife needed him. She’d given him everything, and in return, he’d given her nothing.

She had gone back to school to get her degree—something he’d insisted on paying for above and beyond everything she’d asked for in the divorce settlement. It was the least he could do since she’d dropped out of school to follow him around the country from one Minor League hovel to another. At the time, she’d said it was what she wanted to do, and he’d been selfish enough to believe her.

Years passed, and it never once crossed his mind she might not be happy with her decision. Either she was an expert at hiding her unhappiness, or he had been too wrapped up in his career to notice.

She’d said the same thing—only, she’d been kinder, saying they’d grown apart, which was code for he’d fucked up.

With nothing else to fill his life besides his career now, he was in serious danger of fucking that up, too.

There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with him physically, but if this experiment forced him to think about something besides what he’d lost, then maybe there was a chance he could salvage what was left of his life. He loved baseball.

It was his love of the game that kept him moving down the hallway toward the training room on his day off. Entering the large room filled with physical therapy equipment, he nodded to a couple of players on the Disabled list who were there pushing through the pain of recovery under the watchful eyes of staff. He noted the curiosity on their faces but figured word would spread fast enough on its own and kept on walking.

The office assigned to Dr. Reed was on the right, halfway down. Peeking through the narrow safety-glass window above the door handle, he paused. He might be in mourning for his marriage, but he wasn’t dead. His heart rate kicked up and blood rushed south.

Standing in front of the desk, her back to him, was the shapeliest pixy he’d ever seen. No more than five foot three in her white canvas sneakers, she looked like a teenager, which meant she was a summer intern, and thus—off-limits. Didn’t mean he couldn’t look, and admire.

Blonde hair streaked with gold tumbled down her slender back to just below her shoulder blades. The Mustangs’ red cotton shirt she wore hugged her waist before flaring out over generous hips clad in white shorts that emphasized her tanned legs. Cheerleader material, he determined. A staff member’s daughter or niece working for free so they’d have something to put on their college applications this year—or maybe next.

At twenty-six, as far as he was concerned teenagers were nothing more than jailbait, but they couldn’t arrest him for looking.

Pulling the door open, he stepped inside. Completely absorbed in what she was doing, she didn’t seem to notice she was no longer alone. She muttered something sounding like a very un-pixy-like curse. Royce smiled. He could relate to her frustration.

“Need some help?” He rounded the desk to see what had her so worked up and stopped dead in his tracks. If she was older than eighteen, he’d eat his cleats, dirt and all. And, Lord, even with a scowl on her face, she was a beautiful creature.

Determination flashed in her eyes, and though her lips were turned down, they were full and naturally rose-colored. Unless she was a magician with cosmetics, she didn’t wear a stitch of makeup. You couldn’t improve on perfection, no use trying.

Whoever brought her to work here ought to be shot.
The older players would look but keep their hands to themselves. The younger ones, not so much. They’d recently brought a relief pitcher up from the Minors who was barely legal to drink, which made him three bricks shy of a full load of self-control. The idiot had a different woman on his arm every time Royce saw him. He’d be damned if he let the hurler get his hands on this sweet, innocent thing.

As a protectiveness he’d never experienced before flooded his system, the object of his unusual possessiveness returned her attention to her task, leaving him to reach his own conclusion.

Royce grabbed a clump of wires and began to work the knots out. She wound another loose wire around her fingers before setting the neat coil aside. “I can do this myself.”

“No problem. I’m supposed to meet someone here at two. I don’t suppose you know if a Dr. Reed has arrived, do you?”

The girl stilled, her gaze lifting to his face. “Why?”

“I’m not sick or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Dr. Reed is doing research on….” He scrunched his eyebrows together, thinking. “Hell, I don’t know. Something to do with how athletes move.”

“What does her project have to do with you?”

Her gaze had somehow gone from mild interest to intense assessment. A shimmer of unease traveled along his spine. He felt as if he’d tripped an invisible cord that, with his next breath, would blow his world to smithereens. “I’m the designated guinea pig.”

“You’re Royce Stryker?”

“Who are you?”

They voiced their questions simultaneously.

“I asked you first.” He dumped his handful of wires to the desk then took a step back.

“No, you didn’t, but I’ll answer anyway.” She squared her shoulders, making her look every bit of five foot three and a half. “I’m Doctor Reed. Tricia Reed. Not Patricia, just Tricia.”

“Is this some sort of a joke?” He reclaimed the distance between himself and the desk, squaring his shoulders, too, employing every inch of his six-foot frame to let her know how not funny this was. “Who are you, really? Who put you up to this?”

Not waiting for her reply, he barreled on. “I can’t believe anyone in this organization would be stupid enough to turn a little girl like you loose in a place like this. You’re somebody’s kid or niece or something. Who? Tell me, and I’ll knock sense into them instead of paddling your ass.”

An entirely inappropriate image of her bent over the desk, those shorts around her ankles, his handprints on her sweet cheeks, formed in his mind, nearly blinding him with lust. With supreme effort, he forced the scene to recede. Focusing on the girl across from him, he couldn’t believe his eyes. She smiled at him. Smiled! She had moxie, he’d give her that.