Strike Zone (21 page)

Rhodes spit and snarled.

Ball two came on Brek’s splinter—a bad call by the home plate umpire. The ball had been perfectly placed.

Brek gave the umpire an extra-long look, then covered his face and said a few choice words into his glove.

Another fastball, and Rhodes slapped it toward the fair-foul pole. The ball resounded off the metal, bouncing left instead of right and flying into the stands.

Strike two.

One more strike, and Brek would retire Rhodes.

Kason extended his arms and dug in. He swung on a fastball, only to tip it toward the television crews. One of the cameramen picked it out of the air.

Rhodes continued at bat.

Forcing Brek to increase his pitch count.

Brek’s last pitch would end their pissing contest. Kason Rhodes had come into James River Stadium with attitude and assurance. He’d planned to slam a ball down Brek’s throat. Rhodes had disrupted Brek’s no-hitter the month before. Brek wasn’t letting Rhodes walk away with a hit this time around. He would exceed his human powers to send Rhodes back to the dugout.

All around him, the stadium rose to a screaming, foot-stomping high. Foam fingers poked the air, and signs and banners waved wildly.
Hit the Rhode
was printed on hundreds of signs.

Rally Ball led the cheers from atop the Rogues’ dugout. Charlie Bradley pumped his arms and rolled his costume in circles. Brek’s name was chanted like a mantra.

Fans brought an adrenaline high to the game. Brek Stryker was infused with their energy. The rush added fire to his pitches.

He caught the catcher’s sign, then held Rhodes’s stare for ten seconds. He inhaled and went through his windup. Rhodes wouldn’t expect a changeup. The man was counting on another fastball.

Changeups were regulated by finger pressure. Brek tightened his hand to slow the ball down.

The pitch was right down the middle.

Rhodes swung with a deliberation that would send the ball into the parking lot, perhaps all the way to the mall.

His connection stunned fans into silence as his bat splintered and the baseball slammed low instead of high.

Slammed right for Brek.

Duck or dive? Brek did neither. He barehanded the ball just as the broken bat clipped his left shoulder.

He was hit so hard and fast he felt he’d been shot in the hand. The pain was immediate, a fire-hot burn.

All breath left him. His shoulders bunched as he shook out his hand, but he couldn’t release the ball. His fingers curved crookedly over the cowhide. A bone in his thumb broke the skin. His little finger was bent at a right angle. What he could see of his palm had turned black.

Play was halted as the team manager, the pitching coach, the trainer, and the entire team gathered at the mound.

Risk Kincaid ordered the players back so Brek could breathe. Words were spoken from every direction, but nothing soaked in. He had no feeling in his hand, and his arm had gone numb. His shoulder now throbbed from being hit by the broken bat.

The crowd stood and solemnly applauded as he followed the trainer to the locker room. He passed home plate and Kason Rhodes, and Brek met the man’s stare.

Rhodes was out. His jaw worked and his hands flexed. His expression remained hard. The men were now tied one-to-one in their competition.

“We’re taking you to Richmond General,” the team doctor told Brek when he wasn’t able to pry the baseball from Brek’s hand. “You need a specialist.”

The baseball had drilled into his palm. His fingers had broken over the ball, and his nerves had spasmed. The team doctor wasn’t able to take X-rays. Brek imagined that the removal of the ball would come through surgery.

He traveled by ambulance to the hospital, a first for him—and hopefully his last. The EMTs packed his hand in ice, as well as his shoulder.

To his surprise, Taylor Hannah met him at the emergency room door. She looked as shell-shocked as he felt. She hobbled toward him in her workout sweats as fast as her crutches would carry her. She was pale and frightened, her eyes wide. She’d bitten one corner of her lip raw.

Sunlight hit her as she maneuvered across the shadowed walkway on the emergency ramp. Haloed, she looked like an angel.

Brek was damn glad to see her.

Suddenly it seemed those three years apart no longer separated them. Taylor stood before him now, blocking his way, yet wanting to help in some small measure.

“Ma’am, you need to step back,” one of the EMTs ordered as a wheelchair was rolled out for Brek.

Taylor held her ground. She rested her hand lightly on Brek’s arm. “I was in therapy, watching the game. I saw Rhodes hit and you go down. How bad is it?” she asked.

“That ball had bite.”

“It’s stuck in your hand?”

“For the moment.”

“What can I do?” she asked.

He reached out. “Hold my good hand.”

They were a sight, Brek realized, the walking wounded: he in his wheelchair and Taylor hopping alongside him. Yet she refused to leave.

I’m
here; deal with it,
her expression told anyone who might suggest she move on.

The emergency room doctor recognized her stubbornness and let her stay during the examination. Brek watched Taylor watch every move Dr. Anders made. She asked more questions than Brek would have thought to ask. All the while she held his left hand so tightly, he swore she’d break it, too.

“You’ll need X-rays and an MRI on both your shoulder and hand,” Dr. Anders concluded. “We’ll work around the baseball. Removing it now could cause more damage in the long run. Hold on to it.”

Brek couldn’t release it if he tried.

A transporter arrived to take him for his X-ray.

“I’m going too,” Taylor stated.

The transporter frowned. “You’re on crutches.”

“Call for a second wheelchair and I’ll follow you down the hall,” Taylor told the hospital employee.

The transporter shook his head. “Sorry, hospital policy—”

“Let her come,” Brek said. Taylor had spirit and fight and refused to be left behind. The transporter would have to break Brek’s good hand to remove Taylor’s from it.

Her vigilance surprised him. She protected her own. And she was now protecting him.

A hospital volunteer was called to wheel Taylor to X-ray and the MRI. She laid her crutches across the armrests.

Wheeled through the hallways, Brek took comfort in having Taylor at his back. She’d reassured him over and over again that he’d be just fine. That his career was only temporarily on hold, and that he’d continue to break and set new records.

Brek believed her. No one reaffirmed the positive like Taylor Hannah. The lady had guts, drive, and faith.

Dr. Anders laid out the good news with the bad once he’d read the test results. “You’ve a bruised shoulder, nothing more. An inch to the right, and the bat could have fractured your collarbone.”

He looked at Brek’s chart and moved on. “You’ve broken twenty of the twenty-six bones in your hand. You’ll need immediate surgery, which I’ve scheduled for four o’clock.”

It was two thirty now.

“His rate of recovery?” Taylor asked for Brek.

“He’s strong and healthy, and after six weeks in a cast and extensive rehab, he should regain eighty percent mobility.”

Brek shook his head. “That’s not enough.” He needed a full hundred to climb back on the mound.

The doctor understood. “I’ll do everything possible.” He tapped his clipboard. “A few tests, and we’ll move you upstairs.”

Dr. Anders looked at Taylor over the rim of his glasses on his way out. His smile was understanding, fatherly. “No, Ms. Hannah, you cannot join me in surgery.”

Taylor smiled. “Got my answer before I even asked.”

Brek looked at Taylor. He liked having her close, but wasn’t sure it was wise to draw her back into his life. He cared for her, but was damn cautious with his feelings. He didn’t want to start what they couldn’t finish.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said. “You were in therapy. You should get back to your exercises.”

She bit down on her lower lip and blushed, suddenly self-conscious. “I’ve imposed on you.” She rose from the wheelchair and reached for her crutches. “You need to call Hilary, need to have her here—”

“Taylor.” He cut her off. This was as good a time as any to tell her. “There’s no more Hilary.”

She looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“I broke off the engagement.”

Her lips parted. “Why?”

“Hilary is married to Stuart Tate.”

She stared at him, looking hurt and concerned, as if she’d taken on his wounds as her own. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he managed. “Better to know now than to be left at the altar a second time.”

“You wouldn’t want to go through that again.”

“Never again, Taylor.”

She leaned heavily on her crutches. “Sloan thought there was something between Hilary and Stuart at Ad-die’s party. Sloan caught Stuart’s hand on Hilary’s butt.”

“I caught them dancing a naked salsa.”

Taylor fought her smile, but laughter won. She raised one hand and apologized. “Not funny, I know. But the visual hit me right between the eyes.”

“Embezzlement brought Hilary and Stuart together, and will now separate them in jail.” He laid out their story, detail by sordid detail.

Taylor listened, sympathetic, supportive, understanding. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Relieved,” he had to admit. “I’m glad it’s over. It’s time—”

“To draw your blood, Mr. Stryker.” A nurse pulled back the curtain. She looked at his hand. “Still gripping that baseball, I see.”

“I bring the game with me wherever I go.”

“Ducking might have proved a better choice,” the nurse said.

“Pure reflex,” he replied. And the need to prove to Ka-son Rhodes that Brek controlled his home stadium.

“I’m off.” Taylor took a few shuffling steps.

“You don’t have to go.” Brek didn’t want her to leave.

“I’m not going far,” she assured him. “I saw some board games in the children’s therapy room. I’ll pick up a few and meet you in your assigned room when they wheel you upstairs. I’ll keep you company until you’re prepped for surgery.”

The nurse checked his chart. “Room seven-sixteen. Family only until after his surgery.”

Brek caught Taylor’s uncertainty. “I want you with me,” he said. She looked relieved.

Taylor tried to stay positive. She’d never seen a hand as messed-up as Brek Stryker’s. And she’d witnessed countless accidents throughout her thrill-seeking years.

She hobbled into the hospital chapel and hit her knees. She prayed as she’d never prayed before. Then she moved on to the therapy room, where she received the therapist’s permission to select games to be played with one hand.

Somewhere between emergency and his private room, Brek was forced out of his Rogues uniform and into a hospital gown. His athletic shorts were visible at the back opening.

“Don’t you look cute,” Taylor teased him when they again met up in his room. Brek had great legs for a man, long, muscled, and dusted with dark hair.

Concern etched his brow. “I feel exposed. These gowns shift and bare my ass.”

“I don’t hear any nurses complaining.”

The nurses didn’t complain. Taylor counted thirty-one coming and going over the next ninety minutes. All professional, yet all checking to see if Brek needed anything—anything at all.

Taylor had forgotten how the Rogues attracted women. She was now seeing Brek as single and available. His smile made women blush. He always said the right words to make fans feel at ease.

Taylor grew apprehensive. She’d known Brek Stryker as both friend and lover, yet now she felt in limbo, unsure what direction their relationship would take.

“Let’s catch sports highlights before we play checkers.” Brek reached for the bedside television remote. “I need to know who won the game.”

They soon learned Sloan McCaffrey had taken the mound, following Brek’s departure. He’d struggled, and Louisville had tied the Rogues by the top of the eighth. Pitching coach Danny Young hadn’t brought in a closer. He’d forced Sloan to go the distance.

Determination lined Sloan’s face even as he threw more balls than strikes and walked two players.

“He’ll mature, gain his mound presence.” Brek showed confidence in his backup. “Sloan will make defense work their asses off, but the team will make a decent showing.”

The highlight reel showed the Colonels’ leadoff batter smashing a ball to right field. Psycho McMillan ran, dove, slid across the grass on his belly, glove out, and made a run-saving catch. No player left the game more grass-stained than Psycho.

The game was still tied by the bottom of the ninth when the Rogues took their bat. The sports announcer documented Psycho’s explosive line drive into center, which earned him a double. Romeo Bellisaro and Chase Tallan were called out on strikes. Risk Kincaid claimed the Rogues’ victory by belting the ball out of the park.

“Glad they pulled it off,” Brek said.

Taylor caught the relief on his face. “How’s your hand?” she asked.

“Still numb.”

She set up the checkerboard and they played for thirty minutes. They avoided talking about old times, and concentrated on jumping opponent checkers and crowning kings.

A transporter arrived at three forty-five to take Brek to surgery. Taylor didn’t want him to go alone.

Her throat went dry and her stomach knotted. She took his good hand and held on tight.

Brek stared at her with absolute focus. “It’s okay, Taylor. The sooner I have surgery, the sooner I’m back in the game.”

“I’ll be here when you return.”

“I expect you to be.”

And he was gone.

Taylor remained in his room for a long time. She stared at the checkerboard, realizing that Brek was in po sition to have captured her last two kings, but hadn’t made his move.

He’d let the game go on as long as possible.

By seven o’clock she hobbled toward the nurses’ station. She slowed outside the visitors’ lounge and took in the scene. There were Rogues everywhere. The entire team roster packed the sitting area. Many of the players paced the hallway.

The men had drunk gallons of coffee and emptied the vending machines. Yet none of them thought to leave the hospital until they’d received word on Brek’s condition.