Strike Zone (4 page)

Taylor resisted. “I’ll meet Sloan some other day.”

“Make it today,” Jacy insisted. “Risk,” she called to her husband. “May we join you?”

Taylor stiffened. Never one to be embarrassed, she now blushed. She didn’t want attention drawn to herself. And Risk’s obvious uncertainty did little to reassure her. The Rogues were as close as a fraternity. She’d screwed over one of their own. There was no love for her from the team. Nor forgiveness after three years.

A man hot for his wife and still eager to please her, Risk waved them over. Taylor knew that if anyone other than Jacy had requested they join the group, Taylor would’ve been turned away.

“Iced hazelnut latte?” Jacy asked.

“And a raspberry scone,” she added. “The only two constants in my life.”

Once Jacy served both coffee and scone on ivory china, the two women crossed to the table of players. Jacy placed a reassuring hand on Taylor’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. Introductions followed. “Risk, Zen, Psycho, and Cooper Smith you already know. You’ve yet to meet relief pitcher Sloan McCaffrey and first baseman Rhaden Dunn. This is Taylor Hannah, a close friend. She’s in town for a week. Play nice, guys.”

Nice
came in sideways glances, quick sips of coffee, and a rolling of shoulders. Casting a glance at Brek, Risk added one chair to the table—a chair meant for Jacy. Taylor stood off to the side.

At an unexpected call from one of her employees, Jacy returned to the front counter, which left Taylor alone with the six Rogues. Six
reserved
Rogues. Though not outwardly rude, Risk, Zen, Psycho, and Coop nodded hello, but didn’t extend an invitation to sit. Sloan and Rhaden took their cue from the veterans and stared her down.

Despite the fact that she’d tackled the Alaskan Iditarod and rafted the Brahmaputra River in India, these men posed an even bigger challenge. She was an outsider with no way in. Their loyalty lay with Stryke. She’d once hurt their starting pitcher. No one trusted her now.

She brushed invisible lint from her white poet’s shirt and shifted her stance. Twice. The unnerving silence told her all she needed to know. So much for relaxing with her iced coffee and scone. It was time to go.

She’d taken one step toward the door when the sudden snap of a newspaper page cut the tension at the table. The sound came from Brek Stryker as he flipped from comics to sports. The snap seemed to be a message to his teammates. Its effect on the players was immediate.

They made nice to her.

“Gotten naked lately?” asked Psycho, wearing a black T-shirt scripted with
Born to be Nude
. He claimed a chrome-backed chair from a nearby table and crammed it between himself and Sloan McCaffrey.

Shaken by the turn of events, Taylor was slow to reply. “You’re the nudist,” she finally managed. “You show enough skin for ten men.”

Psycho grinned and patted the red vinyl seat beside him. “Park it, Fearless.” He dared to call her by her nickname—a nickname given to her by Brek Stryker.

She sucked in her breath and squeezed into the narrow space, protective of—

“Watch her knee.” Stryke’s warning rose over her shoulder as he stood, coffee mug in hand. Edging by their table, he strolled toward the counter for a refill.

Psycho tracked Stryke, then turned back to Taylor, narrow eyed. He was obviously contemplating how their team captain knew she had a bad knee. The ACE bandage wasn’t visible beneath her mocha linen slacks. Ignoring the pain, she hadn’t been limping.

Psycho was usually so blunt, he made people blink. But he respected Stryke, and for the first time in his life he didn’t raise questions. Taylor appreciated his discretion. Easing back, Psycho gave her plenty of room to maneuver.

She collapsed into the chair and attempted to sort out what had just happened. For whatever reason, Stryke had come to her rescue. His acceptance had been signaled by the snap of the newspaper. He’d allowed her to have coffee with his teammates. He’d also protected her knee.

She met his gaze as he sauntered back toward her. What a difference a few minutes could make. His return expression was hard, all steely eyed and lockjawed, as if his moment of concern were a major lapse in judgment. One he now regretted.

She hid her disappointment by turning a smile on Sloan McCaffrey. Sloan took it as a come-on and shifted his chair closer, so the chrome legs of both overlapped.

“You single?” he immediately asked.

McCaffrey wasn’t aware of her history with Stryke. Apparently locker room gossip had died before he’d joined the team.

She broke off a piece of her scone and took a small bite. “Most certainly am.”

“Interested in more than coffee?” he asked, openly making a move on her in front of his teammates. He was all Rogue, assuming she’d go weak in the knees to date him.

Sloan was younger than she by several years; his life experience didn’t equal her own. Taylor sought maturity.

Psycho immediately put Sloan in his place. “The lady’s a thrill seeker. She’s fearless. Taylor doesn’t flirt with men, only with danger. Danger that would make you piss your pants.”

Sloan wasn’t the least bit put off by Psycho. He leaned his elbows on the table, his shoulder brushing Taylor’s own. “Extreme sports are a turn-on. I’m looking for an adrenaline addiction. The lady looks like a total free fall.”

“Book a trip at Thrill Seekers, two doors down,” suggested Zen “Einstein” Driscoll. A tall, lean man, he was known for his intensity, intelligence, and skill as a shortstop. “Taylor’s the best guide around.”

“I’ll stop in sometime,” Sloan said, probably expecting her to hold her breath until he showed. “Maybe book a trip for the off-season.”

If he did come to Thrill Seekers, looking for more than an outdoor adventure, Taylor would set her sister, Eve, on him. Eve knew who was showboating and who was serious, and her sarcasm shriveled a man’s danglers.

Taylor sensed that Sloan wasn’t a bad guy. He just came on too strong. She had the ability to read people quickly; she had to in her business. A person showed his true colors within seconds of facing down a mountain or running with the bulls in Pamplona. She knew when to push a man forward or pull him back from disaster.

McCaffrey was a diamond in the rough. His white T-shirt had yellowed around the collar, and he needed a shave. He was the type of man who didn’t stick around long enough for a woman to add bleach to his wash nor Downy to the rinse cycle. Softness wasn’t a part of his life.

When he fell for a woman, he’d fall hard.

Taylor wasn’t about to encourage his attention.

She handed the conversation over to Psycho, allowing the players to talk statistics and upcoming games.

Thirty minutes passed quickly. She sensed more than saw Stryke’s gaze on her. His occasional glance was nerve-racking. Jacy eventually rejoined the group. The discussion shifted to wives and children. Jacy admitted she and Risk were working on a family.
Work
drew Risk’s grin. Taylor foresaw beautiful babies in their future.

Seconds later, when Psycho gestured with his left hand, Taylor caught the flash of his gold wedding band. The wild man had gotten married.

Poking Psycho in the ribs, she wished him well. “Congratulations. Who’s the lady?”

“I married my restoration designer, Keely Douglas.” Heat flashed in his eyes as he spoke of his woman. “I took on a deteriorating Colonial, two orphaned Newfound-lands, and the spirit of Col. William Lowell. Keely pulled our lives together.”

“Romeo and Chaser have also married,” Jacy told her. “Last year Romeo backed into sports reporter Emerson Kent on Media Day during a team brawl. After a rough start, she found him newsworthy, and he stopped running from the press. Chaser married his longtime neighbor, Jen Reid.”

Taylor hadn’t met either Keely or Emerson, but she knew Jen. The woman had a dancer’s body and a positive outlook. She’d prove a stable force in Chaser’s life.

Life had moved forward for these men. They’d found women to love. Everyone seemed so damn happy.

Everyone but her.

The scrape of a chair turned the players’ attention to Stryke. He stood now, tall and imposing as he folded his newspaper, then pushed in his chair.

Sloan McCaffrey broke the silence rule. He made the mistake of drawing the starting pitcher into their conversation. “Maybe I could talk Stryke into ice climbing this winter. Inside his locker he has half a picture of his climb in the Canadian Rockies.”

Half a picture?
Taylor’s heart slowed, then sank. Brek Stryker had cut her out of a scene once snatched from the gods who guarded improbable ascents. At three thousand feet, their guide had snapped photographs over his shoulder, amazing pictures of her and Stryke against a vertical sweep of ice and gray sky.

It had been an exhilarating climb—a climb that could have damaged his pitching arm, perhaps ended his career. Yet Stryke had taken up the challenge—for her. They’d faced nature at its rawest. At the end of the day they’d both been half-frozen. It had taken a bottle of brandy, a roaring fire in their bedroom at the lodge, as well as skin-on-skin friction for them to thaw out.

They’d produced friction four times that night.

A duplicate of the picture taken that day remained in her scrapbook, along with countless other photographs of them hang gliding, kite surfing, and deep-sea diving.

Stryke loved sand and sunshine. No man looked better in a pair of Hawaiian-print swim trunks, mirrored sunglasses, and a dark tan. Women worshiped him in a wet suit.

Now, as he passed the players’ table, Stryke slowed. He looked from Taylor to Sloan and gave a self-deprecating shake of his head. “You enjoy the climb,” he told the reliever. “I’ve done Thrill Seekers. Once was more than enough.” And he kept on walking.

The finality of his statement shook her. She turned slightly, watching until he’d reached the door, a man with an athletic stride and a definite purpose: to get as far away from her as was humanly possible.

She’d disrupted his morning coffee, as well as his mental preparation for the game. When they’d been together, she’d practiced silence on days he’d started. She’d left him to his world of visualizing pitches and the batters he would face.

Next time she saw his SUV parked at Jacy’s Java, she’d return to Thrill Seekers and brew her own pot of coffee. Or better yet, send Eve for the iced latte.

Newspapers touted 2008 as Stryke’s year to break records and secure his place in Cooperstown’s National Baseball Hall of Fame.

The man deserved to win games and be honored for his achievements. No major-league pitcher had his rifle-arm precision. Brek set the standard for fastballs.

Taylor wouldn’t interfere with his goals.

Stryke was on his way to becoming a legend.

Three hours later, Brek Stryker was throwing shit. Bottom of the third, and his pitches were wild, so high and wide, the Ottawa batters counted four balls and took their walk.

Catcher Chase Tallan had trotted to the mound to help clear Stryke’s head of all distractions. Stryke blamed Taylor Hannah for his inability to focus. He’d let her get to him once again.

She’d thrown him off his game.

He was about to self-destruct.

He wished he could rewind time, delete the twenty minutes he’d spent with her in the mascot lounge prior to the game.

He’d made a major mistake in playing Good Samaritan, an act he couldn’t take back. He’d gone and offered Taylor six ProSeries ice wraps. The compression packs would keep her body cool inside the costume.

She’d stood and stared at him in her white tank top and black short-shorts, her sea green gaze wide and startlingly soft. She’d nodded her appreciation, then proceeded to Velcro the wraps over her pulse points.

Stryke had avoided touching her until the very last wrap that wound behind her knee. The Velcro had stuck to her ACE bandage. Unable to reach the back of the strap, she’d asked for his help. He’d hunkered down, dipped his head, and avoided a direct visual of her crotch. Amber Nude had seduced him, the fragrance drawing him closer to her body. He’d resisted, fought her scent and nearness as he’d quickly adjusted the ProS-eries pack.

Taylor had shifted against the cold. Her stance had widened just enough for his thumb to graze her inner thigh—a thigh he’d stroked and kissed a thousand times on his way to her sweet spot.

Feeling and not thinking, he’d stretched his thumb higher, skimming the skin at the hem of her short-shorts . . . sinfully soft skin that seemed to invite his touch.

Her lips had parted.

His jaw had set.

They’d both gone still as stone.

He’d wished the moment back. He’d have sold his soul not to have touched her. But he had.

Shooting to his feet, he’d fled from the mascot lounge. The ice wraps would protect her from heat exhaustion. She could finish dressing on her own.

The mascot’s appearance on the third-base line coincided with Stryke’s walk from the bullpen to the mound. The fans loved Rally. It didn’t matter if the fuzz ball tripped, dipped, or couldn’t walk a straight line; the crowd applauded Rally’s efforts.

Stryke willed the mascot beyond his peripheral vision. Rally finally rolled out of sight yet remained on his mind.

Now, with two batters on base, the catcher signaled for a fastball.

Brek dipped his head, wound up, delivered.

“
Strike!
” was called by the home-plate umpire.

He exhaled sharply. It was about damn time. He was back in the game—a game that went to the bottom of the fifth before loud hisses from the stands echoed in the dugout. Seated alone at the far end of the bench, Stryke hadn’t a clue as to what was causing disfavor with the fans.

The top of the Rogues’ order was ready to bat. Psycho McMillan stood in the batter’s box. Romeo Bellisaro was on deck. The Rogues led the game, four to two. The crowd should be cheering, not booing.

He cut Risk Kincaid a look. The center fielder shrugged, got to his feet, and joined his teammates at the dugout railing.

“Roll left; lead with your right.” Psycho cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Punch him in the beak.”

A fight?
The scuffle sounded nearby. Water bottles and soda cans now flew from the lower deck. Play was called as the batboys and groundskeepers dashed to clean up the debris.