Strike Zone (5 page)

His concentration broken, Stryke stood up and moved to the dugout steps to get a better look. It didn’t take long for him to locate the commotion. Before God and eighty thousand fans, the Raptors’ mascot circled Rally, taunting, poking, and pushing the fuzz ball.

“Rappy’s been picking on Rally from the first pitch,” Chase Tallan informed Stryke. “The bird’s got a wild feather up its ass.”

“Thought Charlie was an amateur boxer.” Risk’s words hit Stryke full in the gut. “The man’s slapping like a girl.”

Slapping like a girl.
Just beyond third base, Rappy—an enormous bird with a hooked beak and a wide wingspan—swooped in on Rally Ball. The Raptor wing-slapped Rally. Rally belly-bounced the bird.

Rally’s roundness limited the mascot’s motion.

Rappy danced around Rally, making the fuzz ball look bad. Sticking out an enormous plastic foot, Rappy tripped Rally. Rally wobbled, then went down, landing on its back.

Rappy kicked the downed mascot with its long yellow bird toes. Rally rolled from side to side, but couldn’t gather the momentum to rise.

Stryke saw red and his control snapped.

He needed to get to Taylor.

Elbowing through his teammates, he hit the third-base line with a speed denied most pitchers. The Raptor saw him coming. Rappy gave a bring-it-on wiggle of its feathered fingertips. Stryke had the urge to pluck the bird.

He would have, had Risk Kincaid not had his back.

“Easy, man; Charlie can take care of himself,” Risk shouted over the roar of the crowd.

“Not Charlie,
Taylor
,” Stryke corrected.

“Fearless?” Kincaid spiked a brow. “What the—”

Rappy took that moment to poke Risk in the nose with a wing tip.

Kincaid took care of Beaky Boy.

And Stryke went down on one knee beside Taylor. Cameras clicked in a blinding flash, an irreversible Kodak moment. He and Rally would soon be plastered all over the sports section of the
Virginia Banner
, possibly even syndicated. He preferred being photographed on the mound, not hunkered down beside an arm-flailing, spitting-mad mascot.

“Damn, Taylor, you’re not keeping a low profile,” he gritted out. “This isn’t a sixth-grade playground. Get a grip.”

“Rappy started it,” she hissed through the mouth slit. “The bird dissed you. He’s all trash talk and profanity. He tripped me and I went down.” Her eyes flashed and her fists clenched. “I didn’t get in one good punch.”

Stryke grew still. However juvenile, the bird had badmouthed him and this seriously irate woman had jumped to his defense. Dressed as a baseball, she’d taken on a feathered mascot twice her size. She’d lost the battle, landed on her butt, and would be bruised tomorrow.

All because Rappy had called Stryke names.

He shook his head and asked, “You hurt?”

“The Raptor tripped me, and my knee gave out. Did you see his gigantic plastic feet? My only defense was these oversize high-tops. Every time I tried to kick Rappy, I’d roll backward.”

This could happen only to Taylor. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

Stryke rose, then pulled her to her feet.

Her knee turned in, unable to hold her weight.

He curved his arm around the fuzz ball and held her upright. He then called to the trainer. Jon Jamison crossed the field.

“Sprained knee,” Stryke told him.

Jamison nodded. “Let’s get you to the locker room, Charlie.”

Stryke and Taylor exchanged a look through the eye slits. Neither one corrected the trainer. The man was in for a little surprise. Painted toenails and shaved legs would be his first clues that Charlie wasn’t quite Charlie today.

Stryke brushed dirt off the fuzz ball’s rounded ass. Additional camera flashes blinded him with the reminder that he was touching a mascot that fans assumed was Charlie Bradley. His hand dropped before he dusted baseline chalk off Taylor’s thigh.

Supported by Jamison, Rally hopped off the field. The Rogues’ mascot got a standing ovation—a first in mascot history.

“How’s Taylor?” Risk Kincaid came to stand beside him.

“She’ll live. Her pride took as much of a tumble as the costume.”

“I’ve seen mascots taunt, but never go at it. Rappy must have really pissed her off.”

“Apparently he did.” Stryke had no desire to discuss the fight in detail. It was too personal. He tipped back his baseball cap and looked at his friend. “Thanks, man.”

Clubhouse buddies and close friends, he and Kincaid had been staunch allies over the years. Together they watched as a security guard ejected the Raptor from the game. At the gate, Rappy flipped Stryke the bird.

Shortly thereafter, Risk turned toward the dugout. “The grounds crew has restored order. Let’s get back to work.”

The two men jogged toward the dugout.

Following three consecutive Rogues strikeouts, Brek returned to the mound. Top of the sixth. He threw his ass off: fast windups, and quicker releases.

When the batter looked for a fastball, Brek threw a splinter. He pitched up and in, crowding the batter with curveballs.

Expletives rose from the batter’s box with each swing and miss. Bats were thrown and dirt kicked as Brek retired the heart of the Raptors order.

He brought his team up to six to two before reliever Sloan McCaffrey took the hill following the seventh-inning stretch. Brek then headed for the trainer’s table to have his shoulder iced—and to check on Taylor.

A red-faced Jon Jamison awaited him. “Jock hawk?” he guessed, questioning Brek about the woman inside the mascot costume.

Stryke shook his head. Taylor was the last woman to prey on players. “The lady replaced Charlie for the day,” was all he offered. “How’s her knee?”

“Swollen,” Jamison returned. “Looks like torn ligaments. She refused an X-ray.”

Stryke removed his jersey and undershirt and allowed the trainer to work on his shoulder. Once iced, he accepted a shoulder brace for added support. He then headed toward the mascot lounge.

He found Taylor all cushy and comfy in Charlie’s favorite overstuffed chair. She’d showered and changed into a vintage Orange Crush T-shirt and cutoff jeans. Her leg rested on the ottoman. Her knee was wrapped in cold compression packs. Her gaze was focused on the television mounted on the wall.

She cut him a glance. “McCaffrey’s throwing decent heat.”

“He’s our strongest reliever.”

She placed her hands on the armrest and pushed up, then winced. “Game’s almost over. I was just about to sneak out the players’ exit.”

“You have a ride?”

She nodded. “I’ve called Eve. By the time I reach the side gate, she’ll have arrived.”

“Need help?”

“I’ll manage. The trainer lent me crutches, which I’ll have Risk return. I won’t be back to the locker room. Nor the ballpark. Our paths won’t cross again, Stryke. I promise.”

“Works for me.” It worked so well his throat closed and his insides felt squeezed by a fist.

She looked at him then, long and hard. Her expression was a little sad as she eased to her feet. He handed her the crutches. Their fingertips brushed, light and quick, yet charged with sensation. “Have a super season,” she said softly. “And a happy marriage. I wish you well.”

Annoyance pricked, and his jaw set. He had every right to happiness, yet for some reason her good wishes rubbed salt in his old wounds.

He swung the door wide and she hobbled past. Her Amber Nude seduced him one last time. The fragrance drew forth memories of cool satin sheets and red-hot sex.

Memories that needed to die.

He propped one shoulder against the jamb and watched her slowly traverse the tunnel to the side exit. The dip of her head and the slump of her shoulders registered defeat.

He’d never seen her move so slowly.

She was dragging her feet, not wanting to leave.

A part of him wanted to go after her, to shake her and demand the reason she’d left him three years ago. While momentarily soft in the heart, he wasn’t soft in the head. Logic backed him up, turned him toward the future. He was engaged, about to settle down.

His fiancée expected him at a campaign fund-raiser for her father, the mayor, at seven. It was an election year. Stryke’s donation and endorsement would go a long way toward ensuring that the incumbent remained in office.

He’d stand by Hilary Louise, help her work the room. Her shyness charmed constituents.

It was small-talk-and-tuxedo time.

CHAPTER THREE

Brek Stryker sat at a linen-covered table in the ballroom of the Old Dominion Country Club and tried to focus on two conversations at once. To his right, City Councilwoman Marian Morris wanted his opinion on an upcoming tax hike for road improvements. On his left, the mayor’s secretary, Lucille Thayer, questioned the need for a sixth school board member. She felt five opinions prevented the possibility of a stalemate.

Across the room, he caught Wayne Talbott patting Hilary on the head like a child before sending her back to Stryke. Hilary was a grown woman, yet her father treated her as if she were twelve.

Brek watched her weave through the crowd. She looked soft and sophisticated in her gray suit. Her engagement ring was her only jewelry. Her honest eyes, shy smile, and unaffected innocence collected more votes for her father than any political slogan. She had a disarming sweetness that charmed supporters into donating heavily to the mayoral fund.

Her sincerity had drawn Stryke the moment he’d met her. She’d been at campaign headquarters when he’d dropped off his first donation. The incumbent backed the Boys and Girls Clubs of Richmond, an organization Stryke strongly supported.

Hilary had asked him several questions, then listened intently as he’d spoken about the importance of keeping kids off the street, of giving kids hope. Stryke volunteered at several of the clubs. He’d seen incredible promise and potential in the young athletes, many of whom faced insurmountable odds.

At the conclusion of their conversation, he’d asked Hilary to dinner. She’d blushed, smiled, and accepted. Her shyness had endeared her to him.

They’d gotten along well. There were no arguments or disagreements, merely a smooth coming together of minds—but not of bodies. Six months of dating, and they’d yet to have sex. The last time he’d tried to round second base, she’d gone all mannequin on him.

Stryke didn’t mind going slow. Hilary wanted time to know him fully before sharing his bed. He could live with that.

Her nose powdered and her lipstick reapplied, she returned to their table. In her wake came Stuart Tate, a small man, short on hair. As the mayor’s campaign manager, Tate was a name-dropper and walked in Wayne Talbott’s shadow. He’d latched onto Hilary, and she was too nice to shake him loose.

Stryke didn’t feel the same compulsion. Tate was a weasel. Stryke didn’t trust a man who couldn’t talk sports. Tate went blank when discussions turned to team standings, record setting, and salary caps.

He and Tate had nothing in common—except Hilary. The man drew his importance from the people he met. Hilary was introducing him to Richmond’s elite. There were enough millionaires in the ballroom to found a bank, and Tate hoped to grow rich by association.

Marian Morris rose, relinquishing her chair to Hilary. She slid in beside Brek. Tate didn’t think twice about stealing someone’s seat. He dropped down between Hilary and a portly man Stryke recognized as a prominent local contractor. The man looked ready to reconstruct Tate’s face.

Brek glanced at Hilary. “Reaping enough votes for your dad?”

All flushed and fluttery, Hilary tried to catch her breath. “I’m not good at small talk,” she confessed. “I understand my father’s political platform, but it’s difficult to discuss in depth.”

“You’re his secret weapon.” Stryke knew this to be true.

Throughout the campaign, he’d watched Talbott use his daughter to soften his own directness. Constituents were drawn to Hilary. She posed no threat, only offered reassurance that her father was the best man for the job.

Stuart Tate leaned around Hilary and looked pointedly at Stryke. “You working the jock vote?” he asked.

The jock vote?
“Sorry, I don’t discuss politics in the locker room,” he replied. He’d never apply pressure to any player to back a candidate—not even the father of his fiancée.

Over the past month, Brek had contributed heavily. He’d written three fat checks, all with five zeroes. He’d yet to see enough flyers, buttons, or banners to justify his donations. A flicker of concern had him wondering how the money was being spent.

Twice a week, Wayne Talbott’s face popped up on the tube during the late-late shows. The campaign commercials lasted all of fifteen seconds. They were so brief, the man barely had time to state his name and the fact that he was running for reelection. Talbott’s opponent, Scott Beatty, took sixty-second spots, laying out his platform and making promises in short but efficient sound bites.

Stryke had attended five fund-raisers thus far. Expenses had been spared on the meals, all child-portioned. He hadn’t expected to be fattened up, but he’d walked away hungry. He always grabbed a sandwich at Jacy’s Java on his way home.

He now pressed his hand to Hilary’s thigh, then lowered his voice. “We’ll talk a fourth donation when I have you alone.”

Will the donation go up as I work down your body?

His breath hissed through his teeth as Taylor’s—not Hilary’s—voice whispered in his ear, all sexy and sultry and teasing.

“You look tense,” Hilary said, concerned. “I’d thought you’d be relaxed after your win today.”

He stretched out his legs beneath the table. “The team played well. We’re starting the season strong.”

“The late-afternoon addition of the
Virginia Banner
pictured you and Rally Ball on the lower half of the front page,” Stuart Tate put in. For a man who blanked on sports, he was suddenly animated. “The article mentioned that the mascot took a beating.”

Those words would tick Taylor off. She held her own in most situations. He’d never known her to fall until today, when she’d been unfairly tripped by the plastic-toed Raptor.

“Rappy tripped Rally.” Stryke found himself defending Taylor. “The Raptor was twice the fuzz ball’s size.”