Strike Zone (28 page)

She played it light, but her heart was heavy. “We’re both recovered from our injuries. I thought you might like your space back. You’re neat. I’m messy. My undies drape the shower rod, my shoes and clothes live outside the closet, and I forget to make the bed.” She sighed. “I’m not part of your lifestyle, Brek. Say the word, and I’ll pack.”

A hardness etched the corners of his eyes. “Is that what you want?”

“I want what’s best for you.”

He ran his hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “I’m stuck in the moment,” he finally admitted. “I can’t go back; yet forward brings me full circle.”

Full circle meant loving her again.

His leap of faith stopped at the cliff’s edge.

She understood his reservation. He wasn’t ready for her. Might never be ready for her.

Restlessness stirred her soul.

She’d wanted his proposal.

He’d passed on their relationship.

Pain speared and split her in two.

How many times could a heart break and still beat? she wondered. Maybe this time she’d go completely numb. Feelings were overrated, she decided.

“We came together broken, and we’re walking away healed,” she managed. “Dr. Harper’s released me to the bunny hills. There’s fresh powder in Portillo.”

“Chile . . .” His expression shifted; his game face was on. Indifference shadowed his eyes. “You’re catching a flight, and I’m starting against the Raptors.”

Their silence stretched into forever. Neither wanted to look away, yet they both knew their time had come to an end—a very sad, soul-numbing end.

It was Taylor who slapped her hands against her thighs, then hopped off the stationary bike. “I need to make plans, run my schedule by Eve.”

Brek shook his head. “You’ve never adhered to a schedule in your life. You’re free-spirited, Taylor. If it feels right, do it. Make yourself happy. It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

She drew what seemed her last breath, licked dry lips. “You won’t ask me to stay?”

He shook his head. “If I were to ask, you’d have to answer. Your last response came from New South Wales. Long-distance relationships never worked for me.”

Tears pressed her eyelids. She blinked them back. “I love you, Stryke.” She might not have another chance to tell him. “I hate the fact that I ever hurt you. But I hurt myself too. Leaving you was my biggest mistake. You’re my only regret.”

She clutched her hands behind her back to still their trembling. “You may not break records this year, but there’s always the next. You’re the most talented pitcher to come along in decades. There’s no one better.”

“You’re the thrill seeker who makes hearts race,” he replied. “No one downhills like you do. You white-water raft, mountain climb, dare incredible odds, and live to tell about it. You’re a battery pack of energy. And utterly fearless.”

She was scared spitless. She hated feeling alone and vulnerable. Hated being at this crossroads of her life without signs to direct her course.

Only after the silence grew oppressively long, and words failed them both, did Taylor approach Brek.

She stared at him, holding on to the moment.

He bent and kissed her.

She kissed him back as if it were the last kiss of her life.

Tears fell as she flicked her wrist in farewell, the saddest good-bye ever.

She remained alert to Brek’s voice should he call her back. Disheartening silence followed her out the door.

Late-afternoon rain was forecast. Clouds gathered dark and gloomy, a mirror of Brek Stryker’s mood as he warmed up in the bullpen prior to the game.

“Hand looks strong.” Sloan McCaffrey stood against the fence. “Good surgeon. Dedicated rehab.”

Rehab. The squeeze. Brek’s frustration with the rubber ball, followed by the pleasure of Taylor Hannah’s breast. She’d brought new meaning to recovery. Her breast had filled his palm, soft and pliant. He’d squeezed and kneaded, and his hand had healed.

He broke into a sweat.

And the baseball rolled out of his glove.

He gave his head a clearing shake.

“Thanks for getting me into the rotation.” Sloan retrieved the ball and tossed it back to Brek.

Brek refused the credit. “You earned it.”

Sloan shaded his eyes with his hand, scanning the third-base line. “Addie, Edwin, and Eve are in the stands today. They’re supporting your comeback.”

“Taylor?” he had to ask.

Sloan couldn’t meet his eyes. “Eve mentioned snow and Andean slopes. Taylor pulled her skis, booked a flight.”

She was gone. Again.

Brek knew the truth: Taylor needed her freedom. Had she opened her heart to him, she’d have found an eternity of space. His forever would have allowed her to travel, to seek thrills, to know where to find him when she tired of hotels and adventures.

She belonged with him.

Maybe he should have requested that she stay. Yet he’d wanted her to remain without his asking. That was the only way he’d ever know she truly loved him.

She was halfway around the world by now.

He was off his game.

An aimless emptiness settled deep. He felt gutted to the core.

Taylor continued to cross his mind at the most inopportune moments. Her memory was so alive, he could reach out and touch her.

His uneasy state of mind seemed to be echoed by his teammates’. His concentration lagged, and defense played in slow motion. The outfield made errors. The Ottawa Raptors loaded the bases with two line drives and a walk. Their top hitter now stood in the batter’s box.

That was when catcher Chase Tallan called time and trotted toward Brek. Pitching coach Danny Young followed. A conference was held on the mound.

“How’s your hand? Need relief?” Young asked, concerned.

Brek flexed his fingers.

His hand was in good shape.

It was his heart that hurt like hell.

“I’m in it for another inning,” he told Young.

“You do know the bases are loaded?” Chase demanded.

Loaded, with no outs. Brek still had fight left in him. He had to dig deep and find it. He nodded to Chase, and the catcher jogged back to home plate. Danny Young returned to the dugout.

Brek Stryker inhaled. Exhaled. Focused.

He couldn’t let real-life issues interfere with his concentration. The team had too much at stake.

He pulled it together. Found the strike zone.

He retired the next three batters. The fans roared and rocked the stadium.

In the dugout, Kason Rhodes challenged the Bat Pack. “Fifty down the line?”

Psycho’s grunt entered him in Rhodes’s contest. Whatever Rhodes hit from leadoff, the Bat Pack had to either match or beat. Usually Rhodes pocketed more than he paid out.

Rhodes slapped the first two pitches foul.

“Straighten the son of a bitch out,” Brek heard Psycho growl from down the bench. Psycho didn’t mind paying out when it benefited the team.

Rhodes straightened it out, all right. He airmailed the ball to the nearest post office, then rounded the bases at a dead run.

Rhodes jabbed a finger at Psycho on the on-deck circle. “Match it.”

Brek shook his head. Rhodes stood on the outside looking in. He wasn’t accepted, but nor was he ostracized. He just hadn’t yet found his fit with the organization. He taunted Psycho. And Psycho went for Rhodes’s throat.

Yet they played together to win. The Rogues led their division. They ranked first in the National League East. Winning was everything to these men. They wanted home-park advantage in the playoffs.

Brek watched as Psycho powered a hit deep into center. The ball hit the wall and gave him a triple.

Rhodes’s smirk drove Romeo Bellisaro to bring Psycho home. Romeo jacked the ball into the upper deck in left field.

The Rogues led three to nothing.

Chase Tallan didn’t fare as well. He went down on strikes, as did the next two batters.

Top of the fifth, Brek rolled his shoulders and stood, ready to return to the mound. He’d hit the first step when he heard Romeo say, “Mascot brawl. Rappy’s the meanest mascot in the league. The bird’s on the third-base line taunting Rally Ball again.”

“Word got out that Charlie Bradley has the flu,” Risk Kincaid said. “Rappy’s making fun of Charlie’s upset stomach and frequent trips to the john.”

“Where’s security?” asked shortstop Zen Driscoll. “The Raptor needs to be bounced.”

Brek looked at the mascots. Rappy’s long plastic bird toes now tromped Rally’s oversize blue sneakers. There was pushing and shoving, and significant ball butting.

For a man not feeling well, Charlie was holding his own. He wasn’t backing down. He was all steam and jab.

Rally Ball kicked out, connecting with the Raptor’s shin. Rappy flapped his wings and hopped about on one big bird foot.

The Raptor then swiped his wing at Rally’s knees.

Rally Ball jumped and cleared the feathered wingtip.

Risk lifted a brow. “Charlie can’t jump. Man’s got bad ankles.”

“Bad ankles, girlie thighs,” Psycho observed as he slipped on his sunglasses. “Bradley needs to bulk up.”

Girlie thighs.
Brek narrowed his gaze on Rally. His heart slammed so hard it jarred his entire chest.

Taylor Hannah had hopped a flight for Chile. No way could she be on the field, blocking punches, displaying fancy footwork, and going after Rappy with a vengeance. It just wasn’t possible.

The mascot scuffle brought the crowd to its feet.

Rappy got in one good wing slap, and Rally Ball wobbled and nearly went down. The Rogues’ mascot lost a sneaker. Rally’s foot was narrow, the fuzz ball’s toes painted red.

“Kinky, Charlie,” Psycho commented.

Brek’s entire body seized.

Taylor.
Déjà vu pressed him to move and move fast. He cut through his teammates and charged to Rally Ball’s defense.

Risk Kincaid had his back.

Taylor didn’t need their help. By the time the men arrived, she’d belly-butted the Raptor and climbed onto his big, wide feet. Her momentum knocked the bird flat on his back.

The two mascots hit the ground rolling.

Taylor was first to rise. She placed one sneakered foot on the Raptor’s wing and held the bird down. She raised her arms in victory.

The fans went ballistic.

Beer and soda sprayed. Popcorn hit the air like confetti. Whistles and war whoops shrieked like sirens.

“Way to go, champ,” Risk congratulated her.

Security arrived, and Taylor released the Raptor.

“Charlie is not a puke face,” she hissed as the bird was led away. “Brek Stryker does not throw like a girl.”

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Risk stepped aside.

Alone amid a crowd of eighty thousand.

Brek tuned out the noise and focused on Taylor Hannah. The mascot’s roundness pressed against him, sweet and intimate. And very fuzzy.

The eye slits revealed Taylor’s sea green gaze, soft and hopeful. “I came back,” she told him.

“So I see. You and Rappy put on quite a show.”

He caught her smile. “I kicked Raptor butt. No one bad-mouths you or Charlie.”

“You’ve always stood up for just causes.”

“That’s why I’m here, Stryke. To stand up for us.”

His breath locked in his chest.
Us.
The word conjured up others: couple, family, permanence. “What about Chile?”

“I never made it to the airport,” she confessed. “James River Stadium held more appeal than downhill. I called Charlie Bradley and asked if I could be Rally. He said he was sick and that I could take over as soon as I arrived at the park.”

He leaned in and briefly captured Taylor’s lips through the mouth slit, sealing her homecoming.

Cameras flashed—big, blinding flashes. His moment with Rally was captured for all time. He didn’t care. He’d locate a reporter after the game and give an exclusive on himself and Taylor, his soon-to-be wife.

Risk Kincaid tapped his shoulder. “Home-plate umpire’s called delay of game. Go be Rally, Fearless. Stryke’s needed on the mound.”

“Mascot love won’t beat Ottawa.” Kason Rhodes tossed Brek his glove as he headed for left field. “Can we have our pitcher back?”

Taylor touched Brek’s arm. “Mascot lounge, seventh inning?”

Brek agreed. Quickly, he wrapped up the fifth inning: three men up, three men down. Consecutive outs followed in the sixth and seventh. He then retreated to the locker room.

He called to the trainer, indicating that he’d ice his shoulder and hand shortly. Within seconds he stood outside the mascot lounge, the place where he’d first confronted Taylor. It was now where he’d commit his life to her, this time for keeps.

He wanted her as much as he wanted a career in baseball. Scoring with her was as important as breaking National League records.

The records could wait.

Taylor could not.

He entered the lounge, only to find the room empty. The fuzz ball lay in a heap in the middle of the floor, the long-sleeved striped shirt, tights, and blue sneakers shed on the way to the shower. A discarded navy bra and matching boy shorts were visible through the crack of the bathroom door.

Brek secured the main lock, then stripped off his Rogues uniform.

The sound of running water drew him to Taylor.

He joined her in the shower. The water ran hot, a sauna for their bodies. The haze of steam played off her nipples and teased her hip bones as the water streamed over her breasts and slipped between her legs.

He wanted to do the same.

They came together, gifted with a fresh start. They planned to make every second count.

He shampooed her hair. She lathered shower gel all over his body. And sex became slippery.

They clung all the tighter.

Their hearts pulsed and their kisses reached.

Because he had no protection, Brek limited himself to a whole lot of touching. Their hands worked each other’s bodies until both could barely stand.

The mounting tension drew Taylor up on tiptoe. She let herself go the exact instant Brek’s hips pumped his release.

Shortly thereafter, they leaned against the shower wall, facing each other. The water remained as warm as their final pants of pleasure.

Brek looked at Taylor, a woman liquid from their lovemaking, a soft smile on her lips. A newfound peace surrounded her. She was exactly where she wanted to be—with him, right now, in the mascot shower.