“Definitely not himself.” Third baseman Romeo Bellisaro stepped into a pair of knife-creased khakis. “Man’s lost weight. His tights are baggy.”
“He grunts like a girl.” Psycho slipped on a black T-shirt scripted with
Nude
’
Tude
. The man preferred to be naked.
Stryke stared at his teammates. “Bullshit.”
“No joke,” Sloan returned. “Charlie was all over the baseline today, tipping and tripping like he was drunk.”
“Man doesn’t drink.” Stryke knew that for a fact. Bradley was a seasoned mascot and a good friend.
“Does he wear nail polish? Perfume?” asked Sloan.
Stryke shook his head. “Never happen.”
Sloan lowered his voice and nodded toward their mascot. “You’re the team captain. Walk by Rally. Red nails and do-me perfume.”
Stryke didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had dinner plans with his fiancée and her parents. Punctuality was part of the program. He didn’t need to be held up by a team prank.
Bare chested, his black silk boxers low on his hips, he sauntered toward Rally Ball. The mascot froze, then began to back up—slowly at first, then much more quickly. Ten steps, and Rally bumped and bounced off a wall and banged into Stryke’s chest.
They both grew still as the red stitching pressed his pecs. A too-close-for-comfort brush between men. Stryke nudged the mascot back. Annoyance filled his growl. “What the hell, Charlie?”
Wiggle. Wiggle. Rally Ball squirmed, once again rubbing Stryke with fuzz and stitching. The mascot’s roundness now grazed his abdomen and groin.
Whoa, buddy. Way too familiar.
Stryke grabbed the mascot’s arms. Slender, toned arms, not burly, like those of Charlie Bradley.
He looked down at the fuzz ball’s hands. Clawa- man’s-back red tipped the nails on clenched fingers. Confused, he pulled back and openly stared at the mascot’s red-and-blue tights.
Baggy tights, all wrinkled at the knees and pooling at the ankles. The blue Converse high-tops looked big and clumsy, like clown shoes.
There was no scent of sweat on Charlie today. Only a heady sensual fragrance, all sunshine and warm-the-sheets sexy: Amber Nude, a scent he recognized from long ago. The cologne had once seduced and driven him crazy on the neck of . . .
His jaw locked, and his gaze narrowed on the eye slits of the costume. Wide, uncertain, sea green eyes replaced the brown of Bradley’s.
Taylor Hannah.
Stryke’s heart slammed and his body tightened. He swore he’d have a crippling charley horse or a full-blown coronary. Three years had passed since she’d left him at the altar. Instead of an ivory lace gown, she now faced him in a fuzz ball costume.
He shook his head disbelievingly. “No way in hell.”
He was a man who used his body competitively, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Time lengthened as he stood stunned and rigid. Not until Psycho yelled, “Need help?” did Stryke’s breath hiss through his teeth, releasing him to take action.
“I’m fine,” he shouted over his shoulder as he grabbed Taylor by the elbow, more roughly than he’d intended. He half walked, half dragged her down the hallway to the mascot lounge.
Once inside, he slammed the door so hard the glass shook. He jerked down the shade and turned the lock. Before him now, Taylor stood stiffly, her arms crooked over her rounded sides, her legs braced.
“Damn, woman, this has to be the stupidest stunt ever,” he snarled. “What are you doing here? And why are you dressed as Rally?”
Taylor had to agree with Brek Stryker—this was a stupid stunt. She hadn’t rallied well. The costume was big, bulky, and sauna hot. Despite her flexibility and coordination, she’d spent more time weaving and wobbling than rousing the fans. Had it not been for a bat boy coming to her rescue, she’d have rolled into the Rogues’ dugout.
At game’s end, she’d gotten caught in the players’ exit. She’d staggered down the steps, struggled along the tunnel, then stumbled through the set of double doors that led to the locker room. The room was deep and wide and modern.
Rally Ball had
roll
. Before she’d found a hiding place, she’d wobbled around and gotten an eyeful.
Broad shoulders.
Bare chests.
Six-packs.
Tattoos.
Athletic supporters.
And penises. So many penises.
While Taylor embraced life and all its experiences, her pulse rioted and her entire body blushed. From behind the low partition, she’d witnessed men in all states of undress. All handsome as hell and comfortable in their skin.
She wasn’t a prude. She did, however, know better than to invade an entire team’s privacy. She’d shut her eyes.
Eventually, the scents of soap and aftershave replaced that of sweaty male bodies. She’d peered through the eye slits and noticed that most of the Rogues now wore boxers or briefs. A few let freedom ring. All around her the men discussed their evening plans. She knew many of the older players from the time she’d dated Stryke: Risk Kincaid, Zen Driscoll, and the Bat Pack—Psycho, Romeo, and Chaser, who played catcher. The younger players she recognized from the occasional sports magazine and televised game.
Locating Brek had been easy. At six-foot-four and testosterone driven, he was the embodiment of baseball. A pitcher like him came along only every twenty, maybe thirty years. Few batters laid wood on his blazing fastball and sharp slider. He’d won the Cy Young Award five times, as well as seven Gold Gloves.
He had a strong presence both on and off the field, maintaining a variety of business, charity, and personal interests in the community.
Rogues fans loved him. Bred and born in Richmond, he was one of their own. Once, he’d belonged to her.
An unexpected sigh had escaped as she’d taken him in, from his cropped brown hair to the bold line of his eyebrows. Sun lines slashed near his eyes. His cheeks were lean, his chin formidable.
She’d stared openly at his athletic build, from the breadth of his shoulders to his size-fourteen feet. The shadowed shift of his sex between his thighs flirted with her as he’d toweled off and tugged on his boxers.
The man was generously sized.
He looked hot in his Rogues uniform. Hotter still in silk boxers. She’d wondered if he remained ticklish just below his ribs. If he would still get hard if she blew softly on his belly.
It had taken Psycho’s snap of the towel and a nod in her direction for Taylor to blink. She’d known the moment Stryke looked her way that she was in deep-ass trouble. She should have left the locker room the moment she’d entered, but the possibility of seeing him up close had swayed her heart to stay.
Stryke was a total man-bite, so delectable a woman could nibble on him all night long. Years ago she’d nibbled, nuzzled, sucked . . . and fallen in love.
Love was not in the air now.
“Remove the costume
.
” His deep, rough tone sliced through her thoughts and resonated low in her belly. His dark look indicated that if she didn’t move fast, he’d rip the costume off her body.
So be it. If the man could stand before her in his boxers, she might as well strip down to her sports bra and panties. Charlie Bradley had warned her when she’d rented the costume to wear next to nothing inside Rally. In no more than Barely There underwear, she’d still perspired profusely. She swore she’d lost five pounds.
So much for her best-laid plans. The silence was getting on her nerves. Sweat dripped off her brow and onto her eyelids. Her eyes burned and would soon be bloodshot.
She toed off the high-tops, then went to work on the long stretch of zipper that ran beneath her left armpit, down and over the curve of her hip. A zipper that soon stuck below her breast.
Frustrated and all thumbs, she twisted, strained, and swore beneath her breath as the metal teeth bit and bruised her skin. It had been so much easier getting into the costume than it was getting out.
“Little help here,” she finally requested.
Stryke bent toward her. “Raise your arm.”
Up went her arm and down came his hand. His knuckles brushed the soft underside of her breast as he prodded and pulled on the zipper. Her nipple puckered and her heart pounded so hard and fast, her chest hurt. The slide of the metal teeth soon bared her to him. She caught the shift of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes as he stood back and watched her peel off the costume down to her black bra and matching boy shorts.
She felt like a stripper. The slide of the red-and-blue sleeves down her arms, followed by the unrolling of the baggy tights, held his slate blue gaze. As did the big bruise on her inner thigh and the ACE bandage that wrapped her left knee. She’d taken a tumble on the slopes her last day on La Meije. Her mind had been on Stryke and not the sharp dogleg that made the mountain treacherous.
Now, beneath a flickering overhead light, they both stood in their underwear. The situation was as familiar as it was strange, because both their lives had changed. She was seeking his forgiveness, and he looked far from forgiving.
Nudging the costume aside with her foot, she curled her bare toes against the white-tiled floor. She waited for Stryke to meet her gaze.
He finally looked up. His expression was stone cold.
She shivered. Long gone was any hint of a smile, any ounce of warmth. The man was closed to her.
The moment stretched, thinned, finally broke when he demanded, “Where’s Charlie Bradley?”
“I have no idea.” Which was the truth. “I offered him three hundred dollars to rent Rally for the weekend. He mumbled something about overdue child support and a trip to Norfolk.”
“You
rented
Rally?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she went on the offensive. “You have a problem with that?”
Confusion creased his brow. “Why would you pull such a stunt?”
Because I heard you were getting married and wanted to
see you one last time as a single man.
“I seek thrills.”
He snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
He deserved an explanation. “I arranged to have a cab bring me here and entered the stadium through the gate near the bullpen. Security let me pass with a flash of Charlie’s identification badge. The guards believed I was their veteran mascot. The taxi driver was going to pick me up after the game. I’d planned to sneak out of the park without anyone noticing. Winding up in the locker room was a fluke.”
“What brought you to Richmond?” He’d drawn a line between them, and she was trespassing in his town.
She had the perfect excuse. “Addie’s birthday. My grandmother turns eighty next weekend. Eve and I are throwing her a party.”
“After the party?”
“Desert hiking across the Sahara.”
“Pack sunscreen.”
She’d be less exposed then than she was now. “Any chance I could borrow a pair of your sweats?” she asked. “I hadn’t planned to get caught, nor to face you. I was going to wear the costume home, not strip down to my underwear in the mascot lounge.”
Brek Stryker ran one hand down his face. He and Taylor stood in an uncomfortable and compromising position. Even though the door was locked, the trainers and maintenance men had keys. Someone could walk in at any time. He was an engaged man. Being caught nearly naked with a previous fiancée would trigger gossip he didn’t need. He wanted Taylor gone.
He took in her tousled blond bangs, sea green eyes, and kissable lips. Years ago, he’d never missed an opportunity to make love to her mouth.
He wondered if she still tasted like the cherry jelly beans she’d always carried in her pocket.
Shaking off the thought, he said, “I’ll see what I have in my locker.”
Tension hummed through his body and echoed in his ears as he left the lounge. His muscles remained so tight, he felt like the Tin Man.
He found the locker room empty, his teammates long gone. He had fifty minutes to cut Taylor from his life and connect with his fiancée.
Hilary Louise had been on his mind when Psycho snapped his towel and nodded toward Rally. She was a soft-spoken woman, sweet and unassuming, and always available when he called.
Employed by her uncle, Hilary dealt in stocks and bonds and investment portfolios. Outside of work, she gardened and dabbled in pastels. She’d never once proved a distraction to him.
That he valued most. She made no demands on his life. Hilary didn’t follow baseball, yet she understood his need to succeed. This was the year he could surpass several major-league records held by his father, Derek, who’d once pitched professionally for the Ottawa Raptors.
Sportscasters were eating up the father-son statistics. With each start, they pulled out the record book, ready to write his name one line above his old man’s.
Stryke needed every ounce of concentration.
It was time to best his father. And Derek would be cheering him on loudest of anyone in the stands.
Facing Taylor had resurrected old times and bad memories. His first glimpse of her had hit so fast, he hadn’t had time to brace himself. She’d gutted him once again.
He hated the fact that her thrill seeking affected him so strongly. He’d be counting down the days to her North African departure. Lifting a white T-shirt and pair of gray sweatpants from his locker, he returned to the mascot lounge. He tossed her his clothes.
“Shower and dress,” he said flatly.
“And you’ll show me the door?”
He nodded. “I’ll be in the locker room when you’ve finished.”
“Maybe then we can talk.”
Talk? No way in hell.
“I’ve nothing to say to you, Taylor.”
“I owe you an explanation.”
“You’re three years too late.”
She looked as if she were about to argue the point, but instead remained silent—for which he was grateful. There wasn’t a reason she could give that would set things right between them. Not after all this time.
His life with her was over.
From the corner of his eye, he watched her walk to the mascot shower. Her banged-up body surprised him. He’d caught the bruises and ACE bandage on her knee. He’d tamped down his concern. She could take care of herself.
Taylor shut the door, and his breath rushed out. It took little imagination on his part to visualize her movements. He’d watched her undress countless times when they’d lived together. At that very moment, she’d be unfastening her bra. She had a slow, sexy way of slipping the straps off her shoulders that allowed her breasts to fall freely from the cups. She’d raise her arms over her head and stretch out her spine until it cracked, then draw down her boy shorts.