Hilary smiled up at the ceiling. “Brek will shit a brick when the city budget cuts eliminate those clubs.”
“Cross Brek Stryker, and he’ll be a force to reckon with.” Stuart raised himself on one elbow, looking down at her. “We need to pull back. Your sweetness and dedication can’t hold him now. There’s a shift in the wind. Her name is Taylor Hannah.”
Stuart was right. In their earliest days together, Stryke had been drawn to her shyness and stability. Those attributes had held him once, but wouldn’t over time.
He’d had no closure with Taylor. It was obvious she still lived in Brek’s heart and mind. Hilary couldn’t shut the woman out. The starting pitcher needed more than a gentle smile and a soft touch. He needed Taylor Hannah.
The thrill seeker exuded a beauty born of self-confidence and good genes. Men would always do a double take when they saw her. They’d stand taller, suck in their guts, and wish they had nine-inch dicks.
No woman would stand up to a comparison. Taylor’s natural beauty made cosmetics obsolete. No female deserved cheekbones so sharp, nor a mouth so lush that men would fantasize over her kiss.
Hilary punched her fists into the mattress and admitted, “Brek’s grown restless. The man has needs.”
She’d felt those needs in his embrace. He’d never pushed her for sex; an occasional kiss satisfied him. Until now. She could tell by his increased heat, the constant flexing of his muscles, the ridge beneath his dress slacks, that he was a man needing his woman.
Ring or no ring, Hilary was not Stryke’s woman.
She was committed to Stuart Tate.
Her plan was to leave before election night. She and Stuart would be long gone by the time her father read his concession speech. He had no chance of winning. Wayne Talbott was old and out of touch with today.
His opponent, Scott Beatty, was young, innovative, and presented himself well. His television ads spoke to the people; his radio time was carefully calculated to capture the most listeners.
Hilary had purposely limited her father’s communications to fifteen seconds. Less money spent on media meant more money in her pocket. She’d sold her father out.
There’d be a landslide vote in Beatty’s favor.
Hilary would applaud his win from Central America.
Rogues verse Colonels. Louisville, Kentucky. The stadium shook with shouts and foot stomping. The sellout crowd was as frenzied and loud as at any World Series championship.
Bottom of the ninth, and Brek Stryker stood on the mound, his nerve endings charged. Two additional outs and he’d have thrown a no-hitter. It would be the sixth no-hit game of his career, and would tie his father’s record.
Brek wanted this win. Badly.
The Rogues were on a hot streak. And Brek was at his personal best. The team had swept both the Royals and the Tigers, and were about to sweep the Colonels. A win today and Richmond would rank first in the National League East.
Throughout the week, the team had played all out. There’d been few strikeouts and no errors. Everyone had been on their game.
The Bat Pack had hit as many home runs as on-base singles.
Defensively, the team played like action heroes. Risk Kincaid covered center field on bionic legs. Right fielder Psycho McMillan came off the ground for fly balls as if he wore a jet pack. Third baseman Romeo Bellisaro barehanded the ball to first so many times he had no need for his glove. Shortstop Zen Driscoll had picked up hoppers and short pop-ups with well-oiled precision.
Brek hadn’t shaken off Chase Tallan once. The series of signs had brought an unbeatable rhythm and cadence between pitcher and catcher. Strikes came fast as Brek pitched to the catcher, not the batter.
It was late Sunday afternoon. The sun now edged his shoulder, and shadows scored the outfield. No one warmed up in the bullpen. He was set to go the full nine innings.
Rogues led the Colonels six to nothing.
He rolled his shoulder, eyeing the next batter. Randy Hampton. Ham hadn’t had a hit in his last sixteen times at bat. The man was due.
Brek cut a glance at the on-deck circle and spotted Ka-son Rhodes. Rhodes swung a hot bat. He had wild eyes and led with his chin.
Fans called him “Mental.”
Brek swore Kason was Psycho McMillan’s twin, separated at birth. Both had similar looks, indiscriminant wild streaks, and could bat the cover off a ball.
While Psycho often swung at the unhittable pitch, Ka-son was known for his discipline and patience. The man would wait a full count before taking his swing. He seldom hit out of his strike zone. Rhodes ranked first in home runs in the American League. Psycho sat on top for the National.
Brek took a deep breath, then attacked Randy Hampton. He threw across his body, sliding in a fastball for a swing and a miss. Strike one.
Second pitch, and Hampton hacked at Brek’s slider. The ball went foul to the mighty roar of Chewbacca. The stadium had a sound system that brought
Star Wars
to Lindenberry Park.
Fans fought for the fly. Strike two.
Brek returned to his fastball.
A checked swing by Hampton. Ball one.
A final cutter, and Ham whiffed. Strike three.
He went down, to the dismay of the crowd.
Angered, Hampton threw both his bat and batting helmet, and was immediately ejected from the game.
Brek had one batter to go for his no-hitter.
Get him before he gets you.
His father’s coaching came to mind. Brek couldn’t afford a mental mistake.
Marshaling all his concentration, he honed in on Ka-son Rhodes, a man whose eyes had narrowed to a squint. There was an intense flare to Rhodes’s nostrils and a curl to his lip as he dug in; his stance was so tight his muscles bulged.
Brek’s windup was precise, his delivery strong.
A breaking ball, down and in.
A hard smack by Rhodes, and wood went flying. Brek ducked to get out of the way of the broken bat. The ball shot upstairs, bounced off the upper deck. Foul, strike one.
Fastball, outside. Ball one.
Cutter on the corner. Strike two.
Changeup. Rhodes checked his swing, and the home-plate umpire ruled that he had not gone around. Ball two.
The Rogues’ pitching coach, Danny Young, disagreed with the call. He tore off his baseball cap, stormed out of the dugout, and shouted several choice phrases at the umpire.
The umpire warned Young to sit down and shut up.
Young kicked dirt and begrudgingly returned to the dugout. His cap was still off in protest.
The stadium became a living thing. Louisville fans cheered Rhodes to hammer it out of the park. The Richmond crowd screamed just as loudly for a no-hitter.
The catcher signaled a slider.
Brek delivered.
High and wide. Ball three.
Full count.
A final signal from Chase Tallan, and Stryke wound up for the last pitch. He knew that if the ball was anywhere within Rhodes’s area code, the man was going to swing.
Rhodes swung with bad intention, and caught a piece. Low, and as straight as a speeding bullet, the ball shot between first and second base.
Psycho McMillan rushed in from right field and made the save, but not before Rhodes earned a double.
Brek Stryker exhaled his disappointment on a low hiss.
Son of a bitch.
He’d gone from no-hitter to a one-hitter in the blink of an eye.
He
felt
Kason Rhodes behind him on second.
Felt
the power of the man ready to steal third.
No way in hell would Rhodes reach third. Brek couldn’t let the man’s hit take away from what he’d accomplished today. It was time to wrap up the inning.
Game face on, he went after the next batter, Sam Wells. Wells could swing the lumber. The man had power and pop. Brek refused him both.
The catcher signaled, and Brek threw a succession of fastballs.
The count soon stood at one ball, two strikes.
Wells expected a changeup.
Brek tricked him with a fourth fastball.
Wells swung as if his life depended on it.
Strike three.
Wells stood in the batter’s box, head bent, breathing hard, disbelieving his fate.
On the field, the Rogues crowded Brek with whoops and slaps on the ass. Amid the congratulations, he caught Kason Rhodes from the corner of his eye as the man moved off second and edged past the celebration, heading for the dugout.
Their gazes locked for a split second. Rhodes’s brief nod recognized Brek’s accomplishment of a one-hitter. His smirk reminded Brek that he’d been the batter to steal his no-hit game.
The Rogues would face the Colonels at home in two weeks. Brek would strike Rhodes out in their next confrontation. No one came to his park and bested him a second time. No one.
After an hour’s worth of interviews and a twenty-minute shower, Brek was ready to head back to Richmond. Win or lose, tradition demanded that the team sit down and share a meal before they flew home later that evening.
“Yeah, I’m free tomorrow; let me know what time to pick you up, Addie.”
Addie?
Brek turned slightly. Two lockers down, Sloan McCaffrey cupped his cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he tugged on a pair of khakis.
“Riverside Mall works for me.” Sloan sounded agreeable. “I’ll treat everyone to dinner, and then you can shop.”
Stryke saw Sloan duck his head and scrunch his face. “Sure, Eve’s welcome.” Short pause. “How’s Taylor doing?”
Hearing Taylor’s name caused Brek to look fully at Sloan. The fact that the reliever had asked about Taylor shouldn’t have affected him, yet it had. Affected him so strongly it took every effort to slide his arms into his pale blue dress shirt and button it, then knot his silver-and-blue-striped tie.
“Tell Taylor I’ll visit her in the hospital,” Sloan went on.
Hospital?
Brek stood as still as he did on the mound before his windup. Tension swelled his chest. A charley horse threatened his calf. What the hell had happened?
“See you soon, Addie.” Sloan disconnected. “Hey, Kincaid,” the reliever called down the lockers. “Addie said, ‘Good game.’ ”
Risk nodded and continued dressing.
A need-to-know had Brek stepping toward Sloan and asking, “Taylor?”
Sloan shot his arms through his white T-shirt and stared Brek dead in the eye from the neck hole. “What about her?”
“I heard the words ‘Taylor’ and ‘hospital’ in the same sentence.”
“Eavesdropping on my call?” He tugged down his shirt.
“Anyone within twenty feet heard your conversation.”
“And your concern comes from where?”
What a shit
, Stryke thought. Why was McCaffrey pushing his buttons? He’d simply asked about Taylor, and expected a straightforward answer, not some runaround as to what he was to her.
“Taylor’s knee was banged up when I last saw her at Addie’s party.” Stryke kept his temper in check by speaking slowly. “I knew she was planning to see an orthopedist this week. I didn’t, however, know she was scheduled for surgery.”
Sloan further agitated Brek by sliding into his Nikes. He tied both athletic shoes before saying, “Her X-rays showed a torn ACL. While you were pitching a one-hitter, she was under the knife.”
ACL, her anterior cruciate ligament—one of the worst sports injuries imaginable. Unlike other injuries, the ACL would never completely heal. The ligament kept the knee stable. It was essential for jumping, running . . . skiing.
A thrill seeker could be sidelined for life with that kind of injury.
Brek’s jaw worked. “She okay?”
Sloan snagged his brown sport jacket from a hook in the locker. He shook it out and took his sweet time putting it on. After combing his hair, he finally answered, “Taylor’s in recovery at Richmond General. Addie said the surgery was successful, but that Taylor’s facing a slow recovery.”
Slow and Taylor didn’t walk hand in hand. She’d want full mobility in her knee a day after surgery. And it wasn’t going to happen.
“Thanks.”
“For what?” Sloan shrugged. “Telling you the condition of an old friend? That’s what Taylor is to you, right? An ex?”
Stryke didn’t take the bait. Instead he turned back to his own locker, rolled his shoulders, and blew out a breath. Taylor wouldn’t make a great patient. She’d need someone to tell her not to push herself. Someone to reassure her she’d be fine.
Stryke wondered if Sloan was the man for the job. Could he keep Taylor calm? Would Sloan know when to let Taylor vent, and when to hold her if she needed his strength?
Pretty damn doubtful.
Brek closed his eyes, mentally restraining himself. He had no reason to rush to Taylor’s hospital bed. No reason at all. They were estranged.
Taylor didn’t need him.
He definitely didn’t need her.
Yet a sense of urgency claimed him. He knew he’d never sleep if he didn’t check on her. A quick glance in her hospital room, and he’d back out of her life for good.
Eyes wide open now, he reached for his navy slacks, socks, and shoes, and dressed quickly. Ready to travel, he hooked his sport coat on his finger and crossed the locker room in search of Guy Powers.
Forty minutes later, Stryke stepped from the team owner’s private limo and took to the tarmac to board the corporate Cessna. Powers hadn’t raised a brow at Brek’s request to return to Richmond ahead of the team. Guy had made the necessary calls, and Stryke was on his way.
The private jet would return for Powers later that evening. Stryke knew that behind-the-scenes negotiations were taking place between Powers and his ex-wife, Louisville Colonels team owner Corbin Lilly.
Corbin was as beautiful as she was powerful. As the only female owner in major-league baseball, she brought class and distinction to the old boys’ club. Stryke knew midseason trades were already under discussion.
It was rumored that Kason Rhodes had recently waived the no-trade clause in his contract. The left fielder could be wearing another team uniform in July.
With Ryker Black, the Rogues’ own left fielder, on the disabled list with a pulled hamstring, Powers needed Rhodes in his team’s red, white, and blue.
Corbin and Guy would undergo preliminary discussions without legal counsel, team management, or coaches. Though they were as competitive as any two people could be, the exes had remained cordial. Guy would wine and dine Corbin as any man would a beautiful woman. They would reminisce.