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.”