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.”