Seconds later, when Psycho gestured with his left hand, Taylor caught the flash of his gold wedding band. The wild man had gotten married.
Poking Psycho in the ribs, she wished him well. “Congratulations. Who’s the lady?”
“I married my restoration designer, Keely Douglas.” Heat flashed in his eyes as he spoke of his woman. “I took on a deteriorating Colonial, two orphaned Newfound-lands, and the spirit of Col. William Lowell. Keely pulled our lives together.”
“Romeo and Chaser have also married,” Jacy told her. “Last year Romeo backed into sports reporter Emerson Kent on Media Day during a team brawl. After a rough start, she found him newsworthy, and he stopped running from the press. Chaser married his longtime neighbor, Jen Reid.”
Taylor hadn’t met either Keely or Emerson, but she knew Jen. The woman had a dancer’s body and a positive outlook. She’d prove a stable force in Chaser’s life.
Life had moved forward for these men. They’d found women to love. Everyone seemed so damn happy.
Everyone but her.
The scrape of a chair turned the players’ attention to Stryke. He stood now, tall and imposing as he folded his newspaper, then pushed in his chair.
Sloan McCaffrey broke the silence rule. He made the mistake of drawing the starting pitcher into their conversation. “Maybe I could talk Stryke into ice climbing this winter. Inside his locker he has half a picture of his climb in the Canadian Rockies.”
Half a picture? Taylor’s heart slowed, then sank. Brek Stryker had cut her out of a scene once snatched from the gods who guarded improbable ascents. At three thousand feet, their guide had snapped photographs over his shoulder, amazing pictures of her and Stryke against a vertical sweep of ice and gray sky.
It had been an exhilarating climb—a climb that could have damaged his pitching arm, perhaps ended his career. Yet Stryke had taken up the challenge—for her. They’d faced nature at its rawest. At the end of the day they’d both been half-frozen. It had taken a bottle of brandy, a roaring fire in their bedroom at the lodge, as well as skin-on-skin friction for them to thaw out.
They’d produced friction four times that night.
A duplicate of the picture taken that day remained in her scrapbook, along with countless other photographs of them hang gliding, kite surfing, and deep-sea diving.
Stryke loved sand and sunshine. No man looked better in a pair of Hawaiian-print swim trunks, mirrored sunglasses, and a dark tan. Women worshiped him in a wet suit.
Now, as he passed the players’ table, Stryke slowed. He looked from Taylor to Sloan and gave a self-deprecating shake of his head. “You enjoy the climb,” he told the reliever. “I’ve done Thrill Seekers. Once was more than enough.” And he kept on walking.
The finality of his statement shook her. She turned slightly, watching until he’d reached the door, a man with an athletic stride and a definite purpose: to get as far away from her as was humanly possible.
She’d disrupted his morning coffee, as well as his mental preparation for the game. When they’d been together, she’d practiced silence on days he’d started. She’d left him to his world of visualizing pitches and the batters he would face.
Next time she saw his SUV parked at Jacy’s Java, she’d return to Thrill Seekers and brew her own pot of coffee. Or better yet, send Eve for the iced latte.
Newspapers touted 2008 as Stryke’s year to break records and secure his place in Cooperstown’s National Baseball Hall of Fame.
The man deserved to win games and be honored for his achievements. No major-league pitcher had his rifle-arm precision. Brek set the standard for fastballs.
Taylor wouldn’t interfere with his goals.
Stryke was on his way to becoming a legend.
Three hours later, Brek Stryker was throwing shit. Bottom of the third, and his pitches were wild, so high and wide, the Ottawa batters counted four balls and took their walk.
Catcher Chase Tallan had trotted to the mound to help clear Stryke’s head of all distractions. Stryke blamed Taylor Hannah for his inability to focus. He’d let her get to him once again.
She’d thrown him off his game.
He was about to self-destruct.
He wished he could rewind time, delete the twenty minutes he’d spent with her in the mascot lounge prior to the game.
He’d made a major mistake in playing Good Samaritan, an act he couldn’t take back. He’d gone and offered Taylor six ProSeries ice wraps. The compression packs would keep her body cool inside the costume.
She’d stood and stared at him in her white tank top and black short-shorts, her sea green gaze wide and startlingly soft. She’d nodded her appreciation, then proceeded to Velcro the wraps over her pulse points.
Stryke had avoided touching her until the very last wrap that wound behind her knee. The Velcro had stuck to her ACE bandage. Unable to reach the back of the strap, she’d asked for his help. He’d hunkered down, dipped his head, and avoided a direct visual of her crotch. Amber Nude had seduced him, the fragrance drawing him closer to her body. He’d resisted, fought her scent and nearness as he’d quickly adjusted the ProS-eries pack.
Taylor had shifted against the cold. Her stance had widened just enough for his thumb to graze her inner thigh—a thigh he’d stroked and kissed a thousand times on his way to her sweet spot.
Feeling and not thinking, he’d stretched his thumb higher, skimming the skin at the hem of her short-shorts . . . sinfully soft skin that seemed to invite his touch.
Her lips had parted.
His jaw had set.
They’d both gone still as stone.
He’d wished the moment back. He’d have sold his soul not to have touched her. But he had.
Shooting to his feet, he’d fled from the mascot lounge. The ice wraps would protect her from heat exhaustion. She could finish dressing on her own.
The mascot’s appearance on the third-base line coincided with Stryke’s walk from the bullpen to the mound. The fans loved Rally. It didn’t matter if the fuzz ball tripped, dipped, or couldn’t walk a straight line; the crowd applauded Rally’s efforts.
Stryke willed the mascot beyond his peripheral vision. Rally finally rolled out of sight yet remained on his mind.
Now, with two batters on base, the catcher signaled for a fastball.
Brek dipped his head, wound up, delivered.
“ Strike!” was called by the home-plate umpire.