He exhaled sharply. It was about damn time. He was back in the game—a game that went to the bottom of the fifth before loud hisses from the stands echoed in the dugout. Seated alone at the far end of the bench, Stryke hadn’t a clue as to what was causing disfavor with the fans.
The top of the Rogues’ order was ready to bat. Psycho McMillan stood in the batter’s box. Romeo Bellisaro was on deck. The Rogues led the game, four to two. The crowd should be cheering, not booing.
He cut Risk Kincaid a look. The center fielder shrugged, got to his feet, and joined his teammates at the dugout railing.
“Roll left; lead with your right.” Psycho cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Punch him in the beak.”
A fight? The scuffle sounded nearby. Water bottles and soda cans now flew from the lower deck. Play was called as the batboys and groundskeepers dashed to clean up the debris.
His concentration broken, Stryke stood up and moved to the dugout steps to get a better look. It didn’t take long for him to locate the commotion. Before God and eighty thousand fans, the Raptors’ mascot circled Rally, taunting, poking, and pushing the fuzz ball.
“Rappy’s been picking on Rally from the first pitch,” Chase Tallan informed Stryke. “The bird’s got a wild feather up its ass.”
“Thought Charlie was an amateur boxer.” Risk’s words hit Stryke full in the gut. “The man’s slapping like a girl.”
Slapping like a girl. Just beyond third base, Rappy—an enormous bird with a hooked beak and a wide wingspan—swooped in on Rally Ball. The Raptor wing-slapped Rally. Rally belly-bounced the bird.
Rally’s roundness limited the mascot’s motion.
Rappy danced around Rally, making the fuzz ball look bad. Sticking out an enormous plastic foot, Rappy tripped Rally. Rally wobbled, then went down, landing on its back.
Rappy kicked the downed mascot with its long yellow bird toes. Rally rolled from side to side, but couldn’t gather the momentum to rise.
Stryke saw red and his control snapped.
He needed to get to Taylor.
Elbowing through his teammates, he hit the third-base line with a speed denied most pitchers. The Raptor saw him coming. Rappy gave a bring-it-on wiggle of its feathered fingertips. Stryke had the urge to pluck the bird.
He would have, had Risk Kincaid not had his back.
“Easy, man; Charlie can take care of himself,” Risk shouted over the roar of the crowd.
“Not Charlie, Taylor,” Stryke corrected.
“Fearless?” Kincaid spiked a brow. “What the—”
Rappy took that moment to poke Risk in the nose with a wing tip.
Kincaid took care of Beaky Boy.
And Stryke went down on one knee beside Taylor. Cameras clicked in a blinding flash, an irreversible Kodak moment. He and Rally would soon be plastered all over the sports section of the Virginia Banner, possibly even syndicated. He preferred being photographed on the mound, not hunkered down beside an arm-flailing, spitting-mad mascot.
“Damn, Taylor, you’re not keeping a low profile,” he gritted out. “This isn’t a sixth-grade playground. Get a grip.”
“Rappy started it,” she hissed through the mouth slit. “The bird dissed you. He’s all trash talk and profanity. He tripped me and I went down.” Her eyes flashed and her fists clenched. “I didn’t get in one good punch.”
Stryke grew still. However juvenile, the bird had badmouthed him and this seriously irate woman had jumped to his defense. Dressed as a baseball, she’d taken on a feathered mascot twice her size. She’d lost the battle, landed on her butt, and would be bruised tomorrow.
All because Rappy had called Stryke names.
He shook his head and asked, “You hurt?”
“The Raptor tripped me, and my knee gave out. Did you see his gigantic plastic feet? My only defense was these oversize high-tops. Every time I tried to kick Rappy, I’d roll backward.”
This could happen only to Taylor. “Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
Stryke rose, then pulled her to her feet.
Her knee turned in, unable to hold her weight.
He curved his arm around the fuzz ball and held her upright. He then called to the trainer. Jon Jamison crossed the field.
“Sprained knee,” Stryke told him.
Jamison nodded. “Let’s get you to the locker room, Charlie.”
Stryke and Taylor exchanged a look through the eye slits. Neither one corrected the trainer. The man was in for a little surprise. Painted toenails and shaved legs would be his first clues that Charlie wasn’t quite Charlie today.
Stryke brushed dirt off the fuzz ball’s rounded ass. Additional camera flashes blinded him with the reminder that he was touching a mascot that fans assumed was Charlie Bradley. His hand dropped before he dusted baseline chalk off Taylor’s thigh.
Supported by Jamison, Rally hopped off the field. The Rogues’ mascot got a standing ovation—a first in mascot history.
“How’s Taylor?” Risk Kincaid came to stand beside him.
“She’ll live. Her pride took as much of a tumble as the costume.”
“I’ve seen mascots taunt, but never go at it. Rappy must have really pissed her off.”
“Apparently he did.” Stryke had no desire to discuss the fight in detail. It was too personal. He tipped back his baseball cap and looked at his friend. “Thanks, man.”
Clubhouse buddies and close friends, he and Kincaid had been staunch allies over the years. Together they watched as a security guard ejected the Raptor from the game. At the gate, Rappy flipped Stryke the bird.
Shortly thereafter, Risk turned toward the dugout. “The grounds crew has restored order. Let’s get back to work.”
The two men jogged toward the dugout.
Following three consecutive Rogues strikeouts, Brek returned to the mound. Top of the sixth. He threw his ass off: fast windups, and quicker releases.
When the batter looked for a fastball, Brek threw a splinter. He pitched up and in, crowding the batter with curveballs.
Expletives rose from the batter’s box with each swing and miss. Bats were thrown and dirt kicked as Brek retired the heart of the Raptors order.
He brought his team up to six to two before reliever Sloan McCaffrey took the hill following the seventh-inning stretch. Brek then headed for the trainer’s table to have his shoulder iced—and to check on Taylor.