Strike Zone (22 page)

He was their team captain, and the players were loyal.

“Taylor.” Risk Kincaid broke from a group holding up the wall. “Any word on Stryke?”

“Nothing yet,” she said. “Could be another hour.”

“Come sit down.” Risk directed her into the lounge.

Every player seated quickly stood and offered Taylor his chair. She took Romeo Bellisaro’s, which placed her between Psycho McMillan and Sloan McCaffrey. She slumped low; her knee was sore and she’d grown tired.

Sloan took her crutches, then lifted her leg across his knees. He began rubbing her calf up to her brace. The ache soon diminished.

She brushed crumbs from one corner of his mouth.

“Vending machine cake,” he told her.

“You shouldn’t eat so much junk food.”

“I arrived late. It was either cake or a prune muffin.”

Psycho wrapped one arm about her shoulders. “Heard you met the ambulance.”

The lounge and hallway had gone silent, the players all awaiting her answer.

“I was in therapy and had the game on,” she told him. “When the announcer said Brek was being transported to Richmond General, I headed for the emergency entrance.”

She bit down on her bottom lip. “His hand was swollen to the size of a catcher’s mitt. They weren’t able to remove the baseball before surgery.”

The silence grew heavy with concern.

Sloan leaned in close, his voice low. “Where’s Hilary?”

“With her husband, Stuart Tate.”

“No shit?” He cut her a look. “I told you so.”

“You were right,” she whispered back.

“How’s Stryke taking it?”

“She didn’t destroy him.”

“Not like you did.”

“Low hit, McCaffrey. That was three years ago, and I’m trying to make amends.” She turned, punched his arm. “Why did you invite Eve to New Year’s only to hook up with your bimbos?”

“She told you?” Taylor nodded, and he blew out a breath. “I was a real shit.”

“Yes, you were. If you treat my sister poorly again, I’ll add black to your blue, Smurf boy.”

“I’ve sent her flowers and stuffed animals, and called until I’m out of wireless minutes. Eve refuses to see me.”

“I don’t blame her.”

“Harsh, Taylor. I could use some sisterly advice.”

“Leave her alone.”

“Not an option. I like Eve. When I looked down the table and saw her amid my groupies—”

“You felt more than you’d expected?” Taylor guessed.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“
Exactly
like that, Sloan,” she returned. “You’re not smart enough to pick a soul mate over a Hooters chick. Until you recognize the difference, stay away from Eve. I don’t want her hurt.”

He scowled. “I’ll keep my distance.”

Movement in the hallway caught Taylor’s attention. Seconds later, team owner Guy Powers entered the lounge, followed by power hitter Kason Rhodes.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Psycho jumped to his feet, blocking Rhodes at the door.

“This is a closed lounge, for team members only,” Romeo Bellisaro announced.

Guy Powers shot both men a dark look, which they ignored. “Following today’s game, Kason Rhodes is officially a Rogue. Management acquired him in a midseason trade with Louisville.”

A stunned silence settled over the players. The looks they shot Rhodes were intimidating and dark, unwelcoming.

Eyes narrowed and jaws worked.

Only Psycho dared speak. “Why Rhodes?”

“Ryker Black pulled his hamstring during spring training and hasn’t played a full week since,” Powers stated. “We’ve brought up players from the minors, but no one’s done the job. Rhodes solidifies our left.”

“But can he bat?” Taylor quipped as she pushed through the testosterone-charged teammates.

Everyone knew Rhodes could bat the hell out of a ball. Taylor’s outrageous question prompted snorts, dipped heads, and swallowed smiles.

Psycho took up where Taylor left off. “You top the American League in home runs,” he said to Rhodes. “The National League separates the men from the boys. Can you cut it here?”

“Not only cut it, but will lead off in a month,” Rhodes predicted, warning Psycho to guard his spot in the rotation.

“Game on,” Psycho replied.

Guy Powers knew when to step between his men. “Kason came with me to check on Brek. Any word?” he inquired.

The men deferred to Taylor. She turned to Powers, and the team owner embraced her with fondness. “Thanks for the flowers,” she said in greeting. Powers had sent her an enormous bouquet of raspberry pink roses shortly after her knee surgery. “We’ve no word as yet. Hopefully soon.”

She then looked to Kason Rhodes, tall, dark, and a loner. He was surrounded by men who hated his guts, yet he remained cool and unfazed.

Hard-core
and
badass
struck her as appropriate descriptions. He met life head-on and never blinked. He stared men down and won at chicken. He walked in harm’s way, and would put his ass on the line during every game.

She couldn’t blame him for the broken bat or the hit that had landed Brek in surgery. Accidents came with baseball. Brek was a competitor. So was Kason Rhodes.

Rhodes’s integration into the team would be slow, despite his batting power and outfield performance.

It was how the game was played.

The Rogues took care of their own. At the moment, their team captain was foremost on their minds.

“Ms. Hannah?” Dr. Anders stood at the door in his scrubs, his expression somber. “Can we talk?”

She looked around the room at the fraternity of players that stood as tight as brothers. “Talk to all of us,” she requested. “In layman’s terms.” She wanted his explanation easily understood by everyone.

Anders handed Taylor the baseball he’d removed during surgery. “It’s not the World Series ball, but it’s a moment in time Mr. Stryker will never forget.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and continued. “The surgery went well. The deep calluses from his years of pitching took much of the impact when he caught the ball. I had to set a lot of broken bones. His hand’s in a cast. Six weeks is on the light side for his recovery. It could run to eight. Then there’s rehab. In the very best scenario, he’ll be back for the playoffs.”

“The worst?” Taylor needed to know.

“The bones in the hand are small. Fragile, even in a man’s hand. Flexibility is my primary concern. He will be able to grip and throw a baseball, but his release may be slow.”

“Visitation?” Taylor asked.

“Three people, no more than five minutes. A nurse will monitor your visit. My patient’s groggy and needs to sleep.”

“Three people?” Psycho’s jaw shifted, along with his stance. “Doesn’t work for me.”

“Pick your three, Taylor.” Risk Kincaid made it her decision.

She looked around the room. Forty men had waited three hours for news of their team captain. Brek carried their respect. They needed his leadership. Each one deserved to see him, even if only for a second.

“We’re all going in,” she told them. “You can pass by his bed like a parade. I want Brek to see you. Your support will bring him back to life faster than Rhodes hit that baseball.”

Taylor led them down the hall and stopped just outside Brek’s room. She stood guard as his teammates filed in, and heard each man’s encouraging words.

Three minutes later, a horrified nurse shot toward Taylor, her expression argumentative. “Too many visitors.” She blocked the doorway.

It was Sloan McCaffrey who came up behind the woman and whispered something in her ear. The nurse blinked, blushed, and slowly nodded. She took a step back and allowed the men to pass.

“What did you say to her?” Taylor asked when the nurse returned to her station.

“I told her I’d line her up with Brek once he’d recovered enough to date.”

Taylor swung her crutch at his crotch.

Sloan dodged left. “The Hannah sisters and their need to unman me. First Eve and the tommy gun, now you and your crutch.”

“You need to be put out of commission.”

Sloan nodded over his shoulder to where the lanky closer, Cooper Smith, leaned against the wall across from the nurses’ station. “Coop’s been checking out the nurse, and she’s liked his eyes on her. I offered to set them up.”

“You’re quite observant.”

“If I don’t make it in baseball, I’ll turn to matchmaking.”

“You played well today,” she complimented him.

“I kept waiting for Coop to come in and close. There was never any action in the bullpen.”

“You brought it home. The Rogues won.”

“But we’ve lost a key man to injury.” Sloan looked at Kason Rhodes, now headed for the elevator. “Powers put a bullet in the cartridge when he brought him aboard.”

Taylor didn’t want Rhodes to leave. Not yet, anyway. “Kason,” she called out.

Rhodes stopped in the act of pressing the elevator button.

She hobbled toward him. “You haven’t visited Brek.”

He raised one brow, a devil’s arch.

“He needs to see you.”

He looked unconvinced. “You trying to give the man a coronary?”

Taylor swallowed hard. “It’s important that he comes out of surgery fighting. Seeing you will bring him to his feet faster than anything else.”

Rhodes didn’t seem so sure. He studied her, his gaze dark, fathomless, unreadable. “You belong to him?” he finally asked.

“Once, but not anymore.”

“You will again.”

His words lingered in her mind long after he’d brushed past her and taken his place at the end of the line.

Looking at the hard set of his shoulders, the sharp jut of his chin, Taylor decided she’d better be in the room with Brek when he laid eyes on Kason.

Just in case his heart monitor spiked.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Life moved in a slow-motion haze. Brek Stryker sensed more than saw his teammates as they passed through his hospital room. He heard their mumblings of, “Get well soon,” and, “Hell of a game,” yet was too damn tired to fully acknowledge the players’ presence.

The scent of Amber Nude told him Taylor stood beside his bed. With his good hand he reached for hers. Her soft warmth took hold immediately.

The shadow of a man stood off to the side. Brek forced himself to focus. Dark hair, hard face, an evident smirk.

Kason Rhodes.

Brek’s knee-jerk reaction sat him up in bed. His heart thumped, and his vision cleared. What the hell was Rhodes doing in his hospital room?

“Hell of a catch,” Rhodes said as he jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Hell of a hit,” Stryke returned, his mouth full of cotton.

Taylor released his hand and poured a glass of water.

Stryke took a short sip.

“Kason became a Rogue today,” Taylor explained softly. “Guy Powers made a midseason trade.”

Her announcement jolted Brek like a royal kick to his groin. Powers had hinted at the proposed trade. “Guy traded four minor leaguers—”

“Five,” Rhodes corrected him.

“Along with Ryker Black to get you?”

“And a top draft pick.”

Brek narrowed his eyes. “Powers thinks you’re that good?”

“I am that good.” Rhodes wore his conceit like a second skin.

The short conversation tired Brek out. He yawned. The surgery had taken its toll.

Without a word, Kason Rhodes departed.

Taylor again took Brek’s hand and lightly squeezed. “Rhodes is not an easy man to like.”

Brek closed his eyes. “Yet you brought him in to see me.”

“I thought he’d put some fight in you.”

“I have fight; it’s just not going to be easy.”

“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

“Does that include us, Taylor?” The words escaped on a tired sigh.

“You’re worthwhile, and I’m easy,” she whispered.

“Rest now. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Taylor was as good as her word. Morning found her slouched in a chair, her leg elevated on the foot of his bed. Her hand still held his in the morning light.

They’d traded places, Brek realized. Three weeks ago he’d been in the chair and she’d been on the bed. Life had a way of flip-flopping things. He’d helped Taylor get on her feet, and she was back to help with his hand.

He rubbed his thumb over her wrist and across her pulse point. He felt it thump. He turned his head and found her eyes on him. She had bed-head, and a sleepy flush left her cheeks pink. Taylor looked beautiful to him.

“How’s your hand?” she immediately asked.

He looked down at the cast. “Numb.”

“The feeling will return,” she assured him.

His jaw locked. “Damn, this sucks.”

“You played to win and were rewarded with a broken hand. Life’s not always fair.”

“I had to make the catch.” His stadium. His turf. He’d had no other choice.

“A great catch, one for the record books.”

“That catch could end my career.”

“But it won’t.” She spoke so positively, he believed her. “Mind over matter, Stryke. You have a strong will. You’ll throw another hundred-mile-an-hour fastball.”

He damn sure hoped so. “How’s your rehab?” he asked, glancing at her knee.

She scrunched up her nose. “I’m tired of driving to the hospital every day for therapy. I’m going to invest in a home gym and set it up on Addie’s back porch. I haven’t yet overdone—”

“But you will if someone’s not watching.”

“Addie’s got an eagle eye.”

“I have an idea,” he slowly suggested. “Why not use my equipment? I have a workout room with a multistation gym, rowing machine, stair climber, stationary bike, weight bench, and dumbbells. The works.”

She ran a hand over her knee brace, looking uncertain. “Rehab with you?”

“Unless you have a better offer.”

She looked thoughtful. “I’d be driving half the distance.”

“Or not driving at all.” His words slowed even more. “You could move into my guesthouse, which would save on gas altogether.”

She stared at him, stunned by his offer.

“The invitation stands,” he said. “You could come and go as you please. I’ll be around some, but not often. I still have team commitments, public endorsements, and community-service hours. My days are full.”

Taylor pushed to her feet and limped the width of the hospital room and back, contemplating out loud. “Addie and Edwin deserve their privacy. I’ve camped out at my grandmother’s far too often. I could use a change of scenery.”