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Revelle had told him that Dayne was smart, innovative, and amazingly
productive. Dayne had the same vision for Game's On as Revelle. The tomboy
connected to the organization like a puzzle piece. She fit and belonged.

Once Revelle had laid out her duties, Dayne hadn't balked at the
enormous workload. She'd been eager to get started and had put in long hours.

The previous evening, Revelle had taken Dayne shopping. Tapping into her
expense account, Revelle had updated Dayne's wardrobe. Dayne was now as
fashionable as her boss.

Psycho was the first to lower his shotgun. He elbowed Kason. “You get
visitors this far out?”

“She's my renter,” Kason informed him.

Psycho scratched his jaw. “She looks familiar.”

Kason shifted his stance. “She works in player promotions.”

“Revelle's new hire—that's where I've seen her.”

Kason enjoyed seeing her now. The limo made a sweeping turn and slowly
drove off, leaving Dayne standing alone and hesitant to approach him. He waved
her over.

“Dayne Sheridan, Psycho McMillan,” Kason said introducing the two.

They shook hands, and her gaze homed in on Psycho. “Right fielder, wild
man, nudist, daredevil. You're a fan favorite—your bobblehead outsells all the
other players'. Your wife's name is Keely, and she's a top interior designer.
You've two Newfoundlands and a dachshund. You own Colonel William Lowell's
historical Colonial. You promote Dinkies Dog Biscuits.” She ran out of breath.

Psycho whistled, impressed. “You've done your homework, sweetheart.”

She smiled. “Revelle brought me up to speed. She gave me basic
background on each player.”

“What did Revelle say about Rhodes?” Psycho prodded.

Dayne Sheridan looked at Kason. His expression had closed. His stance
had widened. He braced a shotgun at his shoulder. He looked intimidating as
hell.

“He's private” was all she'd give up.

Psycho grunted. “Nothing new there.”

She glanced at the trap, then back at the men. “Shooting clay pigeons?”
she asked.

“Releases frustration,” Psycho told her.

“Want to take a shot?” Kason offered.

“I wouldn't know how,” she confessed.

“I'll stand behind you,” Kason offered.

He loaded additional pellets while she slipped off her gray jacket. The
short-sleeve silk blouse gave her more movement. Behind her now, he positioned
the shotgun. His body heat crept up her back. “How's your hand-eye
coordination?” His question fanned her neck.

“We'll see when the pigeon flies and I pull the trigger.” She wasn't all
that confident.

Psycho backed up several steps. “I'm out of range.”

“Pull.”

Kason's shout made her jump. She jerked the shotgun, blasted air. The
saucer soared south.

“Almost got it,” Kason encouraged.

“She missed it by a freakin' mile,” Psycho disagreed.

“She was close.” Again from Kason.

“Close, my ass.”

Dayne caught the dark look Kason turned on Psycho. Psycho laughed
outright.

For a brief few seconds, she studied the men. Both were dark, Kason's
own hair growing back fast. Browneyed. Tall. Athletic. Kason was thicker in the
chest and thighs. Psycho was whipcord lean.

They had an athletic air about them. Swagger, pride, and superiority
branded them Rogues. Women would turn, stare, and wish for a night under either
man.

Kason wore a get-out-of-my-face expression.

And Psycho had an in-your-face stare.

Each man could back up his look.

Kason was both stubborn and kind.

Psycho's insolence pushed everyone's buttons.

Dayne rolled her shoulders and said, “One more shot.”

“Snug up,” Psycho suggested to Kason. “Go tight.”

Kason took Psycho's advice. He was so close to her now, air couldn't
squeeze between them.

His chest hugged her back intimately.

Her bottom nudged his thighs suggestively.

His hands covered hers, and he went as far as to wedge his finger
against hers on the trigger. Man was determined she'd get off a good shot.

Once they were in position, Psycho made the call. “Pull.”

The sweeping strength of Kason's arms guided the shotgun. With the
precise pull of the trigger, lead pelted the target. The clay pigeon spun,
broke into pieces.

Kason took back his gun.

Impulse turned her, and she gave him a hug.

He widened his stance, tucked her between his thighs.

Until Psycho cleared his throat. “Sweet appreciation.”

Kason eased back, glared at his teammate. “My business.”

Psycho's smirk was knowing. “I'm out of here. It's close to dinnertime.
My wife's taking a cooking class. Tonight's her second attempt at chicken and
dumplings. It's damned hard to digest doughy dumplings.” He rubbed his stomach.
“Hell, I'd eat dirt if Keely called it mud pie.”

Dayne was impressed. The man loved his wife. He'd pop Rolaids so as not
to offend her.

Psycho collected the shotguns, and Kason grabbed the trap. They loaded
both into the Dodge Ram.

Dayne stood back as the men wound down their day.

“Did we gain any ground?” she heard Psycho ask Kason.

Kason shrugged. “Maybe a yard.”

“More like a foot.”

“It's going to be a long season.”

“We're never going to be friends.” Psycho stated the obvious.

“We only need to get along at the park.”

“Outside the park you're a dick.”

“Douchebag.” Kason got in the last word.

Men acting like boys, name-calling and not giving an inch, Dayne mused.
Worse than a pissing contest. Psycho climbed into his truck. Dayne had the
sense to step back.

Psycho gunned the engine and sped off. Dust speckled Kason's T-shirt and
forearms.

She moved to his side, brushed him off. “You and Psycho are more similar
than different,” she observed.

“Never thought you blind, Dayne.”

“I see two men with the same goal,” she insisted. “Team focus.”

“Anything else, coach?”

“How about an early dinner?” she offered. “Hamburgers, but no buns. Hope
you don't mind rye bread.”

“I'd slap the burgers between paper plates—I'm that hungry.”

“You missed lunch?”

“Psycho came out to the woods to settle our dispute.”

“No bonding?”

“The man spun his wheels, dusted me.” His tone was rueful. “That pretty
much says it all.”

“I'll feed you, but then it's back to the stadium for the Rogues'
Literacy Campaign. One quick photograph—”

“If Psycho's in the picture, it'll take years off everyone's life.”

“Not if his wife's dumplings are sitting heavy on his stomach.”

Kason nodded. “Good point.”

Guy Powers supported the Council for Literacy. He'd handpicked six
players to pose for a print ad. The campaign—Flex Your Mental Muscle and Read—would
run in major sports, women's, and teen magazines.

“Let's get the dogs.” She headed for the double-wide.

At the door, Ruckus flew into her arms. It was a wiggly homecoming. The
min-pin was all over Dayne, acting as if months had separated them instead of
hours.

Everyone feasted on hamburgers.

Only Kason got butterscotch pudding. Dayne served him the whole bowl.

An hour later, Kason Rhodes was back at James River Stadium. He lived
half his life at the park. Once he wrapped up the shoot, he'd drop by his
architect's office and pick up the blueprints of his home. The drawings were in
the final draft stage, and Kason had one more chance to make any desired
changes before they were set in stone.

He thought of Dayne and how he'd left her on the couch, tucked in tight
with the dogs, watching TV. He'd set her antenna before Psycho had arrived, and
even without cable, she drew in twenty stations. She'd been happily flipping
through the comedies, dramas, and reality shows.

By six o'clock, the team photographer had set up in a conference room on
the sixth floor. Publicist Catherine Ambrose welcomed each Rogue, then made the
decision whether he should sit or stand, as well as the type of book he would
be holding.

Those titles would appeal to very different kinds of readers. It was as
important for parents to read as it was for their children.

Each ballplayer wore his jersey and navy slacks. Catherine suggested
baseball caps for Kason and Psycho. Romeo Bellisaro shouldered a bat and Chase
Tallan slipped on his catcher's mask. Zen Driscoll stood in profile. And Alex
Boxer shoved front and center.

Catherine Ambrose moved Boxer to the back row and pulled Chase forward.
She requested that he hunker down, in position to make a catch. When the books
were distributed, some players smiled, others shook their heads as they
clutched the volumes in a free hand.

“The Little Engine that Could,”
Psycho said in a pleased tone.

“A picture book?” Kason laughed.

Chase grinned too—he'd drawn a Western. “If not a ballplayer, I'd have
been a cowboy,” he said.

Zen palmed a legal thriller.

And Romeo got a romance novel. The guys teased him unmercifully. “You
can learn what a woman wants from a female author,” he said. “My wife's a fan
of Scottish Highlanders.”

Psycho said, “Bet you have a kilt.”

Romeo didn't miss a beat. “There's freedom under a plaid you don't have
with pants.”

Laughter broke out, until Alex Boxer grunted. “A selfhelp book on visual
perception and motor skills?”

“If the shoe fits...” Psycho stated.

“Shit, I'm playing hard,” Alex said defensively.

“Not hard enough,” Kason retorted. Boxer's hand-eye coordination needed
work.

The publicist handed Kason a young-adult novel on teenage werewolves.
Psycho ripped him with, “Your relatives, Rhodes. I knew you were raised by
wolves.”

Thirty minutes into the shoot, Kason wanted to smack Boxer on the back
of the head. The rookie had the attention span of a gnat, and couldn't stand
still. When the photographer said “hold it,” Alex shifted. He then smiled so
big, he looked like a clown.

Once Alex calmed down, Psycho acted up. He made rabbit ears over Boxer's
head with each flash. Their childishness had stolen an hour of Kason's life.
Dipshits.

“How were the dumplings?” Kason begrudgingly asked Psycho in the parking
lot. He stood with the Bat Pack, the last to leave.

Psycho shrugged, was slow to admit, “I ate the chicken and vegetables
and fed the dumplings to the dogs under the table. Keely's moving up to beef
stew.”

“Gravy can taste like glue,” Kason warned.

“If hers does, my organs will stick together.” Psycho then cocked his
head and asked, “How's your rental property?”

“She's paying rent,” was all Kason would say.

The four men ducked into their vehicles and started their engines.
Psycho rolled down his window and revved his Ram, an open challenge to race the
short distance to the guard gate.

Romeo and Chase gunned their engines too. Kason shook his head. His
Hummer was battered and rusty and the odometer showed two hundred thousand
miles. It maneuvered like a tank. There was no shit-and-get to his vehicle.

He knew Psycho's Ram had an automatic hemi and went zero to sixty in
seven seconds or less. The Dodge was maintained and primed.