Strike Out: Mustangs Baseball #6 (5 page)

One eyebrow rose on his handsome face. “That’s your theory? I’m wearing shorts?”

“It’s all I’ve got.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “If you aren’t wearing clothes, I won’t be sticking my hands inside them.”

“Makes sense to me.”

She tried not to look. She really did. But from the moment he hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband and began to push his shorts down, she became incapable of not looking. The first inch revealed a line of demarcation clearer than the Mason-Dixon Line between the shaved and au natural portions of his body. The shortened arrow disappeared beneath the briefest pair of briefs she’d ever seen. He turned just a fraction, and her breath caught in her lungs.

Holy crap!
His ass was bare! “That’s a—”

“Jock strap,” he supplied as if there wasn’t anything but some elastic straps and a scrap of fabric between her and his genitals. She watched helplessly as he cupped his package, adjusting the mass to suit him.

His erection strained at the stretchy red fabric. As painful as she imagined his predicament to be, it couldn’t compare with what was going on inside her. Her breasts were heavy with need, her nipples aching to escape the confines of her practical cotton bra. Every nerve ending between her navel and her knees felt like they’d been hooked up to an electrical current.

Intellectually, she understood her response was instinctive. Women were hardwired to respond to the virile, alpha male, and no one fit the bill better than the man standing before her. As much as mankind wanted to pretend they’d risen above their baser instincts, the two of them were proof that nothing had changed since the dawn of man.

Intellect didn’t have a chance against primal instinct. She should write a paper on the subject, but doing so would set the women’s movement back several centuries and kill her respectability in the scientific world, so she’d keep her observations to herself.

Royce straightened, wadded his shorts into a ball, and tossed them NBA-style toward his duffle bag. “Two points!”

His exclamation snapped her out of her lust-fueled haze. Damn the man for looking the way he did. How was she supposed to function with him short-circuiting her nervous system? But function, she would. She had to. There was simply too much on the line to contemplate failure.

“Bravo.” She grabbed the last pad and peeled the backing away. “Think you can hold still while I finish up?” Not waiting for an answer, she slapped the final pad onto his left thigh. She was careful this time to make sure there was no skin to skin contact.

He jerked backwards, his hands coming around in a protective gesture. “Shit. You should warn a guy before you touch him there.”

Tricia grabbed a couple of wireless electrodes. How the hell she planned to work the tiny electrodes into the slots without making physical contact was going to be another thing. Attaching the flimsy wires required a delicate touch. The prototypes were too expensive to take chances with.

“Your manhood is safe.” As the lie tripped off her tongue, she gestured for him to come closer. Every minute they spent together, the safety of his manhood became more of an issue. “Come over here.” She pointed to the floor right in front of her.

Dropping his hands to his sides, he resumed his position in front of her.

Royce held his arms out wide, his gaze sweeping their length then down his torso to his feet. “I look like a prickly pear cactus.” Little wires stuck out of the pads attached to his body like cactus needles and looked just as dangerous. “How the hell am I supposed to wear my uniform, much less play baseball with all this crap on me?”

“The wires are flexible, but if you want, I can tape them down. Just the ends need to be exposed in order to transmit signals.”

Taping them meant she’d have no choice but to touch him. As much as he liked the idea, he didn’t know if he could take much more skin-to-skin contact. She was driving him out of his mind. Slowly. One touch at a time.

He never would have agreed to participate in this experiment if he’d known the process involved getting naked and standing still while the hottest scientist in the universe put her hands all over him.

Any other time, having her touch him wouldn’t be a problem. Hell, he’d give her directions a blind person could follow. But this? This was torture. Pure and simple. Royce fisted his hands in his hair and, with teeth clenched tight, he tugged hard on his scalp. The pain didn’t solve anything, but it did help him focus on something other than his dick. The wayward appendage had found a target and wasn’t going to give up on it easily. Still, time was running out. He needed to get his uniform on and get the hell out on the field before someone came searching for him. One last look confirmed his decision. “Tape them down. I can’t go out there looking like I had a run-in with a porcupine.”

“Okay. Hold out your hands, fingers spread.” She tore off strips of athletic tape, sticking them to the ends of his fingers. One by one, she peeled off a piece and used it to secure a wire. When she’d used all ten, she repeated the process. Hair or no hair, playing with crap stuck to his body wasn’t going to be fun. And taking it off at the end of the day was going to be hell.

Five minutes later, she stood back, hands on her hips, to admire her work. “All done. You can get dressed now.”

It was easier said than done, but Royce managed to get his uniform on over the experimental equipment. He was ready to head out the door when she stopped him.

“Wait. Let me see if I’m getting a signal from all the receptors.”

He glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. “No time. You’ll have to do it while I stretch and take batting practice.” He was out the door before she opened her laptop. There was only so much a man could stand, and he’d reached his limit for the day. Hell, for the century.

“And I only have to do it twenty-nine more times,” he mumbled as he pushed through the locker room door and came face-to-face with the team captain, Jason Holder.

“Hey, man. Where ya been?”

If management hadn’t told the captain what was up, Royce damn sure wasn’t going to mention it. He let the lie roll off his tongue without thinking twice. “Training room. Coach thought it might help to get in some extra stretches before the game.”

Jason clapped him on the back. “Whatever works for you. If you’ve been stretching, then you’re probably ahead of the rest of us.” He pulled the door open. “Take your time.”

Royce sat down on the chair in front of his locker. Taped skin protested every move he made, but he managed to get his cleats on and grab his glove. Maybe once he got out on the field, had something else to occupy his mind, he’d forget about how uncomfortable he was. Like having a blister on your heel. It’s annoying and painful, but you have to walk, so you learn to live with it. Pleased with his reasoning, he slipped his hat on and went out to take some warm-up throws.

CHAPTER FIVE

As soon as the door closed behind Royce’s magnificent ass, Tricia sank into the desk chair. Her elbows came down on the desktop, her palms perfect supports for her head which seemed to weigh ten tons all of a sudden.

Royce Stryker was going to be the death of her. No doubt about it.

“This is only the second day,” she muttered. “I’ll never survive a month without losing my mind.” She squeezed her eyes shut at the same time she clenched her thighs together, seeking relief from the insistent throbbing in both places.
Headache brought on by sexual frustration.
That was one for the record books. Had any clinical studies been done on the subject? If not, she could start one. She already had a test subject—her.

Day one. Subject exhibits signs of sexual attraction. Wet palms, dry mouth alternating with periods of drooling, slight tremors along extremities, shortness of breath. Typical signs of arousal noted—pebbled nipples, swollen genitalia, and excessive fluid secretion. Aching.

Day two. Subject can’t keep her eyes off male subject’s cock. Tremors are more pronounced, possibly interfering with subject’s ability to do her job. Irrational daydreaming bordering on delusional fantasies. All other symptoms noted previously remain constant, if not elevated. Subject reports throbbing sensation behind her eyes that seems to be linked to a matching, though no less painful feeling in her genitals. Symptoms abate somewhat when male subject is removed from the room, but do not altogether disappear.

Day three. Subject died of mortification and/or sexual frustration.

Tricia groaned. She let her forehead drop to the desk, giving in to the weight of self-pity dragging her down. Royce’s physical response was nothing more than primal instinct. She understood the reaction on a professional level, but on a personal level she wanted to believe the man was as affected by her as she was by him. It was nothing but pure feminine vanity on her part, but there it was. Proof that deep down inside she was just like every other woman on the planet. She wanted a man to see her for who she was, not just a convenient receptacle to appease his sexual needs.

If she gave Royce any indication she was attracted, she felt certain the man would scratch her itch. She wasn’t exactly a troll, and he did react to her touch.

As quickly as the thought entered her head, she pushed it right back out. Sanity returned in direct proportion to her ebbing arousal.

I’ve got a job to do. Just do it, and get the hell out of here.
Royce was only the first of dozens of sexy athletes she’d have to touch before she collected enough data to make her research viable. No doubt, he wasn’t the last who would have a physical reaction to her touch, or the last she would find sexually attractive.

I can’t sleep with all of them.

Strike that. I can’t sleep with
any
of them.

End of story.

If word got out she was sleeping with the players she was supposed to be using as human guinea pigs, she’d be shut down faster than she could say, “You’re out!” She couldn’t let that happen. She’d worked too hard, and sunk everything she had into the project, to blow it now.

She’d just have to put on her clinical blinders and get the job done.

Having talked herself back to sanity, Tricia lifted her head. She was supposed to be out there now, monitoring the data stream instead of sitting here having a single woman with a demanding career pity party. Inhaling deeply, she held the breath for the count of three then let it out in a whoosh. “Time to go.”

***

“Fuck.” Royce cursed under his breath. He rolled his shoulders then stepped back into the batter’s box and tried to concentrate on the easy practice pitches coming his way. This was when he should be focusing on the mechanics of his swing. No one expected a pitcher to actually hit the ball, but he didn’t want to look like a complete idiot when it was his turn. And heck, if he could help the team on offense, he was all for it. The zillion adhesive patches stuck to his body were constant reminders of his less-than-human status. He’d been relegated to the level of a lab rat, his every movement recorded and analyzed. Hell, he couldn’t even take a piss without a certain gorgeous researcher knowing about it.

Even knowing the next pitch would be right over the plate, he still swung and missed.

“You got somewhere else to be, Strikeout?”

Royce glared at the rookie first baseman. “That’s Mr. Stryker to you, lefty.” The last thing he needed was shit from a kid who still needed help wiping his ass.

“One more, Royce.” This from Jake Tulleson, the Mustangs’ batting coach, who stood behind the portable backstop. “We’ve got a lot of guys waiting.”

Translation, get the hell out of the way so the guys who actually score runs can get some practice.
He could take a hint. His time was better served getting to know the batters he would face than trying to perfect his swing.

He managed to put some lumber on the next throw, sending the ball in a lazy arch any idiot could see would be an instant out during the game.
Oh well.

“Hey, man.” Jason Holder stopped him on the way to the dugout.

“Hey.” Royce studied his foot as if digging holes in the crushed granite track was the most fascinating thing in the world. It sure beat the hell out of meeting the team captain’s gaze. Jason had led the League in batting for the last several years, and judging by the group at the railings trying to get his attention, he was a crowd favorite.

Jason waved to his adoring fans. “Give me a minute,” he called out, and the group went silent.

“Don’t keep ’em waiting on my account.”

“They’ll keep.” Jason put a hand on Royce’s back, turning them both so the fans couldn’t see their faces. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on with you, man, but whatever it is, it’ll pass. They don’t call you Strikeout for nothing.”

“You and I both know I couldn’t strikeout Helen Keller right now. No sense trying to make this something it isn’t.”

“It’s a slump, Strike. Everybody has ’em. Trust me, I know. Been there, done that. It was all in my head, as it turns out.”

He vaguely remembered a few seasons back when Jason couldn’t have hit a soccer ball if it had been pitched to him. “What did you do? I mean, how did you fix it?”

His teammate shrugged. “I got my head screwed on straight, if you get my meaning?”

“You got laid?” It couldn’t be that simple, and the idea of Jason Holder being sexually inactive was ludicrous. Before they’d gotten married, he and his twin brother, Jeff, had been two of the most eligible bachelors in the state of Texas.

“Shh!” He glanced around to make sure no one had heard Royce’s question. Assured they were out of hearing range, he continued. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Look, you haven’t been on your game since your divorce. This is all conjecture on my part, and I realize your personal life is none of my business. The team needs you to be at your best, Strike.” He clapped Royce on the shoulder. “We’ve got your back, man, but whatever is going on, you’ve got to figure out how to fix it.” Jason steered him toward the waiting fans. “Come on. Put a smile on your face and let’s sign some stuff for the kids.”

Most of the fans hanging on the rail were there to see Jason, but there were a few who would be happy with an autograph from anyone, even him. Royce followed the Mustangs’ catcher, even allowed him to pass a few things on for him to sign, too. The fans he made eye contact with seemed pleased to have met him which went a long way toward lifting his spirits. But deep inside, he felt as if a chunk of him was missing.

He’d lost his ability to play the game he loved. Would possibly lose his job if he didn’t get his shit together soon. As if those two things weren’t enough, he had the hots for someone he absolutely could not touch.

Dr. Tricia Reed was off limits. Career suicide.

The crowd thinned. Royce signed a pink baseball cap for a little girl with twinkling blue eyes, blonde pigtails, and missing front teeth. A boy, perhaps ten years old, put his arm around her. “Come on, sis. Dad’s waiting.”

The girl took three steps before turning back to wave good-bye. As he returned her wave, he felt as if a giant hole had opened up beneath his feet. Scanning the seats farther up, he found what he was looking for. A guy dressed in cargo-style shorts, a Mustangs’ T-shirt and cap, smiled down at the kids. Pride and love etched the man’s face. Ever since his wife had left him, Royce had been thinking the only thing he’d lost had been a spouse, but suddenly, everything became crystal clear.

The man in the stands had what Royce wanted for himself. A family. He wanted kids—a boy he could teach to play baseball—hell, a girl he could teach to play baseball. Girls could play, too. He wanted to buy pink baseball caps and toy trucks and bicycles.

Back when they were young, he and Hannah talked about having kids, but after his career took off, the time had never seemed right. The conversation had died right along with the marriage.

“Take some time before the game to relax. Leave your personal problems in the locker room.” Jason’s voice snapped Royce back to the present.

He turned away from the stands, letting his gaze sweep over the field. He wasn’t ready to leave baseball any more than he’d been ready to dissolve his marriage. But one thing was for certain, he was damn sure going to put up more of a fight before he gave up his career.

Keeping his head down, he ducked into the dugout and headed straight for the tunnel connecting to the clubhouse.

Everyone else was out on the field or working with the trainers, so he had the place to himself. He left his cleats in his locker, grabbed a water bottle from the cooler, and flopped down in one of the comfortable chairs in the players’ lounge. He needed a few minutes to himself, a few quiet minutes to get his head on straight before the game.

His agent had suggested he try some meditation techniques, had even sent over some videos Royce had thrown in the trash without ever watching them. But with a picture of the family he would never have running through his mind, complete with Jason’s voice telling him he needed to get laid, Royce was in desperate need of something to help him focus on the game.

After taking a long drink from his water bottle, he capped it then trapped it between the back of the chair and his neck, the muscles tightening against the cold before he willed them to relax. He closed his eyes and did his best to recall line-for-line the scouting report he’d read earlier on the team that he would face in a couple of hours. It wasn’t long before the information faded, and something—rather—someone took its place.

Eyes as green as the outfield and golden hair that reminded him of the sun setting over the bleachers in right-center field. Breasts like twin pitching mounds, front and center, not intrusive, but big enough to make the landscape interesting. He had bats longer than her legs, but not near as shapely. And her ass—he could see her draped over the dugout fence, her sweet backside naked and begging for him to slap it with his glove a few times until it turned Mustangs red.

“Wake up, Strike. There’s some woman in the hall says she needs to see you.”

Royce woke with a start. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets in an effort to scrub the last image away.

“You okay?” Jeff Holder, the Mustangs’ ace closer stood over him.

Royce reached for his cap, relief flooding him when he realized it was still in his lap. The last thing he needed was for a teammate to see him sporting a boner before a start. “I’m fine. Just visualizing the game.”

Jeff nodded as if what Royce had said sounded perfectly logical. “Can’t hurt, I guess. Whatever it takes to get the job done.”

The veteran player headed toward the cooler stocked with water bottles. Tossing his half-empty water bottle into the trash, Royce briefly considered grabbing another one. Nothing short of an ice pack in his pants was going to make the reminder of his fantasy go away. Not with the subject of the dream waiting for him in the hall.

“Hey!”

He paused with his hand on the door handle and looked over his shoulder at the only other occupant of the room. Jeff stood with one hand on his hip, the other holding a water bottle poised halfway to his smiling lips. The future Hall of Famer could be a poster boy for Major League Baseball.

“Have fun out there, today.”

Fun. Yeah, right.
It was damn hard to have fun when your opponents were hitting the cover off every pitch you threw. Jeff understood. To take the man’s comment as anything other than encouragement would be wrong. Like his twin brother, Jason, Jeff wasn’t the kind of guy to throw sand in your face when you were down.

Royce forced a smile to his face and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all we ask.”

I know. I just wish to hell my best wasn’t shit.
With that thought swirling around in his head, he jerked the door open.

Tricia leaned against the opposite wall, her laptop held in both hands so it covered her shorts. Her facial expression changed from boredom to something resembling interest when she recognized him, to annoyance faster than a summer squall crossing the plains.