Strike Out: Mustangs Baseball #6

by Roz Lee

  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 truc
ks 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.

  “Lookin’ for me?”

  “There’s a problem with one of the sensors.”

  “Which one?”

  Her gaze dropped to his groin then jerked back up to his face. His conversation with Jeff had helped calm his libido, but seeing her eyes drift down his anatomy had him harder than cured maple again. “Left thigh.”

  He wasn’t going to let her off so easy. He rubbed his leg while wishing he, or she, was rubbing something else. “Want me to drop my pants?”

  Up. Down. Up. Down. Her gaze followed his hand as if he were hypnotizing her. He’d never tried mesmerizing a woman into bed with him. You are growing sleepy. No, make that, you are growing horny. Spread your legs, let me taste you.

  That line of thought didn’t help anything. His hand stalled, and she looked into his eyes.

  “Well…maybe. I don’t know. I need to see what’s up…. I mean, I need to see why it isn’t working.”

  Damn, she was cute when she was flustered. His fingers itched to feel the heat coloring her cheeks, to trail down her body to test the temperature of the rest of her. If he peeled her T-shirt off, would he find more rosy skin?

  “Come on.” He considered holding out his hand to her, but just waved her along as he turned and headed down the hallway. There was no time to seduce her. He had to get out to the bullpen to warm up.

  She followed him to a small room stacked floor-to-ceiling with cases of water bottles and cardboard boxes containing God only knew what. Stuff they used in the clubhouse, he assumed.

  As the door swooshed closed behind her, her eyes went wide. “A supply closet?”

  “Hey, it’s private.” He worked his belt loose followed by the waistband button then the zipper. “You didn’t think I was going to let you grope me in the hallway, did you?”

  “No.” Her gaze was locked on the triangle made by his open britches. “I….”

  He leaned back against a stack of boxes and spread his legs. “Do what you need to do. I’ve got to go to work.”

  She placed her laptop on a case of sports drinks then stepped forward. She moved as if she had pine tar stuck to the bottom of her shoes, all the while looking at his groin. His dick swelled until he was sure if she didn’t get a move on, he would explode right there.

  “I haven’t got all day,” he reminded her.

  He should have made it easy on her. He should have pushed his pants to his knees, but he hadn’t. She came closer. So close he could smell the floral scent on her hair. Below was an earthy scent that was all woman.

  He was hard. Everywhere. He felt as if he’d turned to stone—living, breathing stone. While his body was frozen in limbo, his senses were painfully alive. The toe of her sneaker squeaked on the polished concrete floor. If he hadn’t already been blind with lust, her halo of spun gold hair would have done the job.

  Toe-to-toe with him, she pressed the tips of her fingers to his stomach. He sucked in a breath and held it as her tiny hand slid inside his uniform. She skimmed the elastic band of his jock strap then moved down past the crease where his hip and thigh joined. Everywhere she touched him, his flesh burned.

  As her hand explored farther south, her body pressed closer to his until her breasts flattened against his ribcage. She turned her head so her cheek met his sternum, her cute little nose so close to his left nipple her breath made the tiny nub pucker and bead.

  Royce ground his teeth until the pain in his jaw forced him to speak. “Stop!”

  With one hand on the box behind Royce and the other not more than an inch from finding the malfunctioning electrode, Tricia froze. If anyone were to see them like this, both their careers would
be over. Well, maybe not his, but hers would be. It was her hand down his open pants. Her cheek pressed to his heaving chest, her forearm planking next to his raging hard-on.

  His hands were flattened against the box in a sort of reverse Spider Man death grip. He wasn’t even touching her.

  Embarrassment and shame washed over her followed by anger—at him for practically daring her to take his challenge, and at herself for doing so.

  “I’m sorry.” She peeled her face from his incredibly warm chest even as she began to extract her hand. Fingers like steel bands clamped around her forearm, stilling her movement.

  “Don’t. Move.”

  Once again, she froze. His labored breaths stirred the hair on the top of her head. She didn’t dare look up at his face. Instead, she focused on his hand wrapped around her arm. She was fragile porcelain to his sturdy ironstone. As unbreakable as his grip was, it was gentle, too.

  “I need a minute.”

  Along the length of her forearm, his penis had escaped the bounds of his jock strap. A trickle of scalding liquid trailed down her skin. She licked her lips, wanting suddenly to taste that drop of pre-cum, to taste all of him.

  She tugged on her arm, and he let her go. All the reasons she should not do what she was about to do ricocheted around inside her skull. Before one of the tiny bullets of sanity lodged in her brain, she grasped the waistband of his uniform in both hands, and sinking to the floor, she took his pants down with her.

  He reacted fast, but perhaps having so much blood pooled in his groin was a detriment to his athleticism because his hands were too late. By the time he grasped her head between his palms to stop her, she’d freed his cock and swallowed as much of it as she could.

  “Christ Almighty!” he hissed, digging his fingers into her scalp.