by Roz Lee
“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to get the baseline readings first, then we should have time to rig you up with the wireless sensors, too. You wear those during the game so I get real, game-time readings to compare with the baseline ones.”
“My body is yours to do with as you please. Clare said to tell you, if the jock strap covers it to keep your hands off, otherwise, have fun.”
Tricia laughed out loud. “I can’t wait to meet your wife. She sounds like one of a kind.”
“You don’t know how true those words are. Clare Kincaid Ramirez is a rare diamond.”
Tricia’s fingers stilled on the box of pads she’d picked up. The reverence in Tony’s voice when he spoke of his wife nearly brought tears to her eyes. She hoped Clare knew how lucky she was. Royce instantly came to mind. The things he’d done to her body had set the bar high for future lovers. It was too bad the man didn’t appreciate the other things she had going for her, because she was afraid she was one kiss away from thinking of him the way Tony thought of Clare. And that just wouldn’t do.
No more kisses. No more orgasms—at least none courtesy of Royce Stryker. She wouldn’t think of the man behind the baseball player. The one who’d bought a home instead of a house then refused to let someone who didn’t know him decorate it. Or the man who’d asked nothing for himself, but gave her what she needed when she hadn’t known she needed anything—much less that.
He was hurting inside. It didn’t take a psychologist to see his divorce had rocked his confidence and led to a breakdown in his professional life as well. If she could get enough data, she was sure she could isolate the muscle groups he needed to concentrate on in order to get back on track. Once he got his professional life in order, no doubt he’d be back in the saddle, so to speak, too. He’d ride off into the sunset with the hot babe of the day, leaving her and her computer program in the dirt.
Mentally slapping the dust cloud out of her brain, she unwrapped the first of many electrode pads and turned to Mustangs’ Test Subject #2. “You shouldn’t tease him about his pitching. It won’t help him get back in form.”
“Maybe not.”
Tricia adhered the first pad just above Tony’s left nipple then reached into the box for more of the individually wrapped packages. She kept one for herself and handed the rest to Tony. “Here. Open these. That will speed things up.”
They worked in tandem for a few minutes, Tony unwrapping then handing the sticky pads to Tricia to slap on his skin.
“You always this gentle?”
Kneeling in front of him, she looked up.
His eyebrows were knit in confusion. “If you want to slap somebody around, I’ll call Strikeout back in here. He’s riding the bench today. Me? I’ve got to play, and it’s hard enough without being used as a punching bag before the game.”
She ducked her head and, placing her hands on the floor, pushed to her feet. “I’m sorry, Tony. It’s just….”
“Strikeout? You and Royce got something goin’ on? If the scumbag is leaving you unsatisfied, I’ll set him straight.”
“Oh God.” She grabbed Tony’s arm and squeezed. The last thing she needed was this man going to bat for her with Royce. “No. Please don’t say anything to him. It’s nothing like what you’re thinking.”
“I knew something was going on between you two. The man has it bad for you.”
Tricia froze as her new guinea pig’s words registered. Hope flared hot and bright in her chest like a sparkler on the Fourth of July, but fizzled out just as fast.
“Please don’t say anything to him. I’ll be out of his life in a few weeks, and he’ll forget all about me.”
Tony cleared a spot and sat on the corner of the desk. “You’re really hung up on him, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Yeah. But I don’t think he feels the same, and I have no right to expect him to. Besides, I have a job to do here, and a personal relationship with one of my test subjects could jeopardize my project.”
“First, it’s plain to anyone with eyes Strikeout is nuts about you. So much so, it’s making him crazy. Yesterday, he basically told me to stay away from you, and that scene a few minutes ago? All because I didn’t listen to him and stay away.”
Tricia applied a pad to his right calf, this time smoothing the edges down with a touch so light, he could understand Royce’s interest. If Tony didn’t have Clare waiting at home to make his skin quiver, he’d sure as hell respond to Tricia’s touch. “Thanks for ignoring him,” she said, reaching her hand up. Tony placed the pad he’d just unwrapped in her palm and set about opening another one. “I hope he doesn’t succeed in scaring off others. I need several more players to participate, or the findings won’t mean anything.”
“You tell me who’s next in line, and I’ll make sure they show up.” She didn’t respond to his offer, just continued silently placing pad after pad until he looked like a pair of jeans, patched too many times to wear.
“You think you can find something to help Royce get back on his game?” he asked while she attached wires to the electrodes dotting his body.
“I hope I can. I’d hate to think a man’s career could be ended simply because he isn’t using a specific muscle group to its best advantage.” She hooked a wire to an electrode on his left shoulder blade.
“What about me? I’m playing just fine. Shouldn’t you be testing players who aren’t doing so well?”
“There’s always room for improvement.” She clamped another wire to a pad on his biceps. “You may think you’re playing to the best of your ability, but my research thus far suggests athletes know very little about their own bodies and how they move.”
Tony nodded. “Yeah, I can see your point. So, you’re saying this computer program of yours can help anyone, not just a player going through a periodic slump.”
“That’s what I’m saying. If the program works, it could eradicate the occasional slump from the game entirely, as well as indicate when a player is in an irreversible decline as opposed to a slump.”
If her program even came close to working, it would change professional sports across the board. From a player’s standpoint, it could prolong his career, or end it prematurely, depending on what team owners did with the information acquired from the players. Fuck.
He asked a few more questions while she continued to hook him up to her computer. Concentrating on her work, she didn’t seem to be holding anything back in her answers. He genuinely believed her when she talked about using her research to benefit wounded soldiers and civilians facing physical challenges. All that was fine and good, but so was nuclear power unless it ended up in the hands of someone with no moral compass.
MLB and the team owners were without morals, but they controlled the money, and with it, the players’ lives. Technological advances over the years had changed the face of the game in many ways—stadium lighting, enclosed stadiums, better bases, equipment, and safety gear. Hell, television coverage and, now, the instant replay had altered the game. But mostly, the players had remained untouched. There was Tommy John surgery, a miracle medical procedure that had saved many pitching careers in the last two decades, but, not much else had touched the human factor of the game. If Dr. Reed’s computer program did what she hoped it would do, he could see owners using the tool as a means to select players, ensuring they had only the best of the best on their roster.
Of course, that’s what they tried to do now, but the decisions were based on many factors, not scientific analysis of the person’s physical abilities and limitations. What about personality or eagerness or flat-out hunger for a World Championship? Those were the kinds of things a computer program couldn’t measure, yet they could be the difference between a good player and an exceptional player.
Tony followed Tricia’s instructions, allowing her to collect the data she needed regarding his off-the-field fitness level. Ripping off the first set of electrodes was every bit as unpleasant as Royce indicated it would be then he stood before the good doc
tor once again in nothing but his jock strap while she applied a set of wireless transmitters he would wear while playing.
Fuck. He needed to talk to Strikeout, see if the man shared his concerns about Tricia’s research. Maybe Tony was paranoid, but he didn’t think so.
“Would you call this medical research?” he asked, carefully tugging his practice uniform on so as not to dislodge any of the porcupine-esque wires attached to his skin.
“Most definitely.” Tricia tapped the keys on her laptop, her gaze glued to the small, rectangular screen.
“Who do you see using this, in the League, I mean? Team doctors, physical therapists, trainers?”
“All of the above and the players themselves.”
“What about management?”
She looked up at him. “What about management? I don’t see the information being of any use to them other than to help their players perform to the best of their ability.”
Which answered his question. It hadn’t occurred to Dr. Reed that her project could be used to manipulate careers or in the grand scheme, to change the game by putting a crop of emotionless, physically-fit robots on the field in place of human beings.
He could tell by the look on Ramirez’s face as he strode across the dugout toward him that Tricia had convinced the man to wear the wireless sensors for today’s game. Royce knew firsthand how those things could pinch as your body moved in the normal range of motion.
Tony rubbed the top of his thigh and instantly Strike remembered the day that particular electrode had malfunctioned on him. Christ. The idea of Tricia doing to Tony what she’d done to him made him see red before he forced rational thoughts to take over. Ramirez was married, very happily so it seemed. The idea of her seeing and touching Tony…shit. The thought fucked with his sanity.
“Come with me.” Ramirez barked the order as he passed Royce in the nearly empty pre-game dugout and headed into the tunnel leading to the clubhouse.
What the fuck? Out of curiosity, he followed. When Tony opened the door to the very same supply closet where things had gone beyond heated to explosive with Tricia, and motioned him inside, Royce balked. “You got problems with the equipment, you fix it yourself.” He turned to head back out to watch batting practice only to have Tony’s hand clamp down on his elbow, stopping him.
“Get in here. Now. We need to talk.” Surprised at the usually jovial man’s angry tone, Royce glanced up and down the hallway to make sure no one was around then stepped into the closet.
“What the fuck, man?”
“Have you given any thought to this research bullshit?” Tony stood with his hands fisted on his hips. Royce had never seen his teammate this pissed off.
“Tricia’s research?”
“What the fuck else would I be talking about? Do you have any idea what this could mean if she succeeds and it ends up in the owner’s hands? We’ll all be out of a fuckin’ job. There won’t be anyone on the field except perfect fuckin’ robots. We’ve got to put a stop to this. Now. Before she comes up with something concrete.”
“Whoa.” Royce held up a hand to stop Tony’s rant. “Stop right there. We aren’t going to do anything to stop Tricia’s research.” He waved his index finger between them. “You and I are going to wear her fuckin’ electrodes so she can collect whatever fuckin’ readings she wants. Then you’re going to stay the fuck away from her.”
“Seriously? Are you even listening to yourself? You’re so much in love with the woman, you can’t see what’s going on here.” Tony jabbed a finger in the center of Royce’s chest. “Fuckin’ management is using her research to screw us all out of our contracts.”
Royce was so hung up on Tony’s assertion he was in love with Tricia, he almost missed the last part of the man’s statement. “What the fuck are you talking about? You think management is using her?”
Ramirez explained his thoughts, ending with his belief that Dr. Reed was completely innocent in regards to his conspiracy theory.
Royce gripped the corner of the metal shelving to keep himself upright. “I should have seen it. I don’t know why I didn’t.”
“Like I said, you’re in love with the woman. She’s all you can see right now.” Tony clapped Royce on the back. “I don’t blame you a bit. If I didn’t have Clare, I’d probably make a run at Tricia myself.”
Royce glared at the other man. “I am not in love or anything else with Dr. Reed.”
Tony backed to the other side of the small room. “Deny it all you want, man, but I call ’em like I see ’em. Besides, I’m totally monogamous now. Clare is more than enough for one man.”
“Fuck, man. I do not want to hear about your kinky love life. Keep that shit to yourself, okay?”
Ramirez laughed. “I didn’t say…. Hell, forget I said anything at all. We need to figure out what we’re going to do about this. If Dr. Reed’s program can do what she thinks it can, then we can’t let management get their hands on it. Talk about bad—all the way around.”
Doyle hadn’t specifically told him not to discuss his dual role as both guinea pig and spy, but since the program wasn’t common knowledge among the players, he could only assume he needed to keep the manager’s confidence. That meant playing dumb for Tony. “Can’t you go to Doyle? Isn’t he a relative or something now?”
“He’s Clare’s uncle.” Tony scraped a hand over his face. “Shit. I can’t believe he’d be involved in something like this. He’s always struck me as one of the good guys, you know? On the player’s side.
Royce nodded. “I agree. Maybe you should talk to him, see what he has to say.” With a little luck, his uncle would fill him in. He didn’t feel right about keeping things from Tony, especially when he could see how upset the guy was over the situation.
“Shit. He loves the game as much as anybody I’ve ever known.” He shook his head. “I just can’t see him agreeing to something like this.”
Again, Royce nodded. Unable to agree or disagree, Royce stared at the floor. “You have any ideas?”
“Not a one. You?”
Tricia had poured everything into her work, the idea of doing anything to stop her made him sick to his stomach, but Tony was right, if there was a chance her program could negatively impact the players in baseball or any sport, then he’d have no choice but to turn the information over to Doyle and let him go up against the League to squash her project. “Let me think about it. We’re the only two players involved right now, and hell, we don’t have a clue if her program will even work. If it doesn’t, then there’s no problem, right?”
“Right.”
“Then why don’t we go on about our business, let Tricia do her research. I don’t even want to think about sabotaging her work, or whatever the hell else we could do to stop her, until she actually has something the League could want.”
“I agree. In the meantime, let’s try to figure a way out of this that doesn’t ruin baseball and, hell, every other professional sport out there, just in case.” Ramirez grabbed the doorknob, but before he opened the door, he turned back to Royce. “Stay close to her, Strike. If she comes up with anything, you’ll be the first person she tells.”
He felt as if he had a candy fireball lodged in his throat. “Sure. I’ll stay close to her. Not a problem.” Never mind he’d just told her he wouldn’t touch her until their month was up. That had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life. Tony was wrong about one thing—he wasn’t in love with Tricia. He knew what love was. The thing between him and Tricia was physical, nothing more.
Royce grabbed the edge of a shoulder-high shelf. His head was a dead weight hanging between his shoulders, dragging him down into a cesspool of lies that could only lead to disaster.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He took his frustration out on the rack, causing the bottles of cleaning supplies to totter. A broom handle dislodged from its resting place and clattered to the floor. His relationship with her was built on lies and deceit. It didn’t take a genius to figure out how Tricia wou
ld react if she found out what he was up to, and the only way she wouldn’t find out was if her research flopped.
Best case scenario—her project fails. Then she’ll never know you weren’t going to let it succeed anyway.
That’s fucked up, even for you.
Royce peeled his fingers off the shelf, rolled his shoulders to release the tension holding him in like a vise. He inhaled, counting to ten before letting the stale air whoosh from his lungs. Spending time with Dr. Reed wouldn’t be a problem. She seemed as eager as he to see where their physical attraction would take them. He admired her intellect, finding her brain as sexy as her body. The way she trusted him made him feel like a god—a lying, no-good bastard of a god, but a god nonetheless.
After repeating the shoulder roll and deep breathing exercises a few more times, he regained enough control to go out in public again. There was the usual pre-game chaos in the dugout. Players going through rituals that could be signs of OCD but were definitely superstition. Royce skirted past Tony, who stood in front of the cubbyholes containing their batting helmets, cursing a blue streak because someone had turned his helmet to face the wrong way. Baseball players were a strange lot, believing things as inconsequential as the way their equipment was stowed to where they sat on the bench could make a difference in their performance on the field.
Royce took a seat at the far end of the bench where he could watch the introductions and such at home plate as well as observe his teammates’ game preparations. They were a quirky bunch, no doubt about it, but each one of them brought something unique to the team. It wasn’t just their strong points on the field, but their weaknesses, too, that made them assets to the team. Take Jeff Holder, for example. No one gave a shit if he couldn’t throw a curve ball to save his hide. His hundred-mile-per-hour fastball had made him the best closer in the league. In a perfect-player world, there wasn’t room for a one-pitch pitcher. But take Holder out of the last inning, and you’d take away the excitement of the game—those nail-biting three outs, where the opposing team knew they were facing their greatest competition yet, and thus, played their hardest. It’s what fans and players alike lived for, the rush of anticipation, the feeling that anything could happen.
