Read Online Strike Out: Mustangs Baseball #6 by Roz Lee - Free Book Online Page B

them, the scandal would have ended both their careers.
    After turning a corner that led to someplace in the bowels of the stadium, he sagged against the wall and sucked in a deep, cleansing breath. He had to get his shit together.
    From where he was, he couldn’t hear the crowds, but he could sense the energy building. In a few short minutes, he’d be expected to go out to the mound and pitch at least five innings. Six if he could manage. Seven if he got lucky.
    He hadn’t been lucky in months.
    They called him Strikeout. Strike for short. But lately, the media had been more inclined to say Stryker had gone on strike. Like he’d deliberately quit striking batters out. He wished his problem was so simple. If it had been, he would just as deliberately begin striking them out again.
    But it wasn’t simple. It was complicated as hell. It seemed the harder he tried to throw strikes, the fewer he threw. Scratch that. He was throwing strikes alright. Right. Over. The. Plate. Down the middle. Right in the batter’s wheelhouse.
    Didn’t matter who the batter was, or what kind of pitches they excelled at hitting. Everyone in the league had gotten a hit off him this season. Or so it seemed.
     
    ***
     
    Royce wiped his brow with his sleeve. Sweat stung his eyes. He could thank the unseasonably hot temperatures for that, but the river running down his spine had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with his state of mind. It was only the third inning, but he’d given up four runs and loaded the bases twice on a combination of walks and dinky hits. Some pitchers might blame the fielders for not making outs, but not him. Every one of the hits he’d given up had been legit. He had no one to blame but himself.
    No way would Doyle bring in a new pitcher this early in the game, so Royce had no choice but to stick it out for as long as it took. Another two innings, maybe three before he could tuck his tail between his legs and skulk away.
    He’d have plenty of time to think about escaping later. First, he had to get out of his current situation—hopefully, without giving up any more runs. Experience told him not to expect such a fortuitous outcome, so he shut off the voice of reason and tried to concentrate on the next pitch.
    One pitch at a time. Nothing you can do about the runners standing on first and second so focus on getting this batter out.
    Royce took a deep breath then let it out before wedging his right foot up against the pitching rubber and turning his head toward home plate. The ball felt natural as he held it lightly behind his back. He’d been here thousands of times in his career, he told himself. This was just one more day at the office.
    Jason flashed a series of signs to indicate the pitch he expected Royce to throw.
    Coming to a set, hands together in front, he visualized the pitch. His mind and body knew every minute detail—how to grip the ball, how hard to throw it, when to let it fly from his fingers. He saw the pitch in his mind’s eye—saw it break before coming in over the outside corner of the plate for a strike. If he did everything just right, the ball would end up in Jason’s mitt and not over the center-field wall.
    If.
    Over the last few months, if had become a very big word.
    Royce willed the negative thoughts out of his brain. With runners on base, two outs, and two strikes on this batter, there was no room for anything but perfection.
    Certain he had his head screwed on right, and everything from his brain to his toenails were in complete sync, he went into his wind-up. The ball flew from his fingertips only to soar back over his head like a guided missile a split-second later.
    For every foot the ball traveled, his stomach sank a few inches. The Mustangs were behind seven runs, thanks to him, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do but stand there on the mound looking like a fool.
     
    ***
     
    Tricia monitored the incoming data with little interest. Whatever had been wrong