Richmond Rogues 4-Book Boxed Set by Kate Angell

Author:Kate Angell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romantic comedy, contemporary, sports romance, boxed set, baseball romance, sexy romances, full series, sports series, hunky baseball players, hunky sports team
Publisher: Kate Angell

CHAPTER ONE

“Rally Ball’s checking you out, Stryke.” Right fielder Psycho McMillan snapped his towel toward the corner of the locker room, where the Richmond Rogues’ mascot peered over the low partition separating them from the trainers’ tables. “Charlie Bradley wants you bad,” Psycho teased, referring to the man who performed as Rally.

Brek Stryker slowly turned. Psycho’s comments were as crazy as the man himself. Yet there was no hiding for the giant fuzz ball, nor any discreet peeking. The costume stuck out among the players, a big white baseball with red stitching. Leg- and armholes showcased long red-and-blue-striped sleeves and matching tights. The team mascot dipped and bobbed, drawing attention to itself.

Showered and shaved, relief pitcher Sloan McCaffrey toweled off his chest. “Charlie’s not himself today.”

“Definitely not himself.” Third baseman Romeo Bellisaro stepped into a pair of knife-creased khakis. “Man’s lost weight. His tights are baggy.”

“He grunts like a girl.” Psycho slipped on a black T-shirt scripted with Nude ’Tude. The man preferred to be naked.

Stryke stared at his teammates. “Bullshit.”

“No joke,” Sloan returned. “Charlie was all over the baseline today, tipping and tripping like he was drunk.”

“Man doesn’t drink.” Stryke knew that for a fact. Bradley was a seasoned mascot and a good friend.

“Does he wear nail polish? Perfume?” asked Sloan.

Stryke shook his head. “Never happen.”

Sloan lowered his voice and nodded toward their mascot. “You’re the team captain. Walk by Rally. Red nails and do-me perfume.”

Stryke didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had dinner plans with his fiancée and her parents.

Punctuality was part of the program. He didn’t need to be held up by a team prank.

Bare chested, his black silk boxers low on his hips, he sauntered toward Rally Ball. The mascot froze, then began to back up—slowly at first, then much more quickly. Ten steps, and Rally bumped and bounced off a wall and banged into Stryke’s chest.

They both grew still as the red stitching pressed his pecs. A too-close-for-comfort brush between men. Stryke nudged the mascot back. Annoyance filled his growl. “What the hell, Charlie?”

Wiggle. Wiggle. Rally Ball squirmed, once again rubbing Stryke with fuzz and stitching. The mascot’s roundness now grazed his abdomen and groin.

Whoa, buddy. Way too familiar.

Stryke grabbed the mascot’s arms. Slender, toned arms, not burly, like those of Charlie Bradley.

He looked down at the fuzz ball’s hands. Clawa- man’s-back red tipped the nails on clenched fingers. Confused, he pulled back and openly stared at the mascot’s red-and-blue tights.

Baggy tights, all wrinkled at the knees and pooling at the ankles. The blue Converse high-tops looked big and clumsy, like clown shoes.

There was no scent of sweat on Charlie today. Only a heady sensual fragrance, all sunshine and warm-the-sheets sexy: Amber Nude, a scent he recognized from long ago. The cologne had once seduced and driven him crazy on the neck of…

His jaw locked, and his gaze narrowed on the eye slits of the costume. Wide, uncertain, sea green eyes replaced the brown of Bradley’s.

Taylor Hannah.

Stryke’s heart slammed and his body tightened. He swore he’d have a crippling charley horse or a full-blown coronary.

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