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Chapter One
Aiden Kyle stalked through the door of the San Francisco Strikers’ locker room and scanned the area for his friend and shortstop, Rafe Wilson. Aiden had been pitching for the Strikers for three years, and he and Rafe were close.
But, Rafe had just screwed the whole damn team and Aiden was ticked.
He slapped the newspaper down on the table in front of Rafe and pointed to the picture of a smiling Rafe with his fiancée, Ashlyn Daniels. It’s not that he begrudged Rafe his happiness. He wanted his friend to be happy. If Rafe was crazy enough to think marriage would give him that happiness, Aiden was on board. Rafe had been stupidly happy and blissfully ignorant of what was happening to him since he met Ashlyn. And, if he was honest, Aiden liked Ashlyn. She was good for Rafe.
That didn’t mean he had to like the fact that his friend had just selfishly triggered the curse right in the middle of their season.
“You couldn’t wait?” he asked Rafe. “You just couldn’t wait until the end of the season to save us all from the curse?”
They all knew what the curse was: if one Striker fell in love during the season and got either married or engaged, two more would fall, for a total of three victims. And, every time that had happened, the team as a whole suffered. Record high injuries one year, missing out on a pennant they should have won another, distractions and errors when they should be at the height of their game.
Hell, a month ago, Rafe had been just as adamant as Aiden that none of them trigger the curse this season. If no one fell in love and got married or engaged, they’d all be safe and the season wouldn’t go to pieces overnight.
Rafe shook his head at Aiden, grinning up at him. “Shoot, you should be thanking me. Now you have a shot at happiness, too.”
Aiden grumbled under his breath as Gage Collier, their catcher as well as another good friend, picked up the paper. In addition to the picture of Rafe and Ashlyn, the columnist—who wrote as much about gossip as he did about the sport itself—spilled the entire story of the curse, along with the fact that Rafe Wilson had just initiated it.
Right there, in bold heading letters, the column screamed: “The Triple Play Curse: Which Striker Will Be Next To Fall?”
“How the hell did Brian James get wind of the curse?” Gage asked before turning to the other end of the locker room. “Hey, Denali! Have you been out drinking with Brian James again?”
Their teammate, Jason Denali, grunted an answer as he shrugged a shoulder.
“You run off at the mouth again? Tell him about the curse?”
Denali grimaced. “Maybe?” The tone of his question made it clear he wasn’t really sure himself. Denali tended to drink a little too hard and talk a lot too much, and Brian James had figured out that little weakness a long time ago.
Aiden rolled his eyes. “Great. I’ll have to spend the season with nothing other than strippers and my freaking hand lotion in the shower if I want to avoid this damn curse. Thanks a lot, Rafe.” Keeping women out of his bed seemed to him to be the best way to ensure he didn’t fall prey to the curse.
Rafe just grinned. Aiden shook his head and tossed his bag into his locker. Not him.Hewasn’t going to fall. He wasn’t going to forget what he had going here. He was still young, a pitcher for one of the best teams in the American League, and he sure as heck planned to enjoy thebenefitsof that position for a good long time to come. Those benefits included women, gorgeous women, throwing themselves at him night after night.
Crap. With the exception of this season. Being with a woman now would be too risky. Nope. Strip clubs and hand lotion was it for the rest of this season.
Chapter Two
Lily Dupree carefully gripped the edge of the round drink tray as she balanced the three drinks in its center. Her second night at the Candy Shoppe Lounge wasn’t going any better than her first night had. During that first shift, she had tipped over more than a few drinks and broken several glasses.
She took a deep breath and steadied the tray, lifting it above her head as she rotated it gently in the air, as her friend Katie had taught her. The gentlemen’s club had a strict rule that the waitressesstraight-armtheir trays above their heads at all times. Lily was hardly cut out for waitressing, much less straight-arming a tray of drinks over her head through a dark and crowded room. She was clumsy on the best of days.
But, she needed this job. Without it, she wouldn’t be able to make her loan payments for the next few months, and she’d lose everything she’d worked for. Asking her parents to rescue her was out of the question. Her family was supportive of anything she did, but she wanted to stand on her own two feet this time. Calling them would mean failure, and that would be as bad as losing her business.
Lily shoved the thought aside and began to wend her way through the tables fronting the stage. She tried not to gape as one of the dancers on stage mimicked things with the pole that made Lily want to blush and run the other way. She’d never really thought of herself as prude, but good heavens, there were just some things you shouldn’t do with a pole. And, certainly not in public.
Only two more steps, she whispered under her breath. One more. She could feel the glasses begin to slide on top of the tray. She tilted her wrist to the left to compensate and knew almost immediately that it was too much. Too far. She tilted back the other way, trying to regain the balance, but the tray was hopelessly unsteady at that point. Her eyes caught on Katie’s from across the room just as the tray, the glasses, and all of the liquor in those glasses, came tumbling down.
Lily closed her eyes, knowing where those drinks were falling. Right on top of the guests sitting at table nineteen. A table of three men she’d been told were from the San Francisco Strikers. Players who often came in to relax after a game, ran up big tabs, and left generous tips. And one of them, a very tall, very strong looking, Greek god of a man, was now looking up at her from beneath his very wet hair.
“Oh, shoot!” she whispered as she saw her manager making a beeline for her, the jowls under his chin wobbling in anger as he worked up a good froth around his mouth.
Lily turned to the player, now mopping his face with a napkin. “I’m so, so sorry, sir.”
She didn’t get out another word before Donny was on her, jowls and all.
“That’s it, girlie. You’re out of here. I never should have even let you come in today. I knew yesterday, you were too damned much trouble to keep around. Klutzy as all get out and not much to look at,” he said, loud enough for everyone around them to hear, even with the booming music.
“Hey, buddy,” came from the sexy voice of the god she’d dropped all her drinks on. He rose to his full height and, oh my, it was an impressive height. “That’s no way to talk to a lady. And, besides, she’s a hell of a lot to look at.”
