Page 98 of The Strike Zone

“You’ll be fine, your clothes will protect you.”

“What clothes?”

“What are you wearing underneath?”

“Nothing.”

Lux inhaled sharply, which caused him to set off in a succession of choked coughing intermingled with hoarse laughter. “Please…no…are…you…com…mando…?”

“Yeah?”

“Dude! You have to wear something.”

“No one told me.” Tanner huffed, pulling at his groin again.

I didn’t know whether to join Lux in his fit of laughter or feel sorry for Tanner. Instead, I ducked into the dugout, dialed the locker room from the phone on the wall, and asked the attendant to bring Tanner clean underwear and a tee.

It arrived five minutes later, which wasn’t a minute too soon, given Tanner had already stripped off to change.

Ace and I were helping him step back into the costume when his eyes widened at something over my shoulder. “What’shedoing here? Don’t tell me he’s watching this shit show?”

Lux let out a low whistle. “We’d best not fuck this up.”

I spun around and lifted my sunglasses. Immediately my shoulders straightened, and my stomach dropped.

Even against the bright morning sun, walking toward us along the far edges of the field, was the clear and unmistakable outline of our boss, aka Penn Shepherd, accompanied by a couple of guys, and a black Labrador. I hadn’t expected us to have an audience of this magnitude.

I hadn’t expected us to have an audience at all.

I figured it would be the dog handler and the social team.

At thirty-four-ish, Penn Shepherd was the youngest owner in the MLB. Born into one of the wealthiest families in America, he was supposed to take over the family business a couple of years ago but instead bought or, depending on who you spoke to,rescuedthe Lions.

It was no secret that he lived and breathed baseball.

He never missed a game, and attended every single away series, nearly always traveling with us on the team plane. He was a good guy, unlike a lot of owners who were in it for the money and status, it was clear the New York Lions had quickly become his pride and joy.

His mission was to make the Lions a family club, and as such, he knew every single person by name—since he’d taken over, there hadn’t been a birthday, anniversary, or kid’s birth missed—from the cleaning crew up to Jupiter Reeves.

The flip side of this being he owned our jobs, and no matter how approachable he tried to make himself, it was hard to forget. Therefore, it was virtually impossible to relax in his presence, and this included running around the bases dressed as the mascot—in Tanner’s case.

“Who are the other two?” I asked, my eyes trained on the way these guys were walking toward us like they owned the place.

In Penn Shepherd’s case, it was true, but the two guys flanking him carried the same air of arrogance that anyone did when they knew they were top of their game, even in the jeans, tee, and sneakers they were all wearing.

I saw it every time I walked down the corridors to the locker rooms, or when I passed Jupiter Reeves—there was an imperceptible swagger quality, untouchable almost, but it set you apart.

There was no difference between businessmen, sportsmen, and whatever profession these guys were in—we all liked to win, and win big.

“The one with tattoos is Rafe Latham, the other is Murray Williams,” Ace replied, leaning against the boards. “Rafe’s a lawyer, Murray’s in finance. I don’t know Rafe well, but Murray’s married to Payton’s bestie.”

“He’s alawyer?”

I was expecting him to say the guy with the full sleeves of tattoos worked in security, or was, at a minimum, leader of a biker gang. He was the least lawyer-y looking lawyer I’d ever seen.

“Payton’s bestie?” Lux’s eyebrows shot up. “The one who’s Radley’s professor?”

“Yup.”

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