Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (7 page)

Across the field in the bullpen, a collection of relief pitchers was tossing balls around with minimal focus, just getting their joints limber rather than worrying too much about accuracy.

“Are you excited?”

“I guess nerves counts as a form of excitement.”

Emmy knew better than to jinx a pitcher by telling him he’d have a good game. She shouldn’t even be talking to Tucker without knowing what his game-day superstitions were like. Every pitcher she’d ever met had a different way of dealing with their starting games. Some refused to speak to anyone; others needed a set routine. Tucker had initiated the conversation with her, so he obviously didn’t have any communication quirks.

“Do you need…anything?” She was trying to egg him into confessing whatever his brand of pitcher weirdness was.

He gave her a sidelong look then parted his lips and showed her a wad of purple gum between two rows of perfectly white teeth. Popping it back into his mouth, he winked. “Grape bubble gum. Always grape bubble gum.”

Emmy snorted. “Is it brand specific, or will any gum do?”

Tucker snapped a bubble at her. “I prefer Bubblicious, but in a pinch I’ll take what’s handy. So long as it smells like artificial fruit and tastes like Kool-Aid, we’re in good shape.”

“Noted.”

“Does that fall into the purview of an athletic trainer?”

“Anything that keeps you boys operational is all a part of the job description.”

“Anything?” He smiled again, and Emmy noted his blue eye had more of a devilish glint to it than the brown one.

Like clockwork the three outfielders and shortstop jogged up the stairs from the clubhouse, and Chet gave her a warm smile, bobbing his head in greeting. Jasper followed behind them, his Felons jacket undone and flapping as he ran.

“Duty calls,” she said, balking on Tucker’s comment. “Hamstrings won’t stretch themselves.”

“They certainly won’t.”

Tucker was having a hell of a time concentrating.

In the top of the fifth inning, his finger slipped while he was throwing, and he managed to bean the leadoff batter in the shoulder. Bad enough he’d hit someone, but it had to be one of the star batters in the whole damn league and a guy he personally knew would hold a grudge.

Tucker wasn’t a believer in intentionally hitting batters. There was an old-school opinion that said some guys had it coming, but it felt wrong somehow. You couldn’t teach a guy a lesson by hurling a 100 mph fastball at him. All that did was make someone angry, and the cycle never ended.

He knew old-timers from the Felons roster who still talked about nasty beanball hits they’d taken in their days, and half-joking that they’d love to give those pitchers what for even decades later.

When he’d been a younger man, before the surgery, Tucker had thrown a mean fastball, one of the hardest to hit in all of baseball. As his elbow started to wear down he found it harder and harder to maintain the velocity, so he switched it up and started using a knuckleball.

Knuckleballs were nasty because they were deceptively slow and wobbled like a son of a bitch. It was impossible for batters to track them, making them a pain to hit. A lot of opposing players considered them a cheat pitch, but only because of how nasty they were to hit.

Tucker threw a strong knuckleball, but it hadn’t become his signature pitch until his later years. He’d switched to it shortly before the doctor determined he needed the elbow surgery. Now that he was supposedly back in top condition, he was at odds with himself. The new, strong version of his arm wanted him to go back to throwing the fastballs and sliders he’d used most of his career.

His wary mind told him not to be showy and stick with the safer pitch.

Poor Alex, crouched behind home plate, didn’t know what to make of Tucker’s decisions. Whenever the catcher would suggest a different play, Tucker would shake him off with a quick side-to-side of his jaw. Alex would cycle through suggestions until Tucker accepted one and only one. The knuckleball.

After hitting the pitcher, though, Alex had plainly had enough of Tucker shaking him off and called a time-out. The shorter man prowled up to the mound, and Tucker instinctively placed a glove over his own mouth. Alex didn’t follow suit but turned sideways to avoid being seen by the opposing base coaches. As far as Tucker knew, no one in baseball was a trained lip-reader, yet it was a long-standing tradition to protect your secrets even when no one cared to know them.

“What’s the deal?” Alex asked.

“No deal.”

“You sure, because it sure seems like you’re pussying out on throwing anything I offer you.”

Tucker stared at the dugout. The pitching coach looked ready to come out at any second, and Chuck Calvin was about to gnaw a hole through his cheek. The big man had clearly chosen the wrong season to give up on his beloved chewing tobacco. Beside them both was Emmy, watching him with stoic concern. She smiled faintly, like she wasn’t sure if it would help him or make things worse.

He didn’t know either.

“Let’s try something a little different this time, okay? Maybe something
other
than a knuckleball?”

Grimly, Tucker nodded his consent. “Okay.”

Alex jogged back to the plate and squatted behind the next batter. He gave the signal for a slider, and Tucker’s first instinct was to shake it off, but he nodded instead.

Okay, Tucker. Here’s where you prove you’ve still got it.

He was only somewhat aware of the roar from the crowd when he adjusted his fingers on the ball and pulled his leg into position. The scream of the fans was like white noise, calming him, dulling the uncertainty.

You’ve got this.

But he didn’t.

He walked the next two batters and was pulled from the game in favor of a tried-and-true reliever. On the way back to the dugout the crowd clapped politely, but he could tell there was no passion behind the gesture.

Whatever magic Tucker Lloyd had once had, it had apparently abandoned him.

Chapter Nine

Emmy knew Simon Howell would be around—they’d been playing the White Sox after all—but the last thing she expected was to find him waiting in her office when she returned to the clubhouse.

The game had taken a nasty turn after Tucker left. The relief pitcher gave up a bad-luck home run, sending everyone on base in and giving the Sox a four-run lead.

By the time the top of the ninth rolled around, Emmy didn’t need to see more. She left the players in Jasper’s capable hands and went to fill out her report for the higher-ups. There was nothing terribly serious to report, but the paperwork still needed to get done. The designated hitter seemed to be favoring his right leg, which would have to be checked out, and their center fielder, Barrett, had taken a beating on a diving catch in the sixth. He’d bounce back, but it was her job to make sure everyone up the chain of command knew what shape the players were in.

She walked through the training room and into her small office—a glorified closet—then let out a shocked yelp.

“Nice to see you too,” Simon greeted, rising from his chair.

She crossed the small space, her heart hammering from the surprise of seeing him. “Simon.”

He grasped her elbow and kissed her. Considering they hadn’t seen each other in almost two months, the kiss was friendly at best.

“You look good,” he said. “Orange suits you.”

Emmy looked down at her jacket and smiled. “It’s a bit different than the old black-and-white, isn’t it?” Self-conscious of the bright color, she took the jacket off and hung it on the back of her door. The training room was stifling hot anyway, and her office felt like a sauna with more than one person in it.

“Tough game.” He sat back down.

Simon was tall but bulkier than most of the men she spent her days with. He had played football in college and often claimed his torn ACL was the only thing that kept him from advancing to the NFL. While Emmy appreciated how devastating an ACL tear could be for professional careers, she’d also seen old video of Simon playing.

The ACL hadn’t been what kept him from the pros. He lacked passion in his game, and no one could get anywhere in professional sports without passion. It was as much a sports truth as “you can’t win ’em all.”

He ran a hand through his short blond hair and gave her the grin he’d perfected. It was that smile that had made her knees turn to Jell-O when she’d first met him, and even now her stomach wobbled to see it.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, realizing she hadn’t said it yet.

“I’m going to take you out.”

“Oh.” Her gaze darted to her laptop, then back to his hooded green eyes. “I have to—”

“Em, I know the drill, believe me. You do your paperwork. I have my own job to do here.” He patted the front of his blazer, where she knew he kept a compact digital recorder. “But this is San Francisco, not some small minor league town. I’m sure we can find a place willing to make us food after eleven.”

Emmy nodded, not sure why she was so hesitant to be alone with her boyfriend. Surely it was just shyness from being apart for such a long time. She was worried they didn’t know each other the same way anymore. It had absolutely nothing to do with—

Tucker Lloyd knocked on her door.

Emmy’s pulse tripped as she looked from the pitcher to the reporter across from her desk. The two men gave each other polite nods of acknowledgment then turned to her for the appropriate introductions.

“Simon, this is Tucker.”

Simon clambered up from his chair, reaching to close the distance, and gave Tucker a firm handshake. They were both big men in different ways, and Emmy marveled at how Tucker towered over Simon, but Simon made Tucker appear much thinner by comparison.

“Tucker, this is Simon Howell. Simon’s a sports reporter from the
Chicago Sun-Times
. He’s here covering the Sox.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Simon said. “Big admirer, of course. Great to see you back this season.”

“Thanks.” They pulled free of the handshake before it went to awkward lengths, then Tucker looked at Emmy and their gazes locked. “Chicago, you said?”

“Yes,” Simon confirmed.

“You knew Emmy before she was a Felon.”

Emmy and Tucker continued to stare at each other, in spite of the pitcher directing his questions at Simon.

“Simon is my… Simon’s my boyfriend.” The word
boyfriend
sounded stupid to her in this context. It was such a youthful word, and at thirty-two she hardly felt young enough to be using it. There were two grown men in her office, and she was describing one of them in high school terms. Maybe she should call Tucker her
crush
to balance it out.

For once her cheeks didn’t flare up at the wrong moment, and she was grateful for small favors.

“Of course,” Tucker said, finally looking back at Simon. “Emmy told me about you.”

After she let me kiss her,
Emmy finished his sentence in her head.

“If you have a few minutes, I’d love to ask you some questions. Before the rest of the press gets to you.” There was the Simon Emmy knew so well. Using any advantage to get the scoop. He was smooth, she had to give him that. All smiles and flattery.

It helped he didn’t tend to rip players apart in print. There was no reason for Tucker not to talk to Simon. Simon’s mission wasn’t to write a gossipy tell-all, he just wanted something to fill up the sports section.

“Sure,” Tucker said. “Maybe you can give me some insight into Emmy while we’re at it.”

“Emmy?” Simon favored her with his grin. “She’s an open book. What you see is what you get.”

“Is that so?” Tucker regarded her again, and this time the message was clear:
I see you. When do I get you?

There was no stopping the hot, pink flush that covered her cheeks when she fell under the scrutiny of his gaze. With one pass of his mismatched eyes, Tucker did things to her Simon’s rakish grin could never have managed.

She flipped open her laptop and typed
egwrwrhwhww rgwgwhw ogworignwognw
into an open email, trying to will her face to stop betraying her. “You guys have fun.”

Simon leaned across her desk and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She jumped when his lips touched her skin. “Don’t work too hard. I still want to take you out.”

Emmy smiled at him, but she couldn’t escape how guilty she felt.

Chapter Ten

San Francisco at Kansas City, Record 1-2

The opening series against Chicago had been a disaster. It was only the first three games of the season, but the San Francisco sports media was already projecting a dreary season.

As if baseball were like the weather and anyone could
predict
a season after two losses.

But Tucker understood their logic. He’d tried to avoid reading anything, but in his hotel room at the Kansas City Hyatt he had time on his hands and needed a distraction. He wasn’t pitching tonight but still had to go to the park early for a one-on-one with Emmy to work out his arm.

If he dwelled too long on the idea of being
one-on-one
with Emmy, he would go out of his mind, so he opened his laptop and checked a few overdue emails. His agent was asking for an answer on a proposed cologne endorsement, but Tucker wasn’t sure. The money was good, but he didn’t understand how he fit the Hugo Boss image.