by Sierra Dean
Dedication
To Sue Falsone, without whom Emmy would have fallen completely flat. Sue, you inspired me to write a strong woman who was an active participant in the team, and you were so, so generous to me throughout the writing process. To those who don’t know, Sue is the head athletic trainer of the Los Angeles Dodgers, and was gracious enough to put up with dozens of hounding emails from me when she wasn’t patching up the players. I wanted your thank-you to be in the biggest font possible, but you’ll have to settle for the longest one I’ve ever written. Your kindness, support and generosity will never be forgotten, thank you. If there are any mistakes here, they’re entirely my own or acts of creative license.
To Tori Benson, for answering all my questions about spring weather in Florida, you rock.
Catriona Churman, my amazing San Francisco tour guide, and a fabulous friend, thank you, thank you, thank you! My descriptions of San Francisco would be flat and boring without all your great local insight. I’ll have to come back for the sequel, so get your thinking cap ready!
To Max Scherzer, starting pitcher of the Detroit Tigers, for having the weirdest eyes in baseball.
Kevin Matté, thank you for forcing me to watch baseball games with you. I never thought I’d be someone to love a sport so passionately, but as it turns out I’m crazy about it. This time last year I would never have imagined I’d fly across the country on a whim to see a World Series game. And thanks for your willingness to spend fourteen hours in a car with me so we could see the Tigers play the Twins.
To Sasha Knight, who was willing to let me take her to her first baseball game EVER so I could prove why she’d like this book.
Last but not least, thanks to the boys of summer I root for, the Detroit Tigers. You have proven to me that a beloved team is a cast of characters you can’t wait to watch for three hours a night, one hundred and sixty-two games a year. And when they win the Series in 2013, I’ll be there cheering them on.
Chapter One
Spring Training
What goes up must come down.
It was as true of life as it was of physics. Every triumphant swing of the bat might send a ball sailing through the air, but eventually that ball came back to earth. So, too, the career of a baseball great could tumble down from the most towering heights.
That cheerful thought weighed heavily on Tucker Lloyd’s mind when he rolled out of his lumpy hotel bed and sauntered over to the window to inspect an already bright Florida morning. The sunlight looked different here than it did in San Francisco, more buttery, like it was warmer somehow. Granted, February in San Fran was far from warm on its best days, so maybe his opinion of the light quality was skewed.
His whole world felt a bit skewed.
Tucker ran his palm over a fresh crop of stubble on his jaw, his calloused skin snagging against the hair, and let the curtain fall back into place over the window, shutting him into darkness once more. There used to be a time spring training made him giddier than a teenager on a first date. The thrill of the early preseason weeks where rusty skills were honed sharp and coaches could test the water with new players had been the part of the year he looked forward to the most.
In the past it had reminded him of playing for fun, the good old little league days where a love for the game was rooted. Sure, spring training games mattered in their own way, but most of it was about brushing the cobwebs off and getting back into the swing of things. So to speak.
That excitement wasn’t there this year. Tucker’s arm ached from the mattress, which was a bad sign considering he was once the biggest-name pitcher for the San Francisco Felons and he’d just come off a year of recovering from Tommy John surgery to replace a worn-down ligament in his elbow.
He’d had to choose between early retirement and the surgery, and opted to spend a year of physical therapy and painful healing to get his arm back into throwing shape.
Now he was thirty-six and hoping he had a shot in hell of being a star pitcher again.
In any other job being thirty-six wouldn’t be a sign he was coming to the end of his career. But baseball was a different kind of job, especially major league ball. With teams recruiting right out of high school, Tucker was an old man in baseball terms.
In response to the thought, his joints groaned. He hadn’t played a single day of ball, yet his muscles were protesting like they’d been to hell and back.
A knock on his door yanked him out of his miserable, circle-jerk of a thought process, and he went to greet his guest wearing only his boxers. Whoever was knocking at six in the morning could deal with seeing his underpants.
“Goddamn.” Alex Ross, the Felons’ ace catcher, held a hand in front of his face and thrust a Starbucks cup in Tucker’s general direction. “It’s bad enough I have to get up at the ass crack of dawn, dude, I don’t need to see Little Tucker too.”
“First,” Tucker responded, grabbing the coffee, “there is nothing little about Little Tucker. And second, what the hell do you want?”
Alex feigned a hurt expression, his round cheeks sagging into a great imitation of a pout. The whole thing was ruined by the mischievous gleam in his brown eyes.
Tucker and Alex had been teammates for a decade, since Alex had come up from the farm league. In that time they’d learned to read each other like psychics, and it made them nearly unbeatable in games. It also meant Tucker knew when Alex was full of shit. Which was about ninety-nine percent of the time.
But he’d brought coffee, so he wasn’t a total prick.
“What do you mean what the hell do I want? Has old age made your brain soft?” Alex took a swig from his own coffee and came into the room while Tucker searched for a T-shirt. “First day of training means first day of Alex and Tucker pretending to be healthy and going for a run every morning.”
Ah yes, that old kettle of fish. Last year the Alex and Tucker running club had lasted exactly two weeks.
“Can we not and say we did?” Tucker pulled a well-worn gray-and-orange Felons tee over his head. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he noticed the shirt had made his dark hair stick up worse than the pillow had.
“No such luck. Winter has made me paunchy.” Alex rubbed his belly as if this would prove his point.
“Being fat made you paunchy. Winter just made you pale.”
“Ouch.” Alex wasn’t really fat, but he was one of those guys who would never look trim and cut no matter how much he worked out. The roundness of his youth hadn’t faded, giving him a cherubic look that helped get him into a lot of trouble, but also made him stand out next to all the tall, lanky players who filled out the roster. At five eleven he wasn’t short, but with the other guys pushing six five, he didn’t exactly fit in either.
Tucker shrugged unapologetically but crouched in the bottom of the closet and rifled through his bag for some jogging shorts. Maybe a run would help loosen him up before practice. Something had to.
His blazingly white jersey, which was hanging from the rail above, brushed the top of his head as he dug into his suitcase, and he stopped to look up at it. In all capital block letters, black with the signature orange outline, the name LLOYD shouted out to him. Below that was his number, lucky 13. He ran a thumb over the bottom hem of the jersey, and in a warm rush, the excitement he remembered hit him. The flutter in his belly. It was still there, still driving him forward.
This would be a good year. It had to be, otherwise it might be his last.
“Come on, dude, don’t make me drag you.” Alex finished off his coffee and chucked the container at the garbage can in the corner of the room. It bounced off the edge with a loud metallic ping.
“Good thing you don’t play basketball.
”
“Hey, I’m not the one who gets paid to locate.” He pointed a finger at Tucker and gave him a wink. “Now let’s get our asses in gear.”
Outside, the air was warm with a faint, lingering coolness that told Tucker spring was still new here, even if it was nicer than the temperature in San Fran. He and Alex made their way past the hotel to a running path the concierge had recommended. They weren’t the only ones craving a breath of fresh air, either. Tucker recognized a few familiar faces he’d seen for years across the infield green. There were nods of acknowledgment, but no one said anything.
After a few minutes of walking, Tucker reasoned that one of them should probably start, you know…running. He kicked up his pace, and in spite of a huffed expletive from Alex, the catcher managed to keep time. Tucker was six three, so he had to give his friend credit for matching his longer strides.
“You figure Calvin will…” wheeze “…have it in for us right from the start?” Chuck Calvin was the grizzled, no-nonsense field manager of the team who had a habit of screaming so much after games he was often reduced to a wheezing, asthmatic mess who could only swear and shake his head. He was a Felons legend, in spite of their long run of losing seasons.
Tucker chuckled and slowed his speed enough Alex wouldn’t notice but would be better able to keep up. “After the way we got trampled last fall? I’d be amazed if we don’t get fixed with those collars they use for yapping dogs. And every time we fuck up a play, we get zapped.”
Alex’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second while he contemplated the possibility of this. No one would put it past Chuck. Thankfully, Tucker was fairly certain they didn’t make those collars in human sizes.
Yet.
He and Alex turned to cross a path when a blur of yellow and black flew at them from around a corner. A feminine shriek was the only warning they got before the cyclist came at them on a collision course. Tucker yanked Alex backwards, but he wasn’t fast enough to get out of the path. He closed his eyes and thought, Please God, not the arm.
Chapter Two
Emmy Kasper had been thinking about her luck when she managed to drive her bike headfirst into a batch of the bad kind.
She’d been so busy musing about her new job she’d sort of neglected to think about the important things in the present, like watching the road for joggers. When the two men stepped out in front of her, she was struck by a moment of absolute stupidity.
Oh, there are people in the road. What should I do?
A second later, her brain caught up. Oh shit, there are people in the road and I’m about to fucking hit them.
She shrieked, because screaming like a girl seemed to be the only thing she could think of to warn them. It worked, because two heads pivoted towards her as she finally remembered how the handbrakes on her bike functioned and squeezed down on them for all they were worth.
The world went upside down suddenly, and she was vaulted from her bike seat ass over handlebars and landed in a heap directly in between the two men she’d narrowly avoided maiming. Adding insult to injury, her bike decided to keep rolling forward and only stopped when it slammed into her. Pain formed an ache at the center of her back, but it was the giant smear of blood on her knee that really caught her attention. The line of blood on the pavement didn’t look so good either.
In spite of all evidence she was the only one who’d been hurt, she awkwardly blurted out, “Are you guys okay?”
“Aside from almost being killed?” This from the shorter, slightly chubbier of the two.
“We’re fine, are you okay?”
When Emmy finally focused on the taller of the two, her heart caught in her throat, and it wasn’t because he was gorgeous. Which he was. Staggeringly so. No, she kind of wanted to curl up and die because of who he was.
“Oh, Christ. You’re Tucker Lloyd.”
“Guilty.” He crouched beside her and reached his hand out to her. She was so awestruck by his long, beautiful fingers she didn’t realize what he was doing until he’d already rolled up her ripped pant leg. Emmy let out a shuddering breath and gasped when his fingers brushed against her knee.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
The jolt of pain brought Emmy back to her senses. She appreciated Tucker’s immediate attention to her injury, but she should have been able to take care of it herself. And not in the I’m a tough, modern girl, I can handle myself kind of way. In the I’m an athletic trainer, and dealing with this is my job kind of way.
She tried to pull away, but his fingers tensed. The feel of his calloused skin, hot against her—thankfully shaved—knee made her shudder involuntarily. He gave a brief, concerned smile as one might to an injured animal that was ready to bolt.
“Let me look at it,” he instructed. His voice was soft, but she could tell he meant business.
She started to argue since she was perfectly capable of fixing her own oozing road rash, thank you very much, but when he pushed the hem of her pants higher, Emmy relaxed into his touch and sat on the hard ground staring at him. Her back and bloody knee throbbed in time with her fluttering pulse.
Tucker removed the bandana he wore over his dark brown hair and gave her another tentative smile.
“Oh, um, you really don’t need to do that,” she insisted. In her medically trained mind, Emmy thought, Oh yeah, awesome plan, clean my wound with a sweaty bandana. She placed her fingers on his wrist in an attempt to stay his hand. It was nice to have a smoking-hot MVP pitcher attending to her, but he was the MVP pitcher she would soon be attending to. Professionally. How could he respect her as his therapist if he thought she didn’t know how to look after a little scrape?
“It’s okay, I know what I’m doing,” Tucker insisted, his gaze meeting hers, and up close she got a chance to marvel at his famous eyes.
A lot of baseball players had pretty eyes. Sometimes it was all you could make out of a man with the brim of his cap pulled low and a serious scowl on his face. Tucker’s eyes were famous because of how unusual they were, though.
He had heterochromia—a mouthful to say, but a glory to behold. One eye was a warm melted-chocolate brown. The other was so blue it put the spring sky to shame. He was a bit of a freak, but in a good way.
Staring at his eyes made her forget whatever argument she’d been about to make, and she pulled her hand away from his wrist.
Oh, what the hell? He’s just trying to help. She made a mental note to douse her knee in rubbing alcohol when she got home.
Besides, his touch was distracting her from the pain, and that was something she wouldn’t have been able to do on her own.
She looked from Tucker to his friend, and knowing who the pitcher was, the realization of his sidekick’s identity sank in. Alex Ross. She’d almost run over the star pitcher and the team’s only reliable catcher, all in one fell swoop.
For someone who’d been hired to keep the players of the San Francisco Felons in good working order, Emmy was doing a hell of a job.
She’d joined the Felons club over the winter as their new head athletic trainer. The competition had been fierce—every trainer worth their salt wanted to have an MLB team on their resume—but she’d been the only candidate who needed more than mere skills. She was a woman seeking access into the almost totally male-dominated world of professional baseball, and she’d known from the outset getting her dream job wouldn’t be easy.
But she’d fought for it, clawing her way up the ladder from intern to the head of the athletic department at her alma mater. She had her master’s degree while many of the men in her profession made do with their bachelor’s degrees and prominent internships. More than anything, though, she had a passion for baseball, and it had shown when she’d gone through her interviews.
It wasn’t only about a good job. Emmy had wanted to be an integral part of the team. She wanted to matter to the clubhouse. Even if she couldn’t play the game herself, she wanted to do her part to lead a team to victory.
She’d never be
en a cheerleader, or a baseball groupie. Emmy was a true lover of the game, and she’d laid her desires on the table during her interview. She must have seemed crazy to the managers, but something about it stuck out because they offered her the job later that same day, and a week later she was moving from snowy Chicago to Northern California.
And now—on her first day at spring training—she’d almost taken two key players in the Felons lineup off their roster.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, directing her comment to Alex since Tucker was focused on her leg, and she didn’t think she could watch him work without cringing over his improper medical hygiene.
“It’s nothing to get bent out of shape over,” Alex said, then laughed like he’d made a joke only he understood. Normally it would drive Emmy crazy when a guy thought of himself as hilarious, but Alex somehow managed to make his boorish behavior charming in a ridiculous sort of way.
It also kept her mind off the fact that Tucker had wrapped his bandana around her knee, until he secured it snugly and the extra pressure brought her attention reeling back to the pain. “Oh. Ow. Owowowowow.”
“That’s going to swell something nasty. You’re going to want to—”
“Ice it. I know.” She could let him be the knight in shining armor if he wanted to, but she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know how to look after her knee.
“You a doctor or something?” Alex asked, his tone teasing.
“Or something.” In spite of the fact they would be meeting her officially in a few short hours at the team’s first practice, this wasn’t how she’d imagined introducing herself. And she couldn’t bring herself to tell the Tucker Lloyd she was his new athletic trainer after he’d gone to all the effort of wrapping her up. Especially not when he was kneeling by her side, giving her such a sweet, concerned look.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No problem. You think you can stand up?” He offered her his hand.
Emmy was struck dumb momentarily when she met his eyes. She shifted her gaze, staring at his hand like she didn’t understand what its purpose was. “Stand up?” She must have still been woozy from the fall.
