Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1

by Sierra Dean

  Emmy stopped holding up the paper and glowered at him. “Don’t say that like you have no idea.”

  “Why would I have any idea?”

  She lifted the paper again and recited his own quote back to him with a hint of faux masculinity in her voice, affecting his Midwestern softness. When she looked back up, he was grinning at her, and her heart might as well have exploded.

  “Do you really think I sound like that?”

  “You’re sort of missing the point there, Thirteen.”

  Tucker unlocked the gate and opened the door, swinging it in towards him. “Come in here and let me have a look.”

  Emmy hesitated, clinging to the paper and staring at him through the open gate.

  “I won’t bite,” he assured her.

  That wasn’t what worried Emmy so much. She was more afraid of her own desire to take a nibble out of him.

  Must keep tongue and teeth to myself.

  He smiled again, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep any promises she’d made to herself when he played dirty like that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He should have left her outside.

  Keeping a cage between them seemed like a smart thing, given his penchant for wanting to touch her. She must have been aware of it too, because she kept an arm’s length between them when she handed the paper off and quickly went to sit on the bench. She picked up one of his wayward balls and tossed it from hand to hand.

  Tucker flattened the rumpled paper and read through the article. He was apparently going too slow for Emmy’s taste because her knees began to bounce, and he was barely halfway done when she got to her feet and started to pace nearby.

  “I don’t know what you’re so bent out of shape over. It’s a really flattering article.”

  Emmy’s cheeks turned red, but not in the cute way he was used to. Her neck and ears flushed a pink hue as well, reminding him of a cartoon character who was about to have steam pour out of her ears.

  “You’re quoted in it.” She tapped the paper, though nowhere near his actual quote. “You can’t pretend you didn’t know about this.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Then why are you quoted in it?”

  “Simon interviewed me on opening day, remember? He asked some questions about you. I had no idea we were still on record. I thought we were shooting the shit and he wanted to know how you were fitting in.” He folded the paper up and handed it back to her. “I really don’t know why this has you so upset. Have you read some of the stuff they write about me?”

  “That’s not the point. You’re a star, Tucker, they’re supposed to write about you. I’m nobody. My job is to stretch out muscles, ice wounds and make sure you idiots don’t royally screw up your multimillion-dollar contracts.”

  “You’re not nobody, Emmy.”

  “I’m nobody that deserves a two-page newspaper story. I sure as hell shouldn’t be written up in a market I don’t even work in anymore. This isn’t good for me.”

  Tucker crouched down and picked up a baseball, not sure what to do with his hands when they were empty and she was off-limits. He wrestled with the notion that maybe he should give her a hug, but he wasn’t sure where that registered on the scale as far as bad and good ideas went. Holding a baseball took the notion off the table entirely.

  “Why?” he asked plainly. He couldn’t wrap his head around her reaction to the article, or why she was mad at him for being an unwitting party to it.

  “Imagine you had a famous father. Like an actor.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now imagine you wanted to be a part of the same industry he was famous for.”

  “Sure.”

  “And say you work your ass off to succeed. Envision the years it took you to be taken seriously as your own person in that industry.”

  The little bulb went off over Tucker’s head, and he caught up to what Emmy was suggesting. “Oh.”

  “It’s bad enough he mentions my dad three times. What’s worse is the number of times he points out I’m a woman.”

  “Well…you are a woman.”

  “I know.”

  “So…”

  “My doing this job isn’t about me being a woman. I got this job because I’m good at it.”

  “No one is claiming you aren’t. We know you’re good. Didn’t my quote say as much?”

  “People reading this article aren’t going to be thinking about that. They’re going to read this and say, She got the job because she’s a woman. When the God’s honest truth is I probably had to work ten times harder to get it because I don’t have a cock.”

  She stopped speaking instantly and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Don’t get shy now,” Tucker said. “It’s not like I’ve never heard the word before. And for the record, having a cock is usually pretty detrimental to all those of us who do have them. Little prick does all the thinking for us sometimes.”

  That made her smile, and Tucker caught his wording too late. “When I say little prick…”

  Emmy held up her hand. “Your masculinity doesn’t need to be defended, I promise.”

  “Good.”

  Emmy looked down at the completely crumpled paper in her hand. “He trivialized me,” she said after a moment. “He just talked endlessly about what a great role model I am, but he said it like only little girls should look up at me. I didn’t have any women to model my career after. I…” She plopped back down on the bench. “I’m not trying to break some sort of invisible gender barrier, you know?”

  “No?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I just wanted to be a part of a game I love.”

  “And now you are.”

  “I didn’t set out to be some feminist sports icon.” Emmy’s head tilted back until she was looking straight up into the blue morning sky. “I have a ton of respect for women who set out to change things, don’t get me wrong, but that’s never what this was about for me. And Simon is trying to make it out to be something it was never intended to be. That’s why he didn’t tell me about this.”

  “He didn’t tell you?” That sounded strange to Tucker.

  “No. He knows me well enough to know I’d have shot the idea down.”

  Tucker idly threw the ball he was holding towards the target, and the damn thing went right through one of the strike holes. “Well goddamn,” he groaned.

  “You know that’s the goal, right?” Her tone had lightened significantly, some of its former stress falling away.

  “Yes, thanks, genius. Problem is I can’t do it when I try.”

  “Then you’re doing it wrong.” She balled up the paper and tossed it in the garbage can near the end of the bench.

  “If you’re such an expert, why don’t you tell me what I’m doing wrong?” He picked up another ball and threw it at her. Without flinching, she caught it one-handed.

  “You want me to teach you how to pitch?”

  “Sure. Give me your wisdom. Seemed to work for Miles.”

  “I’m not a pitching coach.”

  “But you’re the new hope of women in baseball. You have to be amazing.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Well, it’s not like you can do any worse.”

  “Harsh, Kasper.”

  “You’re the one calling me the new hope of women in baseball.”

  “That wasn’t me, it was your boyfriend.”

  Emmy threw the ball back at him, and he almost missed the catch, but got it at the last second and bounced it back and forth from one hand to the other.

  “Show me what you’ve got, Thirteen.”

  What the hell was Emmy supposed to do to teach a Cy Young Award winner to pitch better? Could she walk into a five-star restaurant and teach a chef how to make a better soufflé? Could she give a rock star tips on playing a better guitar solo?

  There was no way she could help Tucker, yet she was somehow offering to do it.

  “Let’s make this interesting,” he said, interrupting her.

>   “Interesting…how?”

  “A bet.”

  “If you want to bet I won’t be able to teach you anything, you’ll win.”

  “Nah, I want to have fun. There’s no fun in an easy bet.”

  “Thanks?”

  “If you’re right and you can’t fix me, then I will write an article countering what Simon said and insist you’re not a new feminist icon.”

  Emmy snorted. “Some prize. What happens if, by some miracle, I can teach you something?”

  “You go out for dinner with me.”

  “Tucker…”

  “Dinner. Where’s your dirty mind at? I said dinner, not a marathon bedroom session.”

  Her cheeks grew hot. “Just dinner?” The problem wasn’t dinner. The real problem was how badly she wanted to take him up on the marathon bedroom session.

  Simmer down, Emmy. Behave.

  “Just dinner.”

  “Fine. Deal.” She was confident she’d be completely useless to him. Fixing Miles had been a fluke. Her job was to keep Tucker from hurting himself, not to make him a new man. Or, more specifically, the man he’d once been. “Throw the ball.”

  He did as he was told, hurling the ball towards the target. Emmy wasn’t sure if he was throwing badly because she was watching, or if it was because he’d lost the hang of the pitch, but he missed spectacularly.

  “Can you get into your fastball stance but not throw?”

  Tucker regarded her doubtfully but drew up into his stance. Emmy did a circle around him, staying professional as she observed his posture. She stopped moving when she was in front of him and instructed, “Now move your arm like you’re going to throw, but slowly.”

  Tucker went through the motions of his pitch in slo-mo, and Emmy frowned. When Tucker returned to his standing position, Emmy took his elbow firmly in hand and thrust it back towards his body.

  She gave it a few jerks, and it wobbled in her hand without resistance.

  “You let this pop out too soon.” She smacked his elbow. “And you’re locking it when you twist, when you should be keeping it loose.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but she arched a brow.

  “So you want me to keep it tight and loose?”

  “Don’t be smart. Try it.”

  After forty minutes Tucker had thrown seven perfect fastballs in a row, all dead in the strike zone. Emmy had broken his handicap.

  And now she had a date she didn’t want to be happy about.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Getting called out of a game in the fifth inning was bad for anyone, but worse if you weren’t even playing.

  Emmy got the wave from Chuck, who told her Darren Meritt, the Felons General Manager, wanted to have a word with her privately in his box seats. Given that the most interaction Emmy had, or wanted to have, with the GM was via her one-sided daily emails, this was not a positive call.

  That it had come in the middle of a game when the Felons were winning? Probably not a great sign.

  She made her way up through the bowels of the ballpark, taking an escalator from the clubhouse level up to the main floor and flashing her security pass to gain access to the VIP elevators. On the way up, the lack of Muzak made her more aware of her thunderous heartbeat.

  She was about to get fired a month into the regular season. The team hadn’t started shunting players down to the farm leagues yet, but she was going to be the first Felon to get the axe.

  Or, perhaps more appropriately, to swing from the gallows.

  She let out a whimper then shook her head. If she was going to get fired, she’d do it with grace. She was good at her job, and she could be good at her job somewhere else. Maybe the title wouldn’t be as great, and there was no way she’d be paid better, but she’d land on her feet. Certainly the place she landed wouldn’t be as beautiful as San Francisco, but even Milwaukee had a certain charm.

  Baseball towns were special because they had one thing in common. A ballpark and a team to root for. As long as she had that, she’d do fine.

  The elevator door pinged and slid open, unveiling a long white hall with dozens of doors fanned out in either direction. On the walls were framed prints depicting great moments in White Sox history, and the suites were all named to represent the storied past of the organization.

  It was both wrong and somehow perfect she would lose her job here, considering this was the home she’d left to start anew in San Francisco.

  Maybe this was the sign she needed to tell her things with Tucker weren’t meant to be. Surely losing her job in Chicago was a signal from the heavens she was meant to be with Simon after all.

  She found the suite reserved for the managers of visiting teams and knocked softly on the door. Part of her hoped it was soft enough she wouldn’t be heard.

  “Come in,” boomed a stern voice.

  So much for that pipe dream. Emmy threw her shoulders back and held her head high. She wouldn’t be taken out of the game. Trying to think of a baseball metaphor for her pending doom proved difficult, so she sucked in a deep breath and remembered something her mother often told her.

  It all happens for a reason.

  And what did the old song say? Whatever will be, will be.

  She opened the door and stepped inside. Darren Meritt was alone, sitting in one of the plush leather armchairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The pristine green of the outfield grass shone up, looking like a beacon of summer even though it was only May. That’s what baseball was, a certainty of summer. A herald to the change in seasons.

  “Have a seat, Miss Kasper.”

  And this would be another change of season for her.

  Emmy took a seat in the armchair nearest Darren and angled herself so she was facing him rather than looking out at the field. Her father had often told her strong people meet their futures head-on, while cowards try to avoid the gaze of destiny. “Destiny,” her father said, “can see through bullshit. So you might as well look her in the eyes.”

  “Your call was unexpected,” Emmy said bluntly.

  Darren was a portly, middle-aged man, and a rare breed of baseball general manager who had no history in playing the game. Emmy wasn’t even sure he liked the sport very much. Owners she could understand buying into a franchise for the investment opportunity. But she was convinced a good GM must first and foremost love the sport. Hard decisions needed to be made when you were the fearless leader of a team, and it took more than a head for business to make those kinds of decisions.

  This GM had ruddy cheeks and reminded her of Orville Redenbacher, which tended to leave her with an odd craving for popcorn whenever she was in his presence. He had a graying mustache that was neither thin enough nor long enough to be appealing. The hair looked like an ancient caterpillar had crawled onto his upper lip and died.

  “People usually think it must be bad news when I call.”

  “To be fair, you aren’t usually the bearer of happy tidings.” It didn’t escape her attention that the sports section of the Chicago Sun-Times was open on the coffee table beside a bottle of Budweiser. Her printed face smiled at the sweaty beverage.

  She was going to kill Simon.

  “Do you think I brought you here to give you bad news, Emmy?” Darren picked up the beer, his hand slipping slightly on the wet glass, and he took a sip. Instantly all she could smell was the distinctive odor of the brew.

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Well, as much fun as I might have in tormenting you with whatever ideas you have, I’m going to put you at ease. I didn’t call you up here to fire you.”

  Emmy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and probably had been holding since she got into the elevator.

  “You’re not?”

  “Good Lord, no. It’s not the only thing I do. I hope people know that.”

  What the GM gaveth, the GM could taketh away. And the most common thing for him to taketh was a job. Either by trade or by firing. Now that she knew she wasn’t getting a
xed, the next obvious question became, “Why did you call me up here, then? In the middle of a game.”

  Darren set down his beer and picked up the newspaper. In spite of his assurance that her job was safe, she didn’t like the way the article looked in his hands.

  “Do you think I hired you because you’re a woman?”

  “No, sir,” she replied without hesitation. Technically she knew hiring her hadn’t been his idea. His assistant GM had been the one to call her in for the interview. Darren had sat in while the younger man asked the questions, but here he was taking the credit.

  “Emmy, you’re not a twenty-year-old rookie from Topeka. You can call me Darren.”

  She wasn’t sure she could. “Okay…Darren.”

  “Do you think I hired you in spite of you being a woman?” he continued.

  With slightly less certainty this time she said, “No?”

  “Why do you think I hired you?”

  “Because I was the best candidate for the job.”

  “You’re goddamn right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I got some flack for it, you know. Hiring a girl.”

  Emmy didn’t love the way he used girl as if it were a dirty word, but she bit her tongue. “If I was the best person for the job, why should it matter if I’m a woman or not?”

  “It doesn’t. And that’s what I said.” Darren placed the newspaper on the arm of his chair so it sat between them like a shared secret. “But it becomes hard for me to say things like that when other people make it an issue. Do you understand?”

  Emmy looked at the paper. Tucker had said he couldn’t understand why she was upset about it. The piece seemed like good press to anyone else, but here was what she had feared the most. Not everyone thought the publicity was a good thing. Suddenly the harmless editorial piece was causing friction at her job, which was exactly what she was worried about.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, Emmy, but I’d rather hoped we could make it through the whole season without your gender becoming an issue for us.”

  “Do you think my gender has become an issue?”