by Sierra Dean
“I can put pants on,” he offered.
Emmy laughed, short but honest, and looked from the elevator to him, then smiled softly, like anything bigger might hurt her cheeks. For a minute he thought she might still leave and wasn’t sure what he could say to stop her, but then she shouldered her big purse and closed the gap between them. She gave him another once-over from a few inches away. Her cheeks stayed pink, but she didn’t glance away. “Don’t get dressed on my account.”
Tucker stepped back and held the door open for her, watching as she moved into the suite without turning on any lights. “You know,” she called out, “it’s only like nine o’clock. When did you turn four hundred?”
He closed the door, shutting out the brightness of the hallway so the only light was from his bedroom alarm clock and the city outside. Her silhouette glowed against the bright outline of the buildings. “I have a Nazi athletic trainer who says I need to get up early if I’m going to stay in shape.”
“Your shape looks just fine.” She spoke so softly he wouldn’t have been able to hear her in a louder room, but with only the two of them there, the words cleared the distance between them too easily.
“Thanks.” Don’t push your luck, Lloyd.
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Sorry,” she said again, then laughed. “You think I’m a Nazi?”
Tucker sat in an armchair near the door and held a throw pillow in his lap, wondering if he ought to go find some sweats, then remembering he hadn’t brought anything with him.
“I think you’re great at your job. I believe I’m on the record saying that.”
Emmy slumped onto the bed and let her purse fall to the floor. He couldn’t see her face but thought better of adding anything to the conversation until she spoke again.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Sure.”
“How do you know when something is over?”
“What do you mean?” He stretched his legs out, uncomfortable with the long limbs being cramped up in the small chair. He was hopeful her words meant what he suspected they did, but for all he knew she was talking about her job.
But if she was talking about her job, why wouldn’t she be at Simon’s apartment?
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
She was quiet as she kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs up underneath her. “Simon was making dinner. For another woman.”
“Oh.”
“And I wasn’t mad.”
“No?”
“I mean…he says she was coming over for work, and I have no reason not to believe him. He’s not the one who’s been kissing other people.”
They both fell silent.
“But you weren’t bothered by the idea of him having another woman in his apartment?”
“No. I was…relieved?”
Tucker’s heart skipped. It actually skipped. He opened his mouth, and the words came out before his common sense could stop them. “Why did you come here?”
Emmy propped her chin on her folded hands. “I needed a friend.”
“And I was the first person you thought of?”
“You were the one who was ten blocks away.”
“Ah.” He set the pillow aside and got to his feet, then sat on the bed next to her, a safe person-sized distance between them. “Friendship by proximity.”
This close he could see her smile and it was dangerous, because this close meant he could kiss the upward curve of her lip with only a lean.
“Thank you for coming with me today,” she whispered.
“Of course.” He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Whatever you need.”
She yielded to him, melting against him and settling her head into the crook of his neck. When she sighed, her breath was warm on his bare skin, and he tingled all over.
“Thank you.”
“Em?”
“Yeah?”
“You know how you know it’s over?”
She tilted her chin up, and her face looked serene in the green-white light. “I do.”
“When you’re spending the night with someone who isn’t your boyfriend? That’s how you know.”
Her mouth curved downwards, but she didn’t pull away. “I figured.”
“Do you want me to sleep on the couch?”
She touched his cheek lightly, then slid out of his arms. “No. I will.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Chicago at San Francisco, Record 47-35
She was going to do it.
Emmy crouched near the steps of the dugout and stared at the press box high above home plate. She couldn’t make out any faces, just small-headed men and women in white shirts with laptops. She could see more Apple logos than she could individual people’s features. But somewhere up there was Simon.
Her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.
In the weeks since she’d returned home from Chicago she’d seriously considered what she was getting out of their relationship. In all that time she’d come up with nothing.
Nothing.
She’d been with Simon for almost four years, and there wasn’t a list of pros and cons. There weren’t any nagging feelings holding her to him. Just habit and consistency. He was patient and considerate, but when she imagined her life without him in it, she didn’t feel an ache.
Only more of the relief she’d felt the night he had Cassandra over.
Tucker was right. It was over with Simon and she knew it, but she was staying with him because it was easier. She was using Simon as an excuse to keep herself from going forward with Tucker. Protecting herself from the uncertainty of a new man and everything falling in love would entail.
Love was an ugly, messy thing, and she had no idea if she had what it took to start it with someone like Tucker. He was famous, he was special, and she didn’t know what to do about that.
Emmy folded her arms on the fence and stared out into the field. Tucker was on the mound, his hat pulled low over his eyes as he shuffled from foot to foot, fingering the ball in his hand. He tugged his earlobe.
“Strength in the leading leg,” she whispered, even though he couldn’t hear her. He knew what to do. They’d practiced in the bullpen and the indoor cages underneath the Felons Stadium. Hours and hours spent together perfecting his pitch strategy. During that time he’d begun to phase out his knuckleball and bring in more of the pitches he’d once been famous for.
His fastball was back at ninety, and she knew if he kept his focus, he had what it took to get back to the high nineties. Maybe even over a hundred if he did what she told him and worked on his strengths.
He had the ability, but he was holding himself back, and he needed to take a leap of faith. Like she needed to dump Simon. She and Tucker were both playing it safe, and because of that neither of them was getting where they were meant to be. He was going to be the best damn pitcher in the American League—again—and she was going to stop hiding behind her fake relationship.
Tucker lifted his leg and raised his glove to his chest. He stared down the batter, muttering something to himself, then pivoted his head towards the dugout. For a split second his gaze locked on hers, and her heart hammered.
“You’ve got this,” she said out loud.
He winked at her.
She stumbled. Her damn foot slipped off the riser, and she fell from the fence back into the dugout. The only thing protecting her dignity was Jasper standing behind her, who kept her upright.
The crowd roared wildly, and without looking she knew he’d gotten the strikeout.
“You need to watch out for those invisible slippery spots. They’re a real killer,” Jasper said, setting her back on her feet.
“I tripped.”
“While not walking?”
“Yes.”
“That takes skill.”
“It does.” She stepped away from him and busied herself with the first-aid
kit.
“You sure it’s not because Tucker Lloyd was making eyes at you in the middle of a baseball game?”
Emmy gaped at him, able to feel her own guilty expression etched on her face. “Was it that obvious?”
“Em. He winked at you. On national television.”
She hadn’t considered the cameras. “Oh.”
“But whatever you’re doing, keep it up. He just threw a ninety-five for the first time since 2008.” Jasper patted her on the back before he jogged down the stairs to the clubhouse.
Tucker felt good. Better than he’d felt in years, in fact.
He locked eyes with Alex from sixty feet away, and the catcher gave him a grin, flashing the signal for a curve. Tucker gave the slightest nod. Checking the runner at first who was leading too far, he set up like he was going to pitch but threw the ball to first instead.
The runner slid back, making it just ahead of the throw.
Ramon returned the ball from first, and the back and forth was natural. Tucker felt young, and fresh, and ready for anything. He was having fun, and he couldn’t remember the last time baseball felt more like a game than a job.
The Sox runner got to his feet and dusted red-brown dirt off his gray uniform, shaking his head. He and the first baseman chatted briefly and both laughed. It was the way things worked on the field in an ideal game, no grudges, no bitterness. Just men being boys, playing the best damn game in the world.
A slight breeze rolled over the field, bringing with it the smell of popcorn and the ocean. The roar of the crowd sounded like a murmur from where he stood. One of the great skills of any professional player was being able to shut out the uproar, but for the first time in a long while he wanted to listen. Tucker brushed the baseball against his pants and tilted his head up, taking in the feel of the ballpark.
Fans chanted his name, waving signs with bad puns like Tuck in the Sox. Men and women in yellow jackets moved up and down the narrow concrete stairs like worker bees, selling eight-dollar beers and bags of salted peanuts. He tugged down the brim of his cap and grinned. His arm didn’t hurt, and he felt like he was twenty-two again, fresh out of college ball and playing his first start in the minors.
Tucker Lloyd felt like a king.
Then, with the speed of a fleeting thought, he let the sounds fade away again and was left with only the quiet focus of his own mind and the invisible box in front of Alex telling him where to throw.
Alex flashed four fingers, the sign for a changeup, and Tucker sucked in a short breath. He hadn’t thrown a changeup in almost two years. He knew Alex was right in making the call since the batter up to plate was a heavy hitter and would swing whenever he thought a straight fastball was coming for him. Power hitters loved to swing for the fences like they were the second coming of Babe Ruth. This guy was not the second coming of the Bambino and would strike out on a changeup.
Provided Tucker could throw one.
Reflexively, Tucker’s hand made the A-okay motion, his thumb and pointer finger curling into an O shape and his last three fingers wrapping around the circumference of the ball.
For a moment he let himself become distracted, released the fear and uncertainty, and looked to the dugout instead of at Alex. Emmy wasn’t at the fence anymore. Instead she was next to Miles on the bench. Both were in identical poses—arms crossed, hats pulled down, spitting sunflower seeds onto the ground.
Miles was focused on the batter, but Emmy’s gaze was all for him. She gave a small smile, nothing obvious, and the curve of her mouth made him think of the way her kisses tasted.
His heart thumped and he smiled back, this time without the wink. In the back of his head he could hear her telling him, Stand straight, strong lead off leg, trust your arm. Use your strength.
With her voice guiding him, his posture pulled straight, his legs felt strong and limber and his arm was loose. The ball in his hand was small and heavy, like a stone ready to be skipped across a smooth lake.
In his head Emmy said, You got this.
And he did.
The umpire called strike three and bellowed, “You’re out.” The home crowd went apeshit, and Tucker soaked it all in. He was back on top. He was the man. And he owed it all to her.
In the dugout, Emmy was on her feet clapping while the boys on the bench high-fived those coming in off the field. Miles jostled her by the shoulders, and she grinned, slapping backs and sharing hugs with the guys as they joined her in the dugout.
Tucker was the last off the field, strolling slowly as the rest ran—an unwritten rule that the pitcher never ran off the field—and he met Alex at the steps. They both stopped, and Alex gave him a friendly pat on the butt.
“You did it.”
Tucker grinned. “You’re a son of a bitch for making me throw that pitch, you know?”
“Well, someone needs to keep you on your toes.”
Emmy smiled up at him from the dugout, and Tucker looked from her to Alex. “I don’t think you’re the only one who thinks that’s their job,” Tucker said.
The catcher laughed. “No, probably not.”
Emmy met them at the bottom of the steps. “Not too bad, Lloyd.”
“Thought I was okay?”
“You can do better.”
He gave her a long stare, still smiling. “I doubt it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
There was a great baseball quote that said “every twenty-four hours the world turns over on someone who was sitting on top of it.” For Tucker it wasn’t even a full day. He sat in the clubhouse watching through the doorway as Emmy stretched out Chet, until the sudden appearance of Chuck interrupted his line of sight.
“Hey, Coach.”
“Lloyd.” The coach shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. There was nothing comforting about the gesture. “GM wants to see you upstairs when you’re cleaned up.”
Tucker’s stomach did the shortest free fall in history, dropping from throat to intestine in one second flat, leaving him with a dizzy, spinning, about-to-puke sensation. “He say why?”
Chuck shook his head. “Said, ‘Good game.’ Said, ‘Send up Lloyd.’”
The coach was a big talker.
The general manager of a team rarely interacted with the players at any time. It was often easier for them to maintain a professional distance from the men whose lives they bought and traded if they didn’t have to know them on a personal level. How could you tell a man you knew and liked that his whole life was suddenly being move across country on a whim? If the people you work with might someday become financial bargaining pieces, don’t become their friend. That was general manager logic.
So if Darren Meritt wanted to see him in person, he could only imagine one possible scenario, and it wasn’t a good one. He wasn’t getting a raise—that would be discussed through his agent. No, if the GM wanted to talk to him, the only logical reason was the worst case possible.
Trade.
His contract still had two and a half years remaining, so he knew it wasn’t the end of his career. But a trade was just as unfathomable. Tucker broke out in a cold sweat thinking about what it would mean for him to be moved somewhere else. He’d spent his entire major league career in San Francisco. No other city would feel like home. No other team would make sense to him.
The weight of that knowledge left him so dazed he accidentally washed his hair with a bar of soap.
When he arrived in the long white hall leading up to the GM’s office, Tucker realized he’d only put on one sock. He was a wreck. Any sweat he’d managed to rinse off in the shower had returned threefold, soaking the pits of his dress shirt. The air conditioning chilled the perspiration, causing a literal cold sweat.
The door of the suite swung open when Tucker knocked, giving him no extra time to wait in the hall for someone to answer. He waited anyway until Darren beckoned, “Come in, Mr. Lloyd.”
Mr. Lloyd was never a great name to hear. It came from bill collectors in his youth and lawyers i
n his progressive years. No one who meant positive things for Tucker ever called him Mr. Lloyd.
“Good evening, sir.”
Evening was a polite phrase for it. Since it was well past eleven, he was shocked the old man was still in the office. Waiting for him. It all added up to shitty, shitty news.
“Come in, son. Have a seat.”
Tucker sat in a large wingback chair across the desk and kept his hands clasped together in his lap to keep the tremor in his fingers from showing. He hadn’t been this nervous since he pitched his first game in the majors.
“Chuck said you wanted to speak with me?”
“I do.”
“You stayed awfully late to do it.”
Darren chuckled and patted the round curve of his belly. “I suppose I don’t see the time of day the same way as most. When my job moves at night, I move with it.”
It was hard to argue with Darren’s logic, and Tucker wasn’t in much of a mood to argue, anyway. “Not to rush you, sir, but I’m assuming there’s a reason you wanted to see me?” Might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
In the back of his mind Tucker was running through the list of teams who’d recently had pitchers succumb to illness or injury. The Red Sox and the Mariners were both down one regular starter. The Marlins had a middle relief spot to fill. Tucker choked down a swell of bile.
“I do.” Darren leaned forward and picked up a heavy fountain pen off his desk, twirling the writing instrument in his fingers as he stared at Tucker with a new ferocity. “You’ve been with us for a long time, Tucker.”
“Fourteen years.”
“Yes. And you’ve done great things for us in that time. You’ve been a great player.”
Tucker nodded solemnly. A lot of past tense words were being thrown around. “I love playing for the Felons.”
“I know you do.”
“I’d love to keep playing for the Felons,” he added, drawing out the word keep in the hopes he’d make his feelings clear. Not that he could stop a trade if the ball was already rolling.
“Of course, of course.” The GM tapped the pen on his desk. “Now, we want nothing more than to keep you on the roster. You’re a good player, and you still draw folks in.”
