by Sierra Dean
“Right.”
“So I told him to suck it up and stop throwing like a gimpy old man. Otherwise his surgery would have been for nothing.”
Slapping his knee, Mike gave a hearty chuckle, his round belly jiggling under the taut fabric of his uniform. “Damn, girl. Where have you been hiding from us all these years?”
“Chicago,” she answered.
“Well, if we can’t get any decent players from them, I’m mighty glad we managed to get something useful from their club.” He slapped her hard on the back, jolting her forward.
Emmy kicked her legs out in front of her, stretching them out and crossing them at the ankle to mirror the gesture most of the other men in the dugout preferred. Spitting her seed shells to the side to avoid depositing them on her lap, she returned her attention to Tucker, who was in his seventh inning. He was well on his way towards making good on his promise to Miles, that he’d complete a full game.
She kept her face impassive, watching his mechanics instead of checking out his ass, but he wasn’t making it easy on her. He wore the tightest pants on the damn team.
But the trainer in her was bursting with pride over how well he was doing. He’d taken her suggestions to heart and was proving to be an even better player than he’d been for years. The season was winding down, but she was hearing whispers in the media. They were saying Cy Young.
Tucker had won the award twice before, but that had been years ago, in his prime. It wasn’t unheard of for aging pitchers to get the prize, but it certainly wasn’t common. And no one had won it with such a large gap of years in between. He’d be a first.
She wasn’t sure how closely Tucker followed the MLB rumor mill—Emmy had the bad practice of keeping a few blogs in her browser’s RSS feed—but he had to know his improvement of skills hadn’t been overlooked by the general public. He was becoming something great again, and she’d played a part. She didn’t want to give herself too much credit, but she had helped him. And he was continuing to use her advice, which meant he respected her opinion as a trainer.
It meant a lot to her that he cared about her as a coworker and advisor and not just as a woman he’d wanted to sleep with. Had he only been listening to her to get in her pants, he could have stopped after the first few games. But here they were, months later, and he’d now successfully gotten into her pants and continued to take her professional advice.
She spit more seeds on the floor and repressed a grin.
One of the power hitters from the Indians was batting fourth—the cleanup man—and when he got to the plate, all the guys in the dugout leaned forward simultaneously. The guy was a mountain, pushing six-four and easily two hundred and eighty pounds. Modern audiences tended to underestimate the big guys because they couldn’t run fast and didn’t look like athletes. But Babe Ruth didn’t look like an athlete either, and he was so good he had become a legend.
She didn’t think the big batter for the Indians was likely to make it to legendary status—not many players would—but she knew he was a force to be reckoned with in the here and now. Already he’d scored a one-run homer off Tucker in the third inning, so the pitcher would be out to prove something.
It didn’t matter how many times a pitcher struck a man out, it would always be the hits he remembered and fought to improve on. That’s what made a pitcher great, but it also made them irritating, mule-headed buffoons sometimes.
Emmy cupped her chin and propped her elbow on her knee, watching to see what would come of this matchup. In this, the third meet-up between the two, all eyes were waiting to see if the batter would break the one-one tie, or if Tucker would keep it balanced.
With the regular season winding down, the Felons had a tenuous hold on the number-one spot in their division, and a loss to the Indians wouldn’t be any help.
The Indians were third in their own division, and barring any miracles, they wouldn’t be making it to the postseason. Emmy wasn’t even sure what kind of miracle would be required to bring the flagging team into a winning position.
But they were out to prove they could win. Starting with the Felons. Starting with this game.
They were playing like they were already in the damn playoffs and the Felons defense was trying to keep up. They’d gone in assuming it was going to be an easy win, but the Indians weren’t going down without a fight.
The Cleveland crowd was going apeshit, cheering like it was the bottom of the ninth and they were praying for a walk off. Emmy hadn’t realized her knee was bouncing nervously until Mike gave her a friendly paternal pat and said, “Simmer down.”
She tried to keep still and managed admirably through the first two pitches—a ball and a strike—then Tucker wound up for the third and unleashed a perfect curveball. The batter swung, and the entire crowd fell silent when the crack of the bat echoed through the stadium.
The ball didn’t pop up like it should have, and instead flew straight back from home plate, directly to the pitching mound. For a second Emmy couldn’t process what had happened. The ball stopped at Tucker, and she wasn’t sure if he’d caught it. Then the collective audience all gasped, and overhead was a smattering of oh my God.
Tucker staggered, and his hat slipped off the back of his head. At home plate Alex was standing, his mask up, watching Tucker with the same wary expression Emmy must have had on her face. When Tucker stooped to one knee, that was the moment she really understood what had happened.
Tucker had taken a line drive to the head.
Emmy was on her feet in an instant, shells crunching beneath her as she bolted from the dugout onto the field. She ran to the pitcher’s mound with Jasper at her heels and Alex making a dash from home plate.
Emmy got to him first and crouched in front of him, propping her hands on his shoulders. “Tucker?”
“Unh?”
She snapped her fingers in front of his face, drawing his focus to her instead of—she presumed—the tiny cartoon birds floating around his head.
“You okay?”
“Yes?”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” She raised all five.
“Five,” he said, his tone almost offended as if he wanted to know how she could ask such a stupid question.
“No.”
“No?” His expression changed instantly from offense to fear.
“Four. And a thumb.”
Jasper laughed behind her, and Alex took a knee next to them. “Hey, Tuck.”
“Hi, Alex.” Tucker sat back and looked at the two of them uncertainly. “Did someone throw to first?”
“Yeah. Your skull managed to get it there.”
“Is he out?”
“No.”
“Balls.”
“That’s a way to say it.”
Emmy waved in front of Tucker. “Hi, hon, can we focus?”
“Barely.”
Emmy brushed his hair back and sucked in a breath. A large red goose egg was blooming on his forehead, practically the size of the ball that had created it.
“I have to pull you,” she whispered.
Jasper handed her an ice pack, and she collected Tucker’s cap from the ground before holding the pack against his head.
“I can stay in.”
Alex—a veteran of taking balls to the head—laughed out loud. “Like hell.”
“Don’t listen to him.” Tucker pointed at Alex.
“I’m not listening to him,” Emmy said with a sigh. “You’re listening to me. You’ve taken a hit, your head is swollen and you might have a concussion. I can’t let you play, Tucker. I’m not going to risk that.”
“I can do it.”
“You might also drop dead on the mound before the end of the inning. I’m sorry. I’m pulling you.”
Behind Jasper, Chuck was standing with his arms crossed, watching the exchange. When Emmy and Alex helped Tucker to his feet, Chuck pushed by the assistant A.T. and met Emmy and Tucker at the base of the mound.
“How’s he doing?” Chuck asked.
Chuck grimaced and made an angry grumbling noise. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take him in and ice it down. We need to schedule an MRI right away. I’m going to monitor him, keep him awake and make sure there’s no concussion.”
“What about his next start?”
Emmy looped Tucker’s arm around her shoulder, and while waiting for her to reply, Chuck made a gesture to the bullpen for the middle relief pitcher to come out.
“His next start will depend on what the MRI says,” Emmy replied coolly, trying not to be too angry that Chuck was more concerned with his starting lineup than he was with Tucker’s health. A ball to the head with the speed and force of the one Tucker had been hit by could have knocked him out. At the right angle, it might have even killed someone. Tucker was lucky to be standing.
“You take good care of him,” Chuck said. Omar, the relief pitcher, had arrived at the plate, and Alex took a last look at Tucker before jogging back to home plate to help the new pitcher warm up. Emmy could see from his expression Alex wanted to come along with them and make sure Tucker was okay, but it was his job to stay in the game.
Emmy led Tucker through the dugout, leaving Jasper behind to keep an eye out for the players remaining in the game. Once they were alone in the clubhouse, she guided Tucker to a table in the trainer’s office.
He tried to lie down, but she grabbed him by the front of the uniform, struggling against his weight to keep him upright. “No. Nope. Tucker, no.”
“Just for a second.”
“Tucker, you took a curveball to the skull.”
“I have a hard head.”
Emmy laughed and touched his cheek. “You do.”
“Can I go back to the game?”
“No.”
Tucker sat up on his own, his head bobbing. “I have to play.”
“No you don’t. You need to sit still, hold that ice to your head and let me do my job.”
“Let me do mine,” he said, suddenly angry. He dropped the ice pack and got to his feet, trying to slip past her.
“What are you doing?” She followed him out into the clubhouse where he was rifling through his locker trying to find something. When he couldn’t locate whatever he was after, he pulled everything out and threw it on the floor. “Jesus, Tucker. Will you please come sit down?”
“I have to play the game.”
“You can’t.”
“That win isn’t mine.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. If I’m not winning, I’m out.”
“What are you talking about?” She had started to pick his stuff up from the ground, stuffing it back where it belonged. When she looked up, he was bracing his arms on either side of the locker, and his eyes were closed tightly. “What are you talking about?” she repeated.
He didn’t reply, and his expression became a wince. Emmy took him to one of the nearby armchairs so he couldn’t try lying down again. She brushed his hair back off his forehead, careful to avoid the growing lump, and held his chin between thumb and forefinger.
He opened his brown eye and stared at her. “They want me out.”
“That’s not possible.”
With both his eyes open, she had trouble deciding which one to look at. Staring at someone with heterochromia was worse than trying to figure out which was the right one when someone had a lazy eye. At least both of Tucker’s eyes were bright and clear, fixed on her with no glassy lack of focus.
“If I don’t show them I deserve to be here, I’m out.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’ve won six of your last starts. You’re playing better than you have in five years. Not to mention you have two years left on your contract after this season.”
“Everyone is for sale in this game.”
“They’re not going to trade you.”
“They told me they would.”
She dropped her hands to his lap, keeping herself up by holding on to his knees. “I can’t let you play. You wouldn’t be able to play even if I wanted to let you—which I don’t—because Omar is already in. That’s it for today. There are more games. The season isn’t over.”
“This might have been it for me.” He wasn’t looking at her now. Instead he stared at the ceiling, shaking his head. “I really thought I could make it happen.”
“You know they’re talking Cy Young for you this year?”
“Does it matter? Pitchers have been traded after winning it. I’ve won it before, and they still want me gone.”
“You’re only thirty-six.”
“I’m thirty-six in a sport full of twenty-three-year-olds. We both know I’m living on borrowed time. I just didn’t think my time was going to be up so soon.”
“Tucker, stand up.” When he didn’t move, she climbed to her feet and held out her hands to him. “Can you please stand up?”
He got out of the chair, and she didn’t try to help him stay standing. He wavered slightly but seemed to be okay.
“One game isn’t going to make or break your status with the club,” she told him, keeping her voice quiet but firm. “And you can’t ask me to make special exceptions for you. That’s not how this is going to work.” She pointed from herself to him and back. “I won’t ever do that.”
“This?” He had picked up one damn word from the middle of her speech and latched on to it. “If that’s not what this is, then what is this?”
A week was too soon to be asking or answering that question. Even though it was all she’d been thinking about since their first morning in bed together, she didn’t want to be the one to broach the subject. And now that Tucker had, she wanted to throw up. Not because she wasn’t ready to answer, but because the way he asked made her wonder what he was expecting her to say.
The wheels of her brain were spinning, and her mouth fell slack since she wasn’t sure where to start. “Uhh.”
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. Of course you can’t go against your rules. I’m sorry. I never should have said anything.” He rubbed his temples and winced when his fingers brushed against the goose egg.
Emmy had barely heard anything he’d said. “What do you think this is?”
“What?” He looked confused, but his eyes remained clear, so she wasn’t worried about his brain fart being a result of massive head injury.
“What are we? To each other I mean.”
Tucker, who’d been the first one to ask the question, could no longer pretend to be unsure of what she was asking. After a longer-than-reasonable pause, he said, “You’re my good-luck charm.”
Emmy stared at him. “Your what?”
“Can I sit down?”
She wanted to say he couldn’t leave until he’d explained himself, but it was hard for a medical professional to say no to someone who might be concussed. Emmy guided him back to the training room and picked the ice pack up, pressing it firmly to his forehead. “I’m your good-luck charm?”
He smiled, but it wavered when she adjusted the pack.
“We’ve won every game since…well…” He grinned, and this time it held. The familiar twinkle returned to his eyes, and he was starting to regain some of his color.
“You think you’re winning because we’re having sex?”
Tucker winked and took the ice pack from her hand. “Six-game winning streak. Seven days of sex. You do the math.”
“Am I your new superstition?”
“No.” His eyes widened like he wasn’t sure if he’d said the wrong thing and had somehow offended her. “No?”
“I’m the new grape chewing gum?”
“Bubble gum.”
Emmy laughed then and turned away from him, picking up a first-aid kit so she could get a small optical flashlight. “You’re saying I’m your new bubble gum, then?”
“I still chew the gum. I’d say you’re more of…an additional item.”
She leaned against his legs and held h
is eyelids open while she shined the flashlight into each eye in turn, watching for the dilation of his pupils. Seeing the response she wanted, she remained in place against his legs but shut the flashlight off.
“That’s it, then?” Emmy tapped the flashlight on his knee, and he kicked in response. “I’m your new rabbit foot.”
Tucker put his hands on her waist and parted his legs so she fit between his thighs. “Are you okay with that?”
What did Emmy want him to say? It was love and he needed her, that she completed him somehow? Thinking he would say something like that would be insane a week into their relationship. If any man told her he loved her seven days into their secret affair, she would think he was nuts.
But for Emmy it was love. She’d started falling in love with Tucker the first moment he kissed her, and even though she’d fought against it, she hadn’t been able to. She had believed his consistent interest in her meant something, but maybe she really didn’t understand how men worked.
Maybe all she was was a good-luck charm.
Was she okay with that? Was sex enough?
Well…the sex was fucking phenomenal.
“All right, kid. As your good-luck charm, I’m going to have to insist you get an MRI and a clean bill of health before I can have sex with you again. Fair deal?”
“Brain scan for blowjobs.”
“You’re a real charming bastard some days, aren’t you?”
“Even with a head injury, I’m betting I could still get you out of your top.”
“MRI first. If you have a concussion, seeing my boobs would probably kill you.”
He put a hand on each of her breasts and gave them a testing squeeze. “You’re right. This alone is making me dizzy.”
“Because all the blood necessary to keep you from keeling over has now been redirected to your dick.”
“Can we schedule the MRI now? I’ve been told you have to keep me up all night, and it seems like you now have a reason to be in my hotel room after hours.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tucker didn’t want to make a habit of hanging out with Emmy in hospitals, but so far it had only helped bring them closer. He was also hoping not to have to be one of the people in the hospital, but a line drive to the head had made that impossible to avoid.
