by Sierra Dean
Once the doctor had cleared him and given him a clean bill of health, he and Emmy took a cab back to the hotel, sitting in silence. She’d been a little off since he’d told her she was good luck for him.
Other girls he’d known would have been flattered by the sentiment, even considered it romantic, but he had a feeling Emmy wasn’t that kind of woman.
Could he really be held responsible for what he’d said when he was potentially concussed? He barely remembered what had happened leading up to the statement. He knew he’d been upset and reacting out of fear, and it had resulted in an abrupt change of topic to their relationship.
The truth was she was good luck, and he tried not to put too much stock in superstition, but it was undeniable things had been going well for the team since he and Emmy had gotten together, and he couldn’t overlook winning streaks. Luck was luck, and he was getting lucky on every front.
She unlocked his hotel door for him, holding it open so he could pass by her. Handing him his keycard, she turned to go.
“I thought you were going to spend the night,” he said.
“You heard the doctor. You’re fine.”
“Emmy…you know that’s not why I want you to stay.”
She gazed up at him, and he was very aware of how tall he was in comparison to her. She seemed so small standing in front of him. He recalled the way he could hold her body, the way his hands wrapped around her waist, and the memory of it got him hot and bothered. He brushed a strand of hair back from her face, and she leaned her cheek into his hand.
“I want to, but we… You know we shouldn’t.”
“We can say it’s because of the head wound. Say you wanted to be sure. You know, better safe than a dead pitcher?”
She seemed to contemplate it, and he knew she’d considered bending the truth to their favor because of the conversation they’d had before she’d taken him to the hospital.
“I’m not totally sure I can stay without people knowing.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t make it easy for me to, you know, keep quiet.”
Tucker laughed and held the door open, inviting her in. He laid his face against the door and tried to look as innocent as possible. “I promise to be gentle.”
“Sweetie, it’s not the issue of gentle or hard.”
“Oh no?”
“What can I say? The second you touch me it’s like propriety goes out the window and I can’t keep my mouth shut.”
“I could—”
Emmy raised a finger and one eyebrow at the same time. “Don’t say you can think of something to keep it busy.”
He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “You know me too well. But if you come in for the night, I will do my damnedest to play fair and keep you from hollering too much.” He gave her his best, most charming grin.
“I didn’t submit my paperwork,” she said, though it was a halfhearted excuse. “I was supposed to have it in to the GM and Chuck after the game.”
“Extenuating circumstances.” He lowered his hands to her waist and drew her towards him, enjoying the warm press of her body up against him. “Plus, we have a game to win tomorrow. I don’t want to mess with a good thing.”
Tucker kissed her neck and felt any lingering resistance melt out of her. She looped her arms around his back, up under his jersey.
“I did want to sleep with you in uniform.”
“I hope you’ll still want to sleep with me when it’s off.”
“I think I’ll still like you just fine. But promise me I get to watch you touch your toes at least once before you lose the pants.”
He pulled her into the room and shut the door behind her.
When Tucker awoke in the morning, Emmy was gone.
He’d known she would leave early to avoid being spotted, in spite of the perfect excuse she had for being with him. Knowing she’d leave and waking to find her side of the bed vacant were two very different things. It was also surprising to him how quickly he’d come to think of it as her side of the bed.
The sadness of it being cold and empty was all the more shocking to him.
He knew his feelings for her ran deep, but he was only now starting to realize how deep. He’d given her a perfect opportunity to tell him what her feelings were, and she’d bounced the question right back at him, so he’d done the only thing he could think of, and he deflected. He’d told her the bare minimum of the truth.
If they continued on like this, sooner or later he’d cave and tell her how he felt. And if it happened too soon, she’d think he was nuts and run for the hills.
He couldn’t risk losing her. Not because she was good luck, but more importantly she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Professionally she had made him a better player, and personally she made him a better man.
If he had to pretend love wasn’t on his mind, he could do that. He could focus on playing the game—which should have been his first priority anyway—and just have fun with her.
He could, couldn’t he?
Yeah right. About as easily as I could start pitching with my left hand.
Emmy got to the park hours ahead of everyone with the ready excuse of needing to complete the previous night’s paperwork. The truth was she could have easily finished the paperwork in a half hour before the players started coming in for their warm-ups, but she wanted to get out of the hotel.
She’d managed to escape Tucker’s room without being seen, and he’d been good to his word, making love to her so slow, sweet and easy she didn’t scream once, but came harder than she’d ever thought possible. It had all gone as planned, but she still felt scandalous.
And guilty.
She didn’t think she could face Tucker in the dining room with everyone looking on and keep her cool. There had to be a big red S on her chest, but she didn’t know if it stood for sex or slut.
Getting to the guest clubhouse, she started up the coffee machine and plugged her iPod into the stereo system. Later the boys would be blaring some hard-rock hair metal or whatever get-pumped song was favored for the day, but for now she had the place to herself, and that meant the music was her choice.
Which meant eighties pop. Lots of it and as loud as possible.
Tucker had her down pat. The first thing she went to was Hall and Oates greatest hits, starting with “Private Eyes” and going on shuffle from there. Once she’d cycled through Daryl and John’s oeuvre, she moved on to Prince’s Purple Rain and then a playlist of one-hit wonders.
There was something about listening to Tiffany sing “I Think We’re Alone Now” that helped clear all worries from her head and reduced things to a simpler level.
She turned the volume up on the receiver and hummed along to the opening bars of “You Make My Dreams” before dance-walking into the visitors training office. Her laptop was still there from the night before, waiting for her to enter the details of the previous game.
Tapping her toe against the edge of the desk, she opened up the laptop and perused her emails in more detail than she’d been able to on her phone. She’d already alerted the most important people to Tucker’s condition, but the press would start calling her any minute for a statement on his bill of health. Emmy sent a quick email to the head of the public relations department for the team, giving a brief rundown of what had happened to Tucker and confirming he was cleared to play his next start but she’d be keeping a close eye on his condition.
Like clockwork, her phone buzzed at eight, and a familiar number popped up. Simon.
At first she was afraid to answer, like he might be calling to bust her for having sex with Tucker. Or to undo their breakup so she’d somehow be guilty of something new. When the phone rang for the third time, she knew she’d either have to pick up or let it go to voicemail, and the idea of a message from Simon haunting her phone all morning had no appeal.
“Hello?”
“Hey, pretty girl. How you doing this morning?” He sounded far, far too cheerful.
It relaxed her, because it meant he wanted something. Or at the very least it meant she wasn’t in trouble. Simon wasn’t good at being passive aggressive.
Really, he wasn’t good at being any kind of aggressive.
She’d once thought his calm exterior had been among his most appealing features, and it said a lot that she liked him because of how nonconfrontational he was.
“Hey, Simon. You’re up early.”
“Well, you know. The press never sleeps.”
“Last I checked you had a rigorous in-bed-by-midnight policy. Lest your eyes look puffy.”
He chuckled, but it didn’t escape her notice it was his forced, professional laugh, and not a genuine response. She didn’t know how to deal with him as a reporter rather than her boyfriend the reporter. She had more experience with reporters than with boyfriends, but it was still hard to shuffle Simon from one column to the other so easily after four years.
“You know me well, Em.”
“What can I do for you?” If this was going to be a professional relationship, she had to keep things on that level. No nicknames allowed.
“I’m calling about Tucker.”
She remained quiet, still not entirely sure if he was asking with ulterior motives. “What do you want to know?”
“The usual. What’s his status? What happened?”
“Didn’t you see the eight million replays on ESPN and SportsCenter?”
“I saw it on YouTube. There’s also an animated GIF going around with the title ‘Duck, Tuck’.”
“Cute.” She half-listened to him as she Googled the file, pulling it up on a baseball blog. The clip was on a three-second loop, and she watched over and over as Tucker got hit. It never got easier to see.
“Looked pretty bad.”
“It was bad. But I’ve released a statement to the PR department with all the details.”
“You’re going to make me call Beth Anne when you’re already on the line?”
“You should have called Beth Anne first.”
“It’s a bit early to be making calls to San Francisco.”
“But not too early to call me?”
“You’re in Cleveland. It’s later there than it is in Chicago.”
Emmy chewed on her lip and opened up a new Word document. As she relayed the details of the injury to Simon, she wrote up a report for the GM. Typing Darren’s name into the header, she began to consider what Tucker had told her, how he was worried about being cut from the team by the end of the season.
She didn’t want to think they’d cut him, but she knew as well as anyone how the inner workings of a team operated. Every player, no matter how good they were, was expendable when it all came down to it. Tucker wasn’t young anymore, like he’d said, and though he was doing well this season, it was the first time in many years he’d shown improvement.
Emmy sighed and stopped typing.
“You okay?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked.
Shit, she’d totally forgotten she was talking to Simon. “Yeah, sorry. Long night.” And that was too much information.
“Thanks for giving me the details. It’s always better to have a direct quote than the company line, you know how it is.”
“You know the company line is my direct quote, right?”
“Maybe I wanted to hear your voice.”
“You’re sure you’re not just finally taking advantage of the fact we used to sleep together to get the inside scoop on the team?”
He was quiet. “Maybe.”
“I think that’s fair.” She cradled the phone on her shoulder and finished her report with the notes Jasper had left about a minor finger injury and an ankle sprain. She scribbled a note on a pad of paper to get Tannis to prepare for the ankle.
The room was full of the smell of coffee and freshly laundered towels, and her iPod had started playing “Adult Education”.
“Anything else I should know before deadline?”
The Felons are thinking of trading Tucker Lloyd. God, that would be an epic headline. “Nope, that’s it. Unless you consider a minor thumb strain to be worthy of note.”
“Is it on a pitcher?”
“Center field.”
“Then no.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“Thanks again, Emmy.”
“I’d say any time, but you know you should go through Beth Anne, and I should at least pretend to enforce the rules.”
“I consider myself fake warned.”
“Talk to you later, Simon.” She hung up.
When the phone rang again, it was the GM’s number.
Meeting the GM in visitor ballparks was becoming something Emmy didn’t want to make a habit of. She would have preferred keeping him at arm’s length, communicating in short daily emails. Face-to-face made him too real.
He had Tucker’s career—and hers—in his hands. To Darren, she and Tucker were just names and finances, and she was well aware how little it would mean to him to send them both away.
Especially if he knew about their relationship.
She was betting a trainer screwing around with a pitcher was a whole new kettle of fish the management wasn’t prepared to deal with, and though there was nothing against it in the contract, she was fairly certain the GM wouldn’t hesitate to ship her away if he caught the scent of blood in the water.
Emmy met him in a makeshift office and sat on a folding chair across from his particleboard desk.
“Not the nicest digs. Apologies.”
She placed her hands in her lap. “No need to apologize.”
“I’d have met you in the box but…” He shrugged. “No game.”
“Of course.” Emmy kept her face neutral. Just like with Simon, she wasn’t sure what the motivation behind the meeting was, and she didn’t want to make any assumptions. “How can I help?”
“I didn’t get a status report last night.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Tucker’s health was my first priority.”
“Naturally, naturally. And that’s why I’ve asked you to meet me here.”
“To discuss Tucker’s health?”
“I got the press release right after I called you, so I know what your official word is, but I want to hear it from you.”
“You want me to repeat what I wrote?”
“I want you to tell me the whole truth.”
“Sir?”
“Let’s be frank with each other, Ms. Kasper. You and Tucker are close. You spend a lot of time helping him, and you’ve made great advancements with his arm. We’re very grateful to you for that. But I’m sure in your time together you may have developed a…friendship with him. It’s natural, when you spend so much time with someone.”
“I’m perfectly capable of maintaining a professional detachment from someone I work with daily.”
“I don’t doubt you are, but you understand why I need to be clear about this. I need to know you’re not…covering for him.”
Emmy might not have been a fan of the GM, but she also hadn’t actively loathed him. He had given her a fantastic opportunity with her job, and because of that she’d given him a certain amount of leeway when it came to his personality. But she was convinced he’d just asked her if she was lying about Tucker’s head wound to help the pitcher stay in the game.
She got to her feet, appalled at the accusation but trying hard to maintain some façade of professionalism rather than reaching across the desk and smacking him in the face.
“It would be very difficult for me to lie about the results of an MRI. Sir.”
His face went smooth, devoid of any trace he was offended but also not showing any surprise at her for calling him out on what he was suggesting.
“Now, now.”
“Tucker is fine.”
“It’s your professional opinion that Tucker Lloyd is fit to play the remainder of the season?”
“I’m telling you Tucker is fit to play this season, and the next, and every damn season from now until forev
er.”
He gave her a thin-lipped smile, his mustache quivering. “We’ll see about that. Forever is an awfully long time, Ms. Kasper.”
“Not for a ballplayer’s career.”
“No, I suppose that’s true.”
“Tucker will be fine for his start in New York. I’ll monitor him personally. He will be better than fine.”
“Well, that’s all I needed to hear.”
“Good.” She turned and left the room before he had a chance to say anything that might make her lose her cool.
Tucker had been right. The GM had it in for him, and she had to do everything she could to ensure his performance was above par for the rest of the season.
She wasn’t sure what she could do, but she wouldn’t sit idly by while someone waited for Tucker to trip. Not if she could somehow keep him standing.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It didn’t matter how often Tucker visited New York City, he always found something to be impressed by. He lived in a big city and was well versed in how to function around a lot of people and all the traffic, but New York was different from San Francisco in so many ways. The people were more hurried and brusque. The buildings felt more cramped and taller somehow.
All the same, he liked visiting, even if he couldn’t live there personally. He liked the food and the grit of the streets. He liked wandering the sidewalks at night and seeing how differently things worked on the East Coast.
He’d travelled extensively in his life, a pleasant perk to being wealthy, but sometimes he didn’t have to leave the country to find a unique culture. San Fran and New York were on opposite sides of the country, and they were as different as two major cities could be.
He liked that.
But he didn’t like playing the Yankees.
No official rivalry existed between the Yankees and the Felons, but all the same he felt like there was bad blood there. That kind of hostility was something the Yankees brought out in other teams. The blue blood ran deep in New York, and Yankees fans were the most hotheaded group of fans in America.
