by Sierra Dean
The next pitch was a ball, and everyone breathed together nervously. They all knew how precarious this could be. One wrong move was all it would take for the whole thing to end in failure. A dozen silent—and one or two not so silent—prayers were shared among the team.
Emmy had one of her own, thinking, Dear Lord, you and I aren’t close, but if you just let him have this…
She didn’t know what to offer God, so she let the prayer drift off unfinished, hoping the Big Guy would know she meant well.
Another strike and the guys crushed closer together, forcing Emmy to move out of the way, lest she be bumped or trampled by their giddy movements. She climbed up the dugout steps for a better view and stopped next to Chet, who was shuffling with barely constrained glee. Every single person in the visitors’ dugout was a coiled spring, ready to rush onto the field once the last strike was thrown.
Emmy was churning with emotion. The baseball fan in her was riveted, waiting to see history unfold. Only a handful of perfect games had taken place at away parks, and this would be the first one new Yankee stadium had seen.
The part of her that was head-over-heels, completely in love with the man on the pitcher’s mound felt the cluster of nerves and fear he must be feeling right then. She wanted to reach out to him, comfort him and tell him everything was going to be okay.
At the last moment before he threw his pitch, he looked up, and his gaze landed right on her. Instead of freezing, she gave him a tight smile and nodded.
He could do this.
He would do this.
An invisible weight lifted off Tucker when he saw Emmy. He’d thought seeing her would distract him or make him falter, but now he knew how wrong he was. He’d needed her.
And there she was, the light at the end of the tunnel, giving him the last push. Any doubts he had slipped away, along with the catalogue of worries that had him imagining all the possible ways he could screw up this pitch.
Everything was going to be fine.
He let out a shaky breath, then inhaled deep and clear, the sweet grassy smell of the field filling his lungs. Closing his eyes, he held the ball and let the last twenty-six at-bats replay in his mind. He recounted every pitch, every catch, every swing of the bat. He only needed to make one more pitch. This wasn’t about the game anymore, it was about the ball in his hand and the path it would take from him to Alex.
He knew exactly what he’d done to get here, and now with Emmy watching over him, he was sure of what he had to do to make the last strike.
Raising his eyes, he looked at Alex and gave his friend a loaded grin. The batter shuffled nervously, clearly not loving the confidence the pitcher was showing.
Alex flashed a signal, Tucker shook it off. He shook off the next three signals. Alex squinted and waved his hand, then after a pause, threw out a final gesture.
Tucker nodded.
Alex arched a brow, not hiding his surprise, but lowered his glove and raised on his haunches to prepare for the catch. Tucker curled his fingers and held the ball in the glove, taking smooth, even breaths.
He could do this.
He looked down at the batter, and the man’s hands trembled on the bat. Then Tucker threw the ball and staggered off the mound, willing time to stop so he could see what he’d done.
The ball drove forward and wobbled. The batter appeared confused, staring at the bobbing, wild-seeming pitch, before he swung with all his might. He swung far too early.
Tucker had struck him out with a knuckleball.
The pitch he’d used to keep himself from drowning was the pitch that had just won them the game.
A perfect game.
The moment ended, and it was like the pause button had been released on a freeze frame when the ball thumped into Alex’s glove. The catcher threw it down the second the umpire called You’re out and ran across the field, leaping into Tucker’s arms and hugging him so tight he thought he might not breathe right for weeks.
The Felons swarmed the field, whooping and clambering all over each other to get to Tucker. Even the crowd, once against him, gathered to their feet to applaud and cheer for what he’d accomplished.
He must have done something right if Yankees fans were cheering for him rather than against him.
Tucker stared in awe at the tiny white orb, now speckled with rust-colored dirt, that sat next to the batter’s box. One ball, one pitch, and he’d just done the unthinkable. If anyone wanted to doubt his right to be there now, he figured they were welcome to. In that moment, for that day, he was perfect.
He accepted the congratulations and the joy, the hugs and the grown men welling up with happiness, lifting him fully off the ground for suffocating bear hugs. And then the men parted and there she was, hanging back on the edges while Chuck, Mike and the staff shook his hand and gave him rare smiles.
Tucker wove his way through them, dropping his glove as he went. He and Emmy met in the middle of the infield, and she beamed up at him, her face glowing with pride, hazel eyes wet with tears. That she was so happy for him was more rewarding than he could have ever hoped. The part she’d played in getting him here meant his victory was as much hers as his, and he’d never stop being grateful to her for it.
“You did it,” she said.
“You helped,” he told her emphatically, wishing she could understand just how true his words were.
She laughed and touched his cheek. “It was all you.”
Tucker grabbed her wrist and pulled her against him, not caring who was there or that forty thousand Yankees fans were watching in person and however many million at home and around the country.
“Emmy, if you don’t know by now that everything good about me is because of you, you aren’t nearly as smart as I thought you were.”
After hesitating briefly, she looped her hands around his back and smiled at him. “What are you saying, Tucker Lloyd? Am I more than just a good-luck charm to you now?”
“You are my good-luck charm. The best damn luck.”
“In that case, you’re about to get very, very lucky.”
“Promise?”
“I’m pretty sure I did.”
“I love you, you know,” he said.
She pulled back and stared at him, and for a moment he thought he’d made his first mistake that night, and it had been the worst one. Then she smiled, and her smile kept getting bigger and bigger.
“I love you too.”
He cupped her face and lowered his towards her. When their lips met, she melted into him, his arms circling her waist, and he kissed her for all he was worth. The sports shows and reporters could say whatever they wanted about the game. This was all the reward he would ever need.
The boys continued to cheer, jumping around him and Emmy like they were in the middle of a mosh pit.
And then someone remembered the Gatorade shower.
Chapter Thirty-Six
October 17
Emmy sat in an imposing leather wing-back chair, facing the owner of the Felons, and she wasn’t sure which of them was winning the staring contest.
“Do you know why I asked you here?” Louis McKeller asked.
“I’ve learned it’s usually best not to answer that question.”
Louis, a young man who opted for a comb-over in spite of a having full head of hair, smiled politely and slid a copy of Vanity Fair across the desk to her.
If Emmy had a quarter for every time someone had called her into a private meeting because of a published article, she’d have fifty cents. She pulled the magazine onto her lap without opening it. She knew the article he was talking about, a puff piece about her and Tucker’s big romantic moment. They were claiming it gave “new romance” to baseball.
As someone who adored baseball, she loathed that people were missing the love story already inherent in the game. The underdogs could come from behind to win it all. One day you were on top of the world, the next you were at the bottom. A man’s career could be defined by one good hit or one bad injury.
Plus, who didn’t love a sport where someone who missed seven out of ten times they went to the plate was considered a gifted athlete?
Baseball had plenty of things to wax poetic about. It didn’t need an article about her and her boyfriend to make the sport more appealing.
Magazine writers were willing to do anything it took to add romance to male-oriented occupation, though, so she had to give them credit for using her very public smooch as a jumping-off point. Since she’d spent her literature-based angst getting mad at Simon’s article, she didn’t have a lot left for the Vanity Fair piece. The picture of her and Tucker kissing wasn’t going to become iconic, she was sure of that, and in a few months it would fade back into obscurity.
“It’s just an article.”
“Oh, I’m not upset,” Louis said, waving a hand to stop her. “We’re thrilled. Do you know advance season ticket purchases are up for next year?”
“That’s…cool?” His giddy delight had been the last thing Emmy expected when he’d handed over the magazine.
“It’s amazing.”
“People know we lost the ALCS, right? We’re not even going to the World Series.”
“I know. But for sales to be this good after a losing season proves we’ve done something right. I’ve replaced the GM for next season, since Darren wasn’t the best fit for the team, and we’re upping the overall budget. We have a good feeling about our chances next fall. With Tucker at the top of his form, and all the new additions we’ll make… We have a very good feeling.”
Emmy wasn’t entirely sure the owner knew anything about anything except for the budget, but she smiled politely while listening to his assurances. If he wanted to believe more money would guarantee them a spot in the World Series, she’d gladly make some equipment purchase suggestions to him for her staff.
“So, you called me into your office to say good job?”
“No. I mean, yes and no. I called you into my office to say, good job. But also, no more kissing on TV, and to remind you the only reason I can’t change the dating policy in your contract is because human resources would consider the adjustment sexist. Am I understood?”
Ah, there it was, the scolding she’d been expecting. All things considered—she had made out with a coworker on national television—she was getting off pretty lightly. Not that she was going to complain. She and Tucker were professionals after all. They could keep their kissing private from then on.
She smiled. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
October 30
Emmy switched off the TV and slung her leg over Tucker, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck.
“So that’s that,” she said, seating herself on his knees.
“Seems to be.” He slid one arm around her while putting his empty beer bottle down on the coffee table, kissing her chin as he did.
“Back-to-back World Series Champions, the St. Louis Cardinals.”
He forced a smile and slid a hand up the back of her shirt. “I’d rather have heard, World Series Champions, the San Francisco Felons.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek, running her hands through his soft brown hair, which had grown longer over the course of the summer, giving her more to play with.
“American League Division Series champions isn’t bad,” she reminded him.
“It’s fourth place.”
Emmy smoothed his hair back off his forehead and placed light kisses on the tip of his nose and each corner of his mouth. “Next year, Tucker Lloyd.”
He flipped her onto her back, lying on top of her and arching his hips. The divine pressure of his hard-on rubbed against the seam of her pants, and she slipped her hand into the front of his waistband.
“How does it feel having your contract extended for three more years?” he asked her.
“Probably about as good as it feels knowing you’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your contract.” Barring any unforeseen issues, Tucker would be wearing Felons gray and orange until he retired from baseball.
“Oppressive, then?”
She slapped his arm playfully. “Not the word I was going for.”
“What would you have said?” He kissed her neck, then pulled her shirt up over her head, trailing his tongue along her collarbone.
“Perfect,” she whispered. “I’d say it was perfect.”
About the Author
Sierra Dean is a reformed historian. She was born and raised in the Canadian prairies and is allowed annual exit visas in order to continue her quest of steadily conquering the world one city at a time. Making the best of the cold Canadian winters, Sierra indulges in her less global interests: drinking too much tea and writing urban fantasy.
Ever since she was a young girl she has loved the idea of the supernatural coexisting with the mundane. As an adult, however, the idea evolved from the notion of fairies in flower beds, to imagining that the rugged-looking guy at the garage might secretly be a werewolf. She has used her overactive imagination to create her own version of the world, where vampire, werewolves, fairies, gods and monsters all walk among us, and she’ll continue to travel as much as possible until she finds it for real.
Sierra can be reached all over the place, as she’s a little addicted to social networking. Find her on:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/sierradeanbooks
Website: www.sierradean.com
E-mail: [email protected]
Twitter: @sierradean
Look for these titles by Sierra Dean
Now Available:
Secret McQueen
Something Secret This Way Comes
The Secret Guide to Dating Monsters
A Bloody Good Secret
Secret Santa
Deep Dark Secret
Keeping Secret
Grave Secret
A Low Down Dirty Shane
Coming Soon:
Secret McQueen
Secret Unleashed
Cold Hard Secret
A Secret to Die For
Some secrets are dangerous. This Secret is deadly.
Something Secret This Way Comes
© 2011 Sierra Dean
Secret McQueen, Book 1
For Secret McQueen, her life feels like the punch line for a terrible joke. Abandoned at birth by her werewolf mother, hired as a teen by the vampire council of New York City to kill rogues, Secret is a part of both worlds, but belongs to neither. At twenty-two, she has carved out as close to a normal life as a bounty hunter can.
When an enemy from her past returns with her death on his mind, she is forced to call on every ounce of her mixed heritage to save herself—and everyone else in the city she calls home. As if the fate of the world wasn’t enough to deal with, there’s Lucas Rain, King of the East Coast werewolves, who seems to believe he and Secret are fated to be together. Too bad Secret also feels a connection with Desmond, Lucas’s second-in-command…
Warning: This book contains a sarcastic, kick-ass bounty hunter; a metaphysical love triangle with two sexy werewolves; a demanding vampire council; and a spicy seasoning of sex and violence.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Something Secret This Way Comes:
“I really need to shower,” I admitted, taking a moment to recognize my clothing wasn’t the worst part of me. My cheeks and mouth were smeared with blood, and judging by how heavy my hair felt, it had begun to mat the curls together, which must have looked quite dramatic. My nails had bits of werewolf cheek embedded under them. Gross. I disappeared into my bedroom to fetch my robe, then returned to the living room, where Desmond remained motionless. “Make yourself at home. If you need to change, there are some sweats and T-shirts in the bottom drawer of my dresser that might fit you.” I pointed down the dark hallway. “Help yourself.”
Stumbling into the bathroom, I didn’t bother to close the door. I shucked off my soiled clothing and turned the water on as hot as I could, then climbed into the shower.
I stood under the scalding torrent until the water was no lo
nger pink with blood. It felt like hours and a few layers of flesh later that I finally set foot on dry land again.
I couldn’t be bothered to dry my hair other than to towel off as much water as I could. My curls had always been fat and loose, not tight and frizzy, so I wasn’t worried about them getting too out of control.
Slipping on the lilac silk robe, I wondered why I had ever bought such a stupid thing. It clung to me everywhere water was still on my body.
After exiting the bathroom, a cool wall of air greeted me in the living room, but there was no sign of Desmond. My loveseat was vacant and the television remained off. I didn’t see him in the kitchen, either. I crossed the short distance to my bedroom and stood in the doorway.
He sat on the end of my bed, shirtless, wearing a pair of old, baggy black sweats that had been left by the only man I’d dated long enough for him to leave things behind. Several fresh cuts marred Desmond’s chest, all of which were in the process of healing into pink scars. They would be gone by morning. His head was in his hands, and when he looked up I could see the weariness and frustration in his eyes. I assumed he was worried about Lucas until he spoke.
“I don’t know what we would have done if something had happened to you tonight.”
Again with this we business. It was the second time he’d said it tonight.
I got defensive, thinking he was being overbearing. “But you don’t even like me. You can’t stand to look at me. You don’t think—” My temper was bubbling, but he was shaking his head.
“Lucas knew the minute he met me that when he became king of the pack it would be with me as his second. He knew it when we were only children. Because of his certainty, his family took me and my brother in, treated us like their own sons, and raised us to understand that kind of life in a way our own parents could not.”
