Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (14 page)

What was Melody doing sending her an email?

It was one line, but the few words were ones that shouldn’t have been delivered by email.

Emmy, Vin had a heart attack. Chicago General.

Her father was in the hospital and his idiot girlfriend couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone? That’s what happened when a septuagenarian dated someone younger than Emmy.

She backed out of line, stumbling into the person behind her and apologizing without even seeing them. Out in the street the fog was creeping down, turning the morning light an ashy-gray color. Emmy clutched the phone in her hand, not sure what to do next.

Her first thought was to call Simon, but it was still a little early in Chicago, and there’d been a late White Sox game the night before. For some stupid reason Emmy thought it would be rude to wake him if he’d been working into the wee hours. If she was going to fly home—of course she was going to fly home—she’d call him from the airport in Denver and have him meet her at O’Hare.

But what was she supposed to do
here
? She didn’t know anyone in San Francisco. She had nobody here to calm her down and tell her this was all going to be okay.

She tried calling Melody, but her father’s girlfriend didn’t pick up, either because of the time or because something terrible had happened to Vincent and Melody was afraid to answer Emmy’s call.

Emmy stared at her phone. She was standing on the sidewalk on 24
^th
Street, and there was a BART station barely a hundred feet away. She should get on a train. She should go somewhere. Find Jasper and have him take her to the airport.

Instead she tabbed to the contact list on her phone and called Tucker Lloyd.

Twenty minutes later Tucker pulled up in front of the coffee shop. Emmy hadn’t moved except to sit down on the park bench outside and stare stupidly at the street. She’d thought once or twice about going to the train station but changed her mind when she realized she’d get lost in thought and end up God knew where.

She considered walking home since it was only five minutes away, but her feet refused to follow through on the notion. So she stayed at Philz, with no coffee, and stared at her phone, waiting for something to happen.

When Tucker pulled up, she didn’t react to the presence of his car. He parked illegally in front of the shop and climbed out, coming to crouch in front of her on the bench. She was still holding the phone in both hands, the screen showing his profile.

“Do you need anything from home?” he asked.

“No.”

“A change of clothes, some ID?”

Emmy shook her head. Because she traveled so often she had a fast-pass for security which she kept in her wallet. It might not be the most secure place, but it meant she never lost the small, laminated card. It also meant she could leave for Chicago without needing to stop at home first.

“I can buy anything I need when I get there,” she assured him. Emmy glanced back down at her phone, where the photo of Tucker smiling looked very different from the Tucker in front of her. The real Tucker seemed tired, and his brow furrowed in unmasked concern.

“Are you—?”

“Please, Tucker. I want to go.”

He helped her to her feet without further arguments or any helpful suggestions, and led her to the unlocked Prius. It was an unusual choice of car for a rich and famous athlete. Based on the stereotype, Emmy had assumed he’d be driving a Porsche.

She also must have voiced this out loud, because Tucker smiled faintly—the expression a distant cousin to his usual toothy grin—and opened her door for her.

“You’d have to be an idiot to drive a nice car in San Francisco, unless you plan on keeping it under lock and key and never taking it out. I’d prefer to have a car I can use, not a museum piece.”

He had a valid point. Emmy’s own Honda hadn’t exactly been a gem when she’d arrived in her new city, but it had taken only a few weeks before she accepted there was no hope in hell of her maintaining any semblance of a paint job.

Her rear and front bumpers were scuffed and mildly dented from ill-judged parallel-parking attempts—and
every
attempt made at a ninety-degree incline was ill-judged. Her doors on both sides were dented from cyclists, and her side mirrors were scraped from people passing too close to her on the narrow streets. At first she’d thought she was doing something wrong, but after some investigation she discovered every car in the city had the same war wounds as hers.

Of course Tucker, a long-time resident, would know this about his own city. But it still surprised her he wasn’t flashier with his money.

“Very pragmatic,” she said, and her voice caught in her throat.

They drove in silence while she watched her phone, trying to will Melody to call her back. She’d even be grateful for a simple text at this point. Instead, the slim Samsung mocked her with its shiny black screen, and they continued their staring contest—she and the phone.

Their route to the airport took them by the Bay, over a stretch of road that was so surrounded by water it should have fallen in at some point, and the Felons Stadium sat near the pier like a red-bricked crown. It looked so different from the older buildings, too new and fresh to blend in. But the place was beautiful, and probably the single fanciest ballpark she’d ever set foot into.

And she was running away with no notice.

Solemnly, as Tucker took the airport exit and guided them away from the water, she called Chuck. She explained there was a family emergency and she would brief Jasper on anything he didn’t already know. When she hung up, she texted her assistant A.T. and said,
Vince in hospital. Game on you. Call if you need me.

Tonight was the first of a four-game stretch against the Detroit Tigers, and Emmy was hoping to only miss one. Thinking about work was her way of coping with the scary reality of the situation. If she imagined herself missing a single game, that meant she’d get to Chicago and her dad would be fine.

If she made a contingency to be gone longer, she was opening herself up for the reality something could have gone really, really wrong. The notion of planning a funeral would rear its ugly head, along with settling hospital bills and sorting out her father’s estate. It was too much. Much too much to think about while in a car with someone who was barely even a friend.

But who could be so much more.

She still hadn’t called Simon.

Since she didn’t have a flight booked she didn’t know where they’d go, but Tucker pulled up in front of the Delta gate and stopped the car. “I checked flights before I came to get you. There’s a ticket reserved at the desk for a flight leaving in ninety minutes,” he told her.

Emmy wanted to cry. She’d been horrible to him, ignoring him, all because she couldn’t come to terms with what she felt for him. And here he was picking her up and driving her to the airport, taking care of her when she needed it. She didn’t know how to deal with his kindness right then because it just made her tired and sad.

“Thank you.”

Inside there was a long, twisting lineup to the ticket counter—not an unusual sight at SFX—and Emmy clenched her phone in her hands, nervously waiting for the people ahead of her to collect their boarding passes and move on.

When she got to the counter, she gave them her name and slid her ID across the counter.

“Will you be checking any bags?” the attendant asked.

“No.”

“And what about the gentleman traveling with you?”

That grabbed Emmy’s attention away from her phone. “You must have the wrong booking. I’m traveling alone.”

“No,” came a strong, masculine voice from beside her. Tucker emerged from the crowd and stood by her side, handing the girl at the counter his own fast-pass. “I won’t be checking any baggage.”

Emmy stared at him, dumbfounded. “What are you
doing
?”

Tucker looked down, his mismatched eyes in sync when it came to gazing at her warmly. “I’m coming with you.”

Chapter Nineteen

Hospitals reminded Tucker of his surgery.

They smelled too clean, like the antiseptic was being overused to cover up all the nasty smells that made a hospital real. Blood and puke and shit. Those were the honest hospital smells.

Even Tucker had been keenly aware of his own awful scent when he’d been stuck in a bed after his surgery. Sitting with Emmy outside her father’s room, he was reminded of the ripe, unwashed fragrance.

He didn’t like it here.

Why had he volunteered to come with her?

She was staring at her hands, twisting the hem of her blue shirt between her fingers so often he was sure she’d worry a hole right through the cotton. On instinct he reached out and took one of her hands in his. For a second she hesitated, her hand going perfectly still, and then she yielded to the gesture and wove her fingers through his. The fidgeting stopped.

They hadn’t been allowed in while Vince was resting, and they were currently waiting for his attending physician to arrive so she could explain what was happening. Melody—a lithe twenty-something Emmy introduced as her father’s girlfriend—had run off at the first sight of them, claiming she’d be back with coffee.

Tucker weighed the options of what was best to say in a situation like this and came up blank. He’d lost his own father a few years earlier, but it hadn’t been a shock, and Tucker didn’t think talking about death was the smartest thing. He also didn’t want to be overly cheerful in case the doctor arrived with grim news.

Emmy letting him come along without sending him home at the airport was enough of a miracle, he didn’t want to screw things up any further. Why
had
she let him come? Was it the audacity of his gesture, and her mind being too occupied elsewhere to think of refusing him? Or was it that deep down Emmy really wanted him along?

He hadn’t been thinking too much when he’d booked two tickets instead of one. For some reason going with her had seemed like the right thing to do. Now that he was here with her, though, he didn’t fully understand what it all meant.

Tucker just knew
he
was with her, and her boyfriend was nowhere in sight, in spite of the fact that Simon lived in Chicago.

Had Emmy called him?

A doctor appeared before them, all brusque efficiency and exhausted politeness. Her hair was pinned back in a bun that might have started the day severe but had lessened its hardness at some point in the midst of her rotation. She had deep purple bags under her eyes which were mostly hidden by a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

Emmy pulled her hand away and got to her feet.

“My name is Doctor Albright,” the woman said, offering a handshake to Tucker after Emmy was done. “I understand you’re Vincent’s daughter?”

“Yes, Emmy Kasper.” Emmy and the doctor sounded equal degrees of tired, and both were soldiering their way through it.

“Emmy, your father suffered a minor heart attack early this morning. We’ve been monitoring him, and I feel very comfortable telling you Vin…Vincent is going to be fine.”

The whoosh of air that escaped Emmy’s lips could have propelled the Regatta by the Bay. She slumped against Tucker, and he held her upright, squeezing her shoulder gently.

“You’re sure?” Emmy asked.

“Of course.” Doctor Albright looked down at the chart in her hand, flipping through the thin pages. “We’ve done some tests, and I think there will be a few serious lifestyle changes in order for your father—no more ballpark pretzels I’m afraid. His cholesterol was astronomical. And his blood pressure…” The doctor clucked her tongue. “But he’ll be back in the booth by the end of the month.”

Clearly the good doctor knew her Cubs history. Tucker reminded himself that Vin Kasper was a legend in this town—one even he knew about. It shouldn’t have been a surprise people in the hospital would be aware they were caring for a local celebrity.

“Thank you so much,” Emmy said, shaking the doctor’s hand vigorously. It was obvious she wanted to hug the woman, but she restrained herself, and the doctor kept a safe distance.

“You can go in to see him now, if you’d like.” Doctor Albright nodded at the door, and Emmy didn’t need to be told twice. She was gone in an instant, leaving Tucker in the hall with the doctor.

“Thank you,” he said, not knowing what else he should say. “She was really worried.”

“Naturally.” She was staring at him, but not his face. Her gaze was focused on his arm, where the silver-pink scar was showing plainly thanks to his short-sleeved shirt. “Did you play?”

“Still do.”

“Would I have heard of you?”

He offered her his hand again and said, “Tucker Lloyd.”

The doctor smiled and gave him a polite handshake before saying, “I’d better let you get to your girlfriend before I’m accused of fraternizing with the enemy.” She smiled and flashed him the back of her clipboard, where a White Sox decal was stuck. She looked slightly less tired than she had a minute before. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lloyd. But you’ll excuse me if I don’t wish you a good season.”

And she was gone.

Any room with Vincent Kasper in it was too small.