Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (15 page)

He had the kind of personality that could swell to fill a space and suck up all the air, leaving those around him breathless. It wasn’t so much that he
demanded
attention; it was more like one didn’t have a choice but to give it to him when he was around.

But now Emmy had discovered a room that made him look very, very small. Lying in a hospital bed with tubes in his arms and a lightweight blanket tucked around his knees and only a thin hospital gown spread too tight over his big belly, he looked…human. Emmy’s father had always been an indestructible baseball god, the kind of person nothing bad—not counting divorce—could ever happen to.

“Emmett?” His voice was reedy and groggy in the just-woke-up way old men have. It made her think about his age, and about how close this close call really was.

“Hi, Daddy.” She edged closer to the bed and gave his toes a squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry.” Vin smiled, his usually smooth, round baby face looking somewhat strange with a new growth of white stubble. In Vin’s later years he’d begun to remind her of a clean-shaven Santa Claus. Now his red face appeared to be a symptom of something other than his jovial nature.

“Rice cakes and broth,” Emmy replied.

“Drywall.”

Emmy skirted the bed and sat next to him with her back to the door. “How are you feeling, really?”

“Oh, you know me, baby girl. Strong as an ox.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up his hand, avoiding the IV line tucked in behind his knuckles. “You gave me a good scare, you know?” Her voice snagged in her throat.

“You skipped out on a game to see me.”

“
Dad.
I’d have skipped out on a season for you.”

He gripped her hand and smiled softly, like the gesture hurt him and he was pretending it didn’t. “I’m really proud of you,” he said.

“Daddy…”

“No, let me finish. I, well, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance like this.”

Emmy blinked back tears and fought the urge to stop her father from speaking. As if holding him back from saying what he wanted would keep him alive long enough to say it sometime in the future.

“I never tell you enough, and I don’t think you know. You done good, kid, and I’m damn proud of you.”

The tears fell this time, sliding down her cheeks in hot paths and dripping off her chin onto her lap. “Thank you.”

“And who’s this?” Vin’s gaze focused over her shoulder to the door. Emmy hadn’t heard Tucker come in. “Emmy, I believe you have a castaway.”

“Dad, this is Tucker.”

“Of course it is. Tucker Lloyd. I have an official rule book from 2008 with your picture on the cover.”

“I was a bit younger then, sir.”

“We all were.”

Tucker stayed near the door, eyeballing the empty bed next to Vin’s as if it might bite him. Emmy wasn’t sure if his apparent anxiety had something to do with his past surgery—which had been relatively minor by surgical standards—or was based in a deeper fear. A lot of people were afraid of hospitals, but it had never occurred to her Tucker might be one of them. He usually seemed tough and unflappable.

One foot in the door of a hospital room and he was flapping.

She liked it when he showed her his human side.

“Do you want to sit down?” Emmy asked, scooting over one spot to offer him her former chair.

“No…I…” He fumbled for a word and volunteered a soft smile instead. “I’m going to see if Melody needs a hand with the coffee, but I wanted to make sure you were okay first.” He flicked his attention to Vin, but it was obvious the words had been for Emmy.

“We’re fine.”

Tucker gave a quick nod then backed out of the door like the room was on fire.

“You make that boy nervous,” Vin noted.

“I think it’s the hospital.”

Her father chuckled, which briefly became a hard, hacking cough, and Emmy’s heart seized to hear the noise. Her dad wasn’t a smoker, so she wasn’t worried about his lungs, but she imagined he might cough hard enough for his heart to explode. When the hacking interlude had ended, Vin’s cheeks were redder than usual and his eyes were glazed in a film of tears.

“He likes you,” he said, as if the entire thing hadn’t happened.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it matters.”

“I’m with Simon,” Emmy reminded him.

“Ah yes, the intrepid reporter. Well, here’s what I see, kiddo. Simon lives in Chicago, and he’s nowhere to be found. Tucker Lloyd lives in San Francisco and is supposed to be attending a baseball game tonight. Which one of them is here with you?”

He didn’t need her to answer. Her father, as usual, was a keen master at calling the plays the way he saw them.

Chapter Twenty

Simon Howell lived in a fancy, too-expensive-for-its-own-good apartment about five minutes from Lincoln Park. He loved to tell people about the building’s proximity to the park and the beach as if he were pointing out the winning features on a purebred dog. It drove Emmy nuts at parties when he would talk about the ease with which he could walk to the Magnificent Mile.

All she was thinking about in the cab ride from the hotel to his apartment was how lucky she was he didn’t live in the suburbs.

She’d split the cab with Tucker to his hotel and left him on the steps while she continued her trek to her boyfriend’s apartment.

Take tonight, see what there is. Don’t make rash decisions.

Right, because Emmy was one to make rash decisions so often.

The cab stopped in front of Simon’s building, and Emmy slipped the driver a handful of bills before getting out. The air was warm, making her skin tingle in the early evening. Between the two flights, her hours at the hospital and the stress of the day, Emmy was exhausted. She wanted a bubble bath, a full bottle of wine and a long sleep.

Maybe days of sleep.

The doorman let her in, and once in the elevator she pressed her head against the cold, shiny gold wall. She took several deep breaths, letting her exhalations leave fog on the metal.

Sleep. Wine. Bath.

No, that wouldn’t work. Bath. Wine. Sleep.

The elevator doors slid open, and she dragged her feet down to Simon’s apartment and knocked. It was still suppertime, and she worried he might have made plans. She hadn’t called him, giving herself every excuse not to. The plane didn’t allow phones. The hospital didn’t allow phones in the recovery area.

The reality of it was she didn’t
want
his participation in the events of the day. Simon was a fixer. He needed to make everything work, and when it didn’t, he tended to sulk. The last thing she’d wanted was sulky Simon at the hospital making her even more miserable. It might not have been fair, but it was honest. Now she was assured everything with her father was okay, and she was ready to let her boyfriend in to the events of the day.

Footsteps approached from behind the door, and she was relieved to know he was home. Simon opened the door, still wearing his dress shirt from the office and a pair of gray slacks.

“Em?”

“Hey.”

“What are you doing here?” He looked her up and down and then into the hall behind her. “Did you bring anything?”

“No.”

“There’s not a game.”

“Not in this city, no.”

“Are you okay?”

“Can you invite me in?” They were still standing in the door, her out in the hallway with nothing but her sweater and her purse.

Simon, realizing his mistake, stepped out of the doorway so she could pass. “Sorry. But what’s up?” Then, catching himself, he added, “I’m happy you’re here. This is a nice surprise.” He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her in for a tight, warm hug.

“Dad had a heart attack.”

His hug slackened, and he held her back far enough he could look at her face. “Vin? Vin’s indestructible.”

“His heart disagreed.”

“Is he…?”

“He’ll be fine. Tough old man. Doctor said he’d be back in the booth in no time.”

“At least Cubs fans can look forward to one good thing this season.” Simon kissed her forehead.

Over the smell of his too-spicy cologne Emmy picked up the scent of garlic and bread. Her stomach rumbled but felt queasy at the same time. “You’re cooking?”

Simon didn’t cook.

He looked back towards the kitchen like he wasn’t sure of the answer. “Yes,” he said uncertainly.

“For yourself?”

Simon released her from the hug and stepped back. “For you, too, now. You’re staying?”

“I thought so.” She moved past him and into the kitchen. A bottle of wine sat on the counter, and water boiled on the stove with a plastic container of fresh pasta next to it. Another container of pesto was open, and the oven light showed a loaf of garlic bread broiling.

Again, Emmy’s stomach spoke louder than her brain, growling audibly. She hadn’t eaten anything since her dinner the previous evening, and now it was catching up with her.

“Who were you making dinner for?” she asked. There was no way in hell this setup was for him alone. If he’d known she was coming, she might have believed he’d go to the effort for her, but that wasn’t his style. A nice restaurant and vanilla sex was the Simon Howell M.O.

“I was having a friend over.”

“What friend?”

“Cassandra.”

“Your good friend Cassandra,” Emmy repeated, letting the words sink in for herself and parroting them back so he could appreciate the way they sounded from her end. “Cassandra Dano?”

Miss ESPN herself. The name sounded bitter in Emmy’s mouth. She tried to tell herself not to jump to any conclusions, but pesto and garlic bread made it hard not to jump.

“She and I are working on a piece together. I asked her to come by after her evening broadcast so we could compare notes.” He pointed to the MacBook on the counter open to a spreadsheet of scoring stats.

Emmy felt immediately horrible for her toxic reaction. She was the one who was having feelings for someone else, and she had heaped all her crap onto him. Talk about a guilty conscience.

“I can call her and tell her not to come, though,” he said.

“No…” She rubbed her hands on her pants, suddenly sweaty. More than that she didn’t feel like being there when Cassandra showed up. Next to the ten-foot-tall glamazon, Emmy would feel like a disheveled hag, which wouldn’t boost her mood at all. She also didn’t want to overthink everything Simon did or said around the other woman. It looked like he was planning to do actual work, and if that was the case, she was only going to be in his way. “Don’t worry about it. I have a hotel room,” she lied. “I just wanted to come and let you know I was here.”

“Are you staying long?”

“Long enough to make sure Dad’s okay.”

Simon nodded. “You’re sure you don’t want me to cancel? Cassandra won’t mind.”

“No, no. I need to sleep anyway. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?” Emmy backed away, then thinking better of her reaction, she leaned in and gave Simon a kiss. He returned the affection, but the gesture was more friendly than anything else.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

“We’ll see.”

Tucker should have been used to hotel beds.

He spent a good ninety days or more each summer on the road and had slept in a dozen different hotels, on beds of varying comfort, size and expense. This particular hotel—one of his own choosing—had a remarkable bed, but it wasn’t helping him sleep.

Lying on the soft feather mattress cover, with the duvet kicked off, Tucker stared at the ceiling and failed miserably to find any peace. The bright green glow of the alarm clock on his nightstand made the room appear even more alien, and he’d left the curtains open to allow the light of downtown Chicago in.

At home he lived in a spacious, fancy condo facing the Bay, with a glorious view of the Bay Bridge. Because of the bright lights that filled his home, he needed the extra glow to fall asleep in foreign cities.

But even the light was useless.

His head was so full of Emmy and his stupidity in following her to Chicago, there was no sense in trying to think of anything else. Especially sleep. She didn’t seem to mind him being there, but he was still wondering what madness had motivated him. He had a game in two days, and a commercial to film on the weekend. What he needed was rest and a good workout. Not to follow Emmy Kasper halfway across the country on a stupid whim.

She didn’t need him, Emmy was too strong for that. What
had
he been thinking? He was like a sad high school boy with a crush on a girl impossibly out of his league. And as a man who knew a great deal about leagues, that notion made him laugh a little. Major League pitcher, minor league lover.

He grumbled and rolled onto his side, staring at the brightly lit skyscrapers of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Emmy had said Simon didn’t live far from there, only a few miles down, near the park. Which meant she was close.

So close he imagined her knocking on the door.

Burying his face in the too-soft pillow, Tucker ignored his imagination and told himself,
Sleep, you idiot.