Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (3 page)

And Tucker didn’t want any of that. He bled Felons gray-and-orange. His home and his life were in San Francisco—unlike most other players who lived out of state in the off-season—and the last thing he ever wanted was to be forgotten. Maybe there was something to the adage of it being better to burn out than to fade away. He wasn’t sure if he was on the verge of fading away, but he knew he wanted to set fire to the coming season.

The Felons hadn’t won the World Series in twelve years. They’d made it to the finals only three times since then, but hadn’t won. In the last four years they hadn’t made it past the division semi-finals. They weren’t a bad team, always first or second in their division, but they seemed to lose all their focus the closer they got to the end of the season. It was as if the Felons had a consistent fear of success.

This year would be different. Tucker had it in his head he was going to step up and be the leader the guys needed. Someone to help them take those last few steps and become the champions he knew they could be. If this was going to be one of his last years, he wanted to make it count. He wanted another championship ring. He wanted a shitty orange T-shirt that said San Francisco Felons—2013 World Series Champions.

Fuck yeah, he did.

And nothing was going to distract him from making that dream a reality. It had to be his single-minded purpose. It had been the thing driving him on through the tough months of physio, when he thought his arm would never be back in throwing condition.

Dropping their bags in the dugout, the players rallied near the center of the field where the coaching staff had come together. Tucker joined his teammates in preparation for Chuck’s big pep talk. If this one was anything like the talks their coach had given over the last decade, he’d reprimand them for being triumphant fuckups the year before, and then remind them this was a new season. Full of new opportunities to fuck up. At that point he’d threaten to end their lives if they ruined another season.

Chuck Calvin would have made a hell of a war general.

True to form he launched into his big managerial spiel while the batting, pitching and base coaches watched on with expressions somewhere between amusement and pain. When Chuck sarcastically applauded their previous season’s “fuckups-to-wins” ratio, the first-base coach handed a ten-dollar bill to the pitching coach with a resigned headshake.

Behind the coaching staff the trainers were unloading their own gear, preparing for the first war wounds of the season, ready to offer healing and advice—whatever the situation dictated. Tucker cast an uninterested glance their way, then froze. His heart hammered so loudly all he could hear was his pulse.

In the midst of last season’s familiar old trainers and a few fresh-faced new recruits stood the woman who’d almost run him and Alex over that morning. She was smiling as she gave directions to the trainers, pointing out where things should be laid out. Her long, gold-streaked hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and she wore simple black yoga pants with an orange Felons polo T-shirt. In spite of her wardrobe change, he had no doubt it was the same woman.

“All right,” barked Chuck. “I want to introduce you boys to our newest staff member.” He spun on his heel and gave a sharp whistle. The woman looked up, a momentary frown passing over her lips at being beckoned like a dog, but she crossed the field at a slow jog.

Once she’d arrived, Chuck put an arm around her slender shoulders, and she pushed her mirrored aviators off her face. Tucker’s mouth went dry when she smiled.

“Boys, I’d like you to meet our new head athletic trainer. This is Mrs. Emmy Kasper.”

“Miss,” she corrected immediately, meeting Tucker’s rapt gaze for the first time. She gave him a meek, almost apologetic smile and offered a half wave.

Calvin was saying something about her credentials, and Tucker was sure it was all very fascinating, but he had a bigger concern on his mind.

He was supposed to be a man on a mission this season. Single-minded focus and all that jazz.

There was no way in hell he was going to be able to focus if the woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about all morning was going to be the same one icing his wounds and spending every damn day with him. The added bonus of coming off Tommy John surgery was all sorts of extra time and attention from the head A.T.

She
was his new A.T.

He was so screwed.

Chapter Four

Emmy wasn’t sure what she expected Tucker’s response to be, but the dumbfounded look he was giving her now hadn’t been it.

“Hey,” she said, kicking herself for sounding so meek. “Sorry again about earlier.”

“Huh?”

“The whole bike-accident thing?” She raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if maybe
he
had suffered a bump to the head.

The manager stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his upper lip and cast a wary glance between the two of them. Emmy had noticed he tended to regard everything like it was a problem waiting to happen. At least when it came to her. She knew hiring a woman hadn’t been his choice because he was as old-school boys’ club as they came in the league. It had been a progressive-thinking assistant general manager who’d seen her resume instead of her boobs and convinced the rest of them to give her the head trainer job.

When Chuck decided it didn’t appear they were going to do anything nefarious, he wandered away to yell at someone else.

“Oh, right,” Tucker said, bringing her back to the utterly awkward conversation they were engaged in. “Here’s my question. Since you knew who I was then, why didn’t you say something?”

She blushed, the familiar unwelcome heat flooding her cheeks. Even as a child she’d blushed too easily, which made it impossible for her to lie without giving an obvious tell. It also proved to be an embarrassing giveaway when she was aroused. Hard to play it cool when your cheeks and ears were as pink as a girly baby shower.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve mentioned that a few times now.” The smile he gave her wasn’t his big, toothy, press-conference smile, but it was sweeter. Just a small curve of the lips that set her heart aflutter.

“I was shocked, I guess. I mean, it’s not every day a girl almost kills a two-time Cy Young winner, you know,” Emmy teased, then blushed upon mentioning the prestigious pitching award. Now she sounded more like a groupie than a professional.

“So you figured your best bet was to run away and hope I didn’t recognize you?”

“Uh,
yeah
. Don’t you like my clever disguise?” She pointed to her ponytail and hoped he’d laugh. When he did, the pit of anxiety in her belly loosened. “This morning wasn’t at all how I pictured meeting you.”

“Probably left more of an impression, though.”

“No doubt. Now I’ll forever be
that woman who can’t ride a bike
.”

“I prefer to think of you as
that woman who stole my lucky bandana
.”

Emmy’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh
crap
. You mean the bandana I threw out when I got back to my rental?” She maintained her serious expression long enough for Tucker to look like he might cry, then winked at him. “I’m kidding. But I did throw it in the wash. I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t sure I should return it to you covered in my blood.”

Tucker smiled again, and she was really starting to like this toned-down version. He was well-known for his big grin and dimples, but there was an earnest charm to the closed-lip grin he was favoring her with.

She got distracted by his eyes the same way she had earlier, switching her focus from the blue one to the brown one and back again. After a moment, she realized she was staring, and when you’re staring at someone’s eyes, it’s hard for them not to notice.

When she was obviously busted, he gave her a wink. They began to walk towards the rest of the players where the outfielders had already begun throwing drills.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“Nah, I’m used to it. People stare a lot.”

Considering he stood over six feet tall, was handsome to the point of absurdity, and also happened to be one of the most famous—and well paid—players in baseball, Emmy was willing to bet his eyes weren’t what made most people stare.

“It’s cool,” she admitted. “I used to notice it on TV when I watched you play.” Once again, she was sounding like a groupie. “I mean…when I’d catch a Felons game. From time to time.”

“You a Felons fan?” he prodded.

Technically, the correct answer should have been
of course
. But Emmy was a baseball girl and had been her whole life. She’d also been raised in Chicago and wasn’t about to lie to him about where her fandom allegiance was.

“Chicago Cubs.” She offered an apologetic shrug. They were almost to the bullpen, where a few of the other guys were firing warm-up throws to their catchers.

Alex was fastening his Nike catcher’s vest, waiting for Tucker’s arrival.

“Cubs?” Tucker wrinkled up his nose. “That’s…unfortunate for you.”

“Tell me about it. But their time is coming.”

Since the Cubs were a National League team and the Felons played in the American League, they weren’t in competition during the regular season, so Emmy didn’t feel too guilty for her admission.

“I don’t count on seeing them up against us in the World Series this year,” he told her. “Sorry to break your heart.”

“I’m a Chicago Cubs fan,” she reminded him. “I’m accustomed to a broken heart.”

“Yeah, that’s the fate of a baseball fan, ain’t it?”

“Broken hearts?”

“Lowered expectations.”

Emmy chuckled. “I guess so. But the sports columns all seem to have pretty high expectations for you this year.”

“So I’m told.”

“How’s the arm?” Now in full-on professional trainer mode, she jutted her chin in the direction of his right arm. There was a curved pink scar over his inner elbow, and he seemed fascinated by it as he bent his arm to show her.

“Never better.”

“Let’s keep it that way, okay?”

Tucker nodded. “You’d better be good,” he teased. “After throwing one-hundreds through nine innings, I tend to need extra TLC on this baby.” He gave a joking flex of his arm then jogged off towards Alex. He’d almost reached the catcher when he turned back and shouted, “Welcome to the team.”

Emmy’s heart did a little flip-flop when she thought about Tucker needing her TLC.

So much for being a professional. She was barely an hour into her first day on the job and already she was fantasizing about doing ruinous things to the team’s star pitcher.

Or maybe the Florida heat was getting to her.

In February.

For the remainder of the day, Emmy managed to steer clear of Tucker and settled into a groove with her staff. With the exception of Jasper—her assistant athletic therapist—the rest of the training staff was new to her. A few of them were new to the team as well, so much of the day was spent learning how the others operated.

Even though Emmy was in charge, she wanted the people she was going to be side by side with every day to be comfortable. If she could mesh her expectations with the way the existing staff operated, it would be easier for everyone involved.

Baseball had the unique distinction of having one of the longest seasons and had easily the most game-play days of any sport. Beginning in the first week of April, she and her crew would be expected on-site almost every day until the first week of October. Hopefully beyond, providing the team went to the postseason.

One hundred and sixty-two games. As head athletic trainer, she would be expected to travel with the team, making sure the players bounced back quickly and that serious injuries weren’t missed. She could kiss her regular life goodbye for the next eight months.

Emmy and Jasper had worked together previously as interns on the University of Chicago women’s basketball team. They’d met up again when Emmy got to work as the assistant A.T. for the American women’s softball team during the 2008 summer Olympics and bonded over their mutual agreement that Chinese food was better in the States than it was in Beijing. Emmy loved MSG and Jasper liked being able to read a menu. They’d also both developed a crush on the same men’s swimming coach, who it turned out was much more interested in Jasper.

It wasn’t the only time Emmy had lost a man to the Jasper test.

When she got the job with the Felons, they told her most of the staff was still in place, but she’d be welcome to bring on anyone who might be valuable to her. She’d called Jasper and asked how attached he was to living in Memphis.

He’d arrived in San Francisco two days later in a U-Haul.

They sat next to each other on a metal bench, feet propped up on their med kits, and watched the batting coach run drills.

“I feel like I’m back at summer camp,” Jasper observed.

“Did you ever go to summer camp?”

“No. But I saw a lot of movies about summer camp, and I imagine it was a lot like this. Only this has tighter pants.”

Emmy smirked. The once-pristine base paths laid earlier in the morning had been smudged by cleats, and the new bases were coated in a layer of red-brown dust. Many of the players had the same dust smeared over their hips or across their chests from making dramatic slides. Every time someone did a showy slide, Emmy winced. Visions of broken fingers and bruised shins danced in her head.