Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (4 page)

Before coming to the Felons, she’d spent four years working as the assistant A.T. for the Chicago White Sox. She knew what kind of injuries to expect in a season. Sprains, strains, tears, breaks. You name it, she’d be responsible for healing it at some point.

She looked across the field to where Alex Ross was crouched in a spry squat, looking ready to dive for a wild pitch at any moment. He’d be her biggest treat by far. She’d seen enough highlight reels of Felons games to know Alex was a ball magnet. He’d taken more hits off the mask, shins and arms than any other catcher in the American League, and had the scars and MRIs to show for it.

While looking at Alex, her gaze wandered to Tucker. His uniform was brand new, still pristinely white, but his hat was obviously an old favorite. The cap was salt-stained white from years of sweat, and the brim had a thick coat of dirt accrued from many a pitcher’s mound. He’d never be allowed to wear it on the field in a regulation game, but it must have had sentimental value if he was wearing it here.

Tucker rubbed his thumb over the filthy brim then gave his right ear a small tug. Grasping the ball inside his glove, he brought his left knee high and tight to his chest before unleashing a flurry of movement, diving forward on his left leg with his right kicking up high behind him. His arm rotated at an impossible angle, and the ball flew hard and true down the field into Alex’s waiting glove with a satisfying
smack
.

A perfect knuckleball.

Emmy must have been smiling because Jasper prodded her in the ribs with his pointy elbow. “Whatcha ogling there?”

“I’m not
ogling
anything,” she replied tartly. “I’m just watching Tucker’s form.”

Jasper snickered. “Yeah, I’m watching his
form
too, and it looks mighty fine in those pants.”

“Jasper!”

“Like you weren’t thinking it.”

She had been. Of course she had. The players wore a variety of pants, some opting for the old-school knickers with high socks, where the bigger players wore loose-fitting trousers. Tucker was in the middle ground, opting for full-length pants but ones that fit his muscular calves and thighs snugly. Emmy approved wholeheartedly of the fit whenever he moved into a throwing stance and she got a glimpse of how they fit from behind.

Bad Emmy,
she scolded herself.
Stop checking out the players.

“Too bad I can’t run the Jasper test on him,” her assistant teased.

“Why? Surely
you
can’t be worried about professionalism.”

“Oh, hon. That man is so straight you could chart map coordinates with him. I wouldn’t bother.”

Emmy placed her chin on her balled hand and watched Tucker throw a few more times, trying to convince herself it was out of a need to learn his habits. So she could train him better.

Riiiiight.

Thankfully she was rescued from herself when the centerfielder and left field reliever collided during a pop fly drill. She’d never been so relieved in her life to hold a six-five Venezuelan’s bloody nose before.

Chapter Five

Tucker was sore all over.

It wasn’t the same kind of pain he’d experienced going through physio—the crippling agony of uncertainty—but it still ached like a son of a bitch.

Alex was standing by a long line of benches, doing a series of stretches on his knees and legs. As much as Tucker teased his friend, he admired what Alex did on a daily basis. Once, for kicks, Tucker had crouched in the catcher’s signature high, loose-legged squat to see how it felt. He’d lasted five minutes before his legs began to scream in protest.

During the regular season, Alex did it for three hours a night, six and a half months out of the year. It was impressive. As one of five starting pitchers, Tucker didn’t even have to play every game. He got to spend four out of every five games in the dugout watching the action.

That was
if
he got one of the starting slots this year.

There was a lot of speculation in the sports press about his recovery and whether or not his knuckleball would be up to par. Knuckleball pitchers were an oddity. Weirdos. There were only two or three professional-level knuckleballers in the whole league, and he’d been the best. That wasn’t hubris either—he
knew
he was good—but the stats stood for themselves.

But things like WHIP and ERA now seemed like meaningless letters for unimportant career numbers. What did it matter how often he let a batter get to base, or how many runs he allowed? If he wasn’t allowed to
play
, fourteen seasons of Hall of Fame results were meaningless.

He would have suffered through the surgery for nothing.

Tucker Lloyd did
not
want to end his career as a middle relief pitcher who only came in during the seventh or eighth inning to keep the score down. He had a ton of respect for those men, but he was a starter. He wanted to remain a starter until his contract was up in three years.

He’d be thirty-nine, then. Thirty-nine was an old man in baseball terms, and he could gladly accept retirement.

“Dude, stop staring at my ass.” Alex’s laugh broke into Tucker’s glum reverie.

“Lost in space,” Tucker admitted, circling a finger around his head and making a tweeting noise like little cartoon birds. “Did you happen to notice who our new A.T. is?”

Alex snorted, pulling his bent leg behind him, one arm braced on the back of the bench. “Hard to miss. She did look pretty fine when she was in her workout pants though. Maybe I ought to go ask her about some
tightness
in my hamstring.” He winked, but the lasciviousness was all for show.

Tucker had been friends with Alex a long, long time and knew the hound-dog act wasn’t his real M.O. with women. Alex had been born and raised in Georgia by a proper Southern family, and treated women the way he thought men ought to treat his mother and sisters—like ladies.

But being a gentleman didn’t mesh well in the sports world sometimes. It was cool to be polite, but there was a fine line between being a good dude and being considered a pussy, and Alex had learned to stay off the pussy side of the line by acting like a knob sometimes.

Tucker tended not to care which side of the line people thought he was on. His social life shouldn’t impact his game life.

His eyes scanned the field to where Emmy was packing up some of her gear. When she bent over her duffel bag, Tucker’s breath caught, and he whispered a silent prayer of thanks to whoever had invented yoga pants. Emmy must have been an avid cyclist because her upper thighs and butt were toned to perfection.

He forced himself to swallow as she straightened up.

“Praise be to the Lululemon gods,” Alex said, then crossed himself.

Instead of scolding his friend’s crude comment, Tucker simply replied, “Amen.”

An hour later, after showering off the sweat and dirt and going through his mandated arm stretches, Tucker met Alex, Ramon and the Felons shortstop, Chet Appleton, in the hotel lobby.

Polos and khakis seemed to be the night’s uniform, a message Tucker had missed out on when he’d opted for some well-worn jeans and a cream-colored linen button-down shirt.

“You guys know we only need to wear matching outfits on the field, right?” he teased, zipping up his coat.

“
Si
,” Ramon replied. “But now you are the one who looks silly.”

They waited, and a few more of their teammates wandered down, adding some jeans and T-shirts to the mix. Barrett Hanover—center field—was wearing an ancient Felons shirt so shabby there were holes along the collar.

“Hey, Ret…the club gives us
new
shirts every year,” Alex said, though they were all guilty of hanging on to items that had sentimental value. Postseason T-shirts, the first shirt to ever bear their name and number on the back, and in Barrett’s case, the shirt from the season his daughter had been born.

Barrett grunted his reply instead of returning Alex’s banter. He was a man of few words but could throw from the back of the field to home plate with staggering accuracy.

With all the usual suspects in tow, they walked the few short blocks from the Hyatt to a downtown bar called The Low Ball. Lakeland was a baseball town. Home of spring training, but also a popular minor league team. A lot of money was made catering to the fans and players of the game. Tucker wouldn’t be surprised if eighty percent of the town’s revenue was made between February and September.

They weaved their way through the packed barroom, seeing a few famous faces among the crowd, and settled down at a small reserved table towards the back of the bar. Moments later a short man with thick bifocals and big belly arrived at their table with two pitchers in hand and a teetering tower of glasses in the other.

“How are my favorite boys?” he bellowed, plopping the pitchers among the peanut shells on the table before distributing the empty cups to each man.

“Aww, Gus. I bet you say that to every Sox, Ray and Yankee,” Alex said.

Gus, the owner of The Low Ball, feigned shock and dismay. “No, no. You boys know me. Felons fan to the very core.” He gave them a wink and returned to the bar where a handful of Mariners players had arrived. He began cooing about how big a Mariners fan he was.

Everyone who’d been into The Low Ball knew
exactly
who Gus’s real favorite team was. The entire place was festooned with baseball memorabilia, and though he tried to keep things fair, there was a definite lean in the favor of the Philadelphia Phillies.

No one cared.

The truth was, team allegiance within the sport was flexible. You were devoted to your team so long as you were playing for them, but everyone knew you might being wearing Pirates black-and-yellow one day, then Mets blue-and-orange the next. Most of them had grown up as baseball fans in their youth, having diehard fan devotion for a specific club. Tucker—born and raised on a farm in Kansas—had grown up loving the Cincinnati Reds.

Devotions tended to change with the paycheck.

Barrett poured beers for everyone, and they settled into friendly banter about how the first day had gone. Drinking at night after practice wasn’t a custom, but they liked to do it every so often throughout training to keep the mood light and fun. With a long season ahead of them—one that would test their endurance and push them to their physical limits—there was the strong likelihood they’d lose some long-time friends before the trade deadline.

Playing baseball was a lot like going to war sometimes.

Tucker was in the middle of a sip of beer when all masculine attention seemed to pivot towards the door. Chet let out a low, appreciative whistle and said, “It should be illegal for her to look that good.” He gave a sad shake of the head. “Like being on a diet and her being a damn plate of doughnuts.”

The men nodded with grumbled agreement, and Tucker followed their rapt gazes across the room.

Emmy Kasper had walked in, wearing low, tight jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt, a light jacket slung over her arm. She wasn’t dressed provocatively or even inappropriately. Only a thin band of skin showed at her waist when she raised her arm to wave at someone, yet everyone was gawking at her like she’d shown up in a tube top and miniskirt.

Chet was right, though. She looked so good it ought to be illegal. Her hair was out of the ponytail now, hanging in long beachy waves down to the middle of her back, and she wore more makeup than she had during training. Not a lot, mind you, but enough to make her…

Dangerous.

So very dangerous.

Emmy noticed their entire table staring at her and became visibly uncomfortable for a moment, then gave them all a friendly wave. Maybe it was Tucker’s wishful thinking, but he thought her expression lightened considerably when she saw him.

Had to be wishful thinking.

She angled her way towards the table and was halfway though the room when a diminutive blonde with round cheeks and an enormous grin grabbed Emmy by the arm. The girl squealed with delight, and Emmy wrapped her in a hug.

Any intention she’d had of coming their way was thwarted. Tucker couldn’t tell if he was relieved or bitter. He drank more of his beer and tried to pretend he didn’t care.

Chapter Six

Emmy hadn’t seen Alice Darling in a year, not since her last foray out to spring training with the White Sox the previous spring. Alice was a Lakeland townie, well-known among the players and not for the reasons most townie girls were.

Sure, Alice
loved
ballplayers. But she steadfastly refused to date any of them because of her job. Alice was a minor league umpire, and during training season she was the
only
female umpire who called spring training games.

If romance was ill-advised for Emmy, it would have been career suicide for Alice. No one would be able to take her calls seriously if there was even the slightest whiff of a scandal. So Alice took the high and lonesome road and made it a rule never to date baseball players.

Emmy had the same rule. Or at least she’d decided that
day
she had the same rule.

There was also the Simon issue.

Simon Howell, Emmy’s long-term, long-distance boyfriend. They’d met when she was working for the Sox. At a press conference following the injury of the White Sox’s star shortstop, the whole medical team had been grilled about what treatments they were planning and what the expected turnaround would be. As the assistant athletic therapist she’d mostly just sat beside her boss, but once or twice she fielded a question about the player’s pregame routines.