Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (5 page)

One of those questions had been from Simon. He was a well-respected columnist for the
Chicago Sun-Times
, and though his bread-and-butter was reporting on hockey, he “slummed it” with baseball in the off-season. Chicagoans
loved
baseball, something Simon—who came from Canada where there was only one MLB team—didn’t quite grasp.

She’d tried to make him appreciate baseball with her family’s season tickets to the Cubs and the occasional staff passes to Sox games, but he never got interested. “Too much standing around,” he’d claimed, which always astonished Emmy. Baseball was all about moving. Running, diving, leaping and throws. She viewed baseball as a sport that never
stopped
moving and couldn’t figure out why anyone else would see it differently.

Likewise, Simon had tried to convince her hockey was the greatest sport known to man. Emmy could appreciate aspects of it—any athleticism on ice was naturally going to be impressive—but it was too violent for her tastes. Like the bastard offspring of figure skating and ultimate fighting.

They agreed to disagree when it came to sports, something that was a bit of a farce considering they both made their living from sports-related enterprises.

When Emmy had applied for the job in San Francisco, she and Simon had a long discussion about their future. She loved him, but it wasn’t the kind of devoted love that was going to make her stay in Chicago when a better job opportunity was available in California.

Simon, too, seemed more invested in his job than the possibility of looking for a writing position in California, so they’d agreed to see how things went. As luck would have it, the Felons would have their first away games of the year in Chicago against the Sox, so she’d be able to see Simon then. Likewise, he’d spend as much of the season traveling to games as she would, so it wasn’t like they’d be seeing that much less of each other anyway.

It would work out if it was meant to work out, she told herself.

When she spotted Tucker across the room, she gave a little sigh.
You have a boyfriend,
she reminded herself.
And you can’t date a player on your own team.

There wasn’t actually anything in her contract against it, probably because her contract had been drafted for a male therapist and the idea of dating between players and trainers hadn’t ever come up before. She didn’t want to be the reason a new clause had to be added to future contracts.

“So, tell me everything. How was the big first day?” Alice found them two stools at the bar and ordered them each a Corona.

“Exhausting,” Emmy confessed. “But it’s nice to be back here. Really different to be in charge of everything, though. I keep getting asked questions, and my first response is
Why aren’t you asking the head A.T.
until I realize I
am
the head A.T.”

Alice chuckled. “You’re living the dream, Em. This is what you’ve been talking about for as long as I’ve known you. How excited is your dad?”

Ah, there it was. The question Emmy had been hoping to avoid. At least it was Alice asking and not one of the guys. She worried that by telling Tucker her favorite team was the Cubs she might have given herself away, but he hadn’t put two and two together yet.

Emmy sipped her beer thoughtfully, a rush of fresh lime filling her mouth. “He doesn’t understand why I left Chicago. I think he figured I’d pay my dues there forever and wait for Mitch to retire. But Mitch was set to keep that job for another decade. The Felons gig was way too good to pass up.”

“Of course it was. He’ll figure that out.”

It was hard to say what Vince Kasper would do now that Emmy had packed up and moved to San Francisco. He’d been proud of her accomplishments thus far in her life, bragging to his baseball buddies about his talented daughter while their sons peaked in college or went on to fade away in the minors.

Her dad was so legendary there was a bar in Chicago named after him. He’d been a Hall of Fame hitter and a great third baseman when he’d played. Now in his retirement years, he was the long-standing voice of the Cubs, calling games for radio broadcast, with another ex-player providing the cutesy color commentary. Vince and Angelo were as much a part of Cubs tradition now as Wrigley itself.

Thankfully no one—with the exception of her bosses—seemed to have made the connection yet. Kasper wasn’t as unique a name in baseball as say Mantle or DiMaggio. She was part of a proud baseball family, but she needed the men to respect her for her merits, not because her daddy was one of the modern greats.

And she wanted her father to be proud of her no matter where she worked. He had to understand not everyone could make their careers last in one city the way he had.

“Uh, hey.”

Emmy and Alice turned to the deep voice behind them. Alex Ross offered a sheepish grin and raised a mostly empty pint glass in their direction. “Hi, Emmy.”

He was being polite, but he wasn’t looking at her. His big brown eyes were focused right on Alice.

Emmy smiled to herself. “Alex, this is Alice. Alice, this is Alex. May you two never date, because that couple name would be hell to figure out.”

Alex grinned at Alice, and Emmy’s friend eyed him warily. “You’re Alex Ross?”

“I am.”

“You crowd the plate when you bat,” she replied, then sipped her beer. “And you get really pissy when home plate umpires make perfectly fair strike calls on you. You know it’s not a ball just because you’re too close to the plate. A strike is a strike.” Then she flashed a bright smile at him while he stared at her, his mouth slack.

“Who
are
you?”

“Alice Darling.”

Emmy leaned in close to Alex, bracing her hand on his shoulder. “She’s a Grapefruit League umpire. You’d have better luck hitting on Alex Rodriguez than you will with her.”

“You’re an
umpire
?” Alex asked, eyeballing the pint-sized blonde again.

Alice gave a
You’re out
arm gesture.

“Goddamn.” He finished his drink, then glanced between the women. “Look, your friend’s poor job choices aside, we’ve got some room at our table and the pitchers seem to refill themselves. Why don’t you join us?”

Emmy regarded the crowded table warily. “I don’t know, Alex.”

“You’re going to be spending the whole season icing these guys down in their underoos. Might as well get to know them now.”

There was a sort of perverted logic to that. She
would
be spending almost every single day with these guys, and she knew what a locker room was like. Once they got over the initial
she’s a woman
thing, they’d start up with the typical bawdy jokes and would walk around the locker room butt naked. She’d seen it happen with the Sox. On the regular forty-man roster, she had seen thirty-nine out of the forty Sox in all their masculine
glory
. She used the phrase loosely because a majority of ballplayers were not as in shape or sexy as fangirls would like to believe. And after only a few months with the team, all the guys started to feel more like brothers than potential hook-up material.

Four years later she knew every mole and freckle on the team, and their nudity had long ceased to shock her. She was a locker room veteran at this point, and this new job only meant forty
new
naked asses to adjust to.

Alex was right. They might as well get comfortable with her now and put the awkwardness aside ASAP. And she should get used to being around Tucker. He was one of the main reasons she’d gotten the job after all. She had a lot of experience with post-Tommy John pitchers, having coddled six of them in her four years with the Sox. Of those six, five had reached or surpassed their presurgery power. The sixth accepted a set-up position instead of his previous starting slot and ended up being traded by the end of the season.

Such was the life of a baseball player.

Emmy and Alice followed Alex back to the Felons table, and a few players shuffled positions to allow the women room. Emmy made introductions, and Alice pleasantly informed the guys she’d be seeing them during the preseason matchups when she was calling games. Any interest the men had shown dwindled when she told them what she did. Alice was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. An umpire masquerading as a pretty girl.

Talk had already begun about the season ahead. The guys were speculating about the blue chip drafts—players who were considered the most likely new recruits to make it into the regular roster. Miles Cartwright was one, and Emmy noticed he hadn’t joined the team for drinks.

Another missing member was the new second baseman Jamal Warren. He’d been a late acquisition, and a handsomely paid one at that. Two hundred million over seven years. Simon had called Emmy shortly after the announcement to grill her for details, but she didn’t have any. Warren was a heavy hitter, and the expectation was that the one-two punch of him and Ramon Escalante would take the Felons straight to the World Series.

Emmy had her doubts. No team’s success was made or broken by one player. But if people wanted to call Warren the second coming of Babe Ruth, they were welcome to do it.

It just meant one more player for her to fret over like an overprotective mother.

The guys asked her questions about the Sox, a few openly probing for dirty little secrets they thought might give them the upper hand during their first matchup a month down the road. Emmy demurred, telling them she didn’t train-and-tell. But she did
imply
their second baseman was crap at fielding grounders.

The owner brought them more pitchers, and steadily they all built up a healthy buzz.

“Let’s play a round,” Alex suggested, his deep voice a few octaves louder than was appropriate. No one in the bar seemed to care.

The guys were divided, a few cheered while a couple groaned.

“A round?” Emmy asked.

“Alex likes to play
Greatest Player Names
,” Tucker informed her from a few seats down.

“Like, naming the greatest players?”

“No, that would be too obvious,” Chet Appleton explained, a Southern twang in his voice. “You have to pick the best
names
.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Alice said.

“How do you win?”

“You don’t
really
win. Once upon a time we played to see who’d pay, but that stops being fun when you’re all making a few million bucks a year.” Tucker shrugged, like Emmy would understand what it felt like to make a seven-figure income.

She did not.

“So what’s the point?”

“Basically you play until someone can’t come up with a name, then Alex gets bored and we stop playing.”

“I’ll start!” Alex crowed.

Tucker leaned back in his chair and gave Emmy a nod. She too leaned back. He mouthed the words
Milton Bradley
to her, then they both looked at Alex.

“Milton Bradley.”

Chet was next to Alex and offered, “Yogi Berra.”

That put Emmy next. “Um…Coco Crisp.”

Tucker smiled, and her heart went all fluttery.

Alice, who’d thought the game was stupid, suggested Homer Bailey. Though not a
funny
name, the group agreed it was a great baseball name and accepted the turn.

“Buster Posey,” Tucker added, going on the same vein Alice had begun.

“Catfish Hunter,” someone offered.

“Dizzy Trout!” Ramon said, going off the fish-named theme.

They went around the table twice, polishing off both pitchers in that time, until Chet was stumped. “I got nothing.”

“How about
Chet Appleton
,” someone said, then laughed.

The bar crowd had begun to dwindle—none of the major leaguers stayed up late during training—so even though it was still early, it felt more like closing time.

“I gotta go.” Alice got to her feet, the first to admit defeat and call it a night. “See you boys later.”

Any harbored grudges over her profession were forgotten, and the men wished her a good night. A few followed shortly behind her, making the quick walk back to the Hyatt.

“Are you staying at the hotel?” Tucker asked Emmy when only he, Chet and Alex remained at the table with her.

“No, I rented one of the little cottages at Lakeland Villa. I don’t like hotels. The laundry detergent they use gives me a rash. On road games I have to ask for hypoallergenic linens, but for training it’s just easier to do my own laundry.” Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment at the admission. Maybe she should have stopped after two beers.

“Those aren’t far, I’ll walk you.” He got to his feet, all six-foot-three-inches and two hundred and ten pounds of glorious Tucker Lloyd stretched up in front of her face. She might have reviewed his stats once or twice before coming out for the evening.

“You don’t have to. Really. It’s so close.”
Don’t listen to me. You should definitely walk me home. Please don’t listen to me.

“Nice try.” He offered her his hand and pulled her to her feet like she weighed nothing. He was almost a foot taller than her, so even on solid ground she still had to look up at him. “I’m walking you home.”

Chapter Seven

They fell into a bashful silence as soon as they left The Low Ball, neither quite sure where to pick up the conversation. During the evening they hadn’t spent much time talking to each other directly, and it made it tricky to start on a topic when they hadn’t left one unfinished.