Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (17 page)

In his head Emmy said,
You got this.

And he did.

The umpire called strike three and bellowed, “
You’re out.
” The home crowd went apeshit, and Tucker soaked it all in. He was back on top. He was the man. And he owed it all to her.

In the dugout, Emmy was on her feet clapping while the boys on the bench high-fived those coming in off the field. Miles jostled her by the shoulders, and she grinned, slapping backs and sharing hugs with the guys as they joined her in the dugout.

Tucker was the last off the field, strolling slowly as the rest ran—an unwritten rule that the pitcher never ran off the field—and he met Alex at the steps. They both stopped, and Alex gave him a friendly pat on the butt.

“You did it.”

Tucker grinned. “You’re a son of a bitch for making me throw that pitch, you know?”

“Well, someone needs to keep you on your toes.”

Emmy smiled up at him from the dugout, and Tucker looked from her to Alex. “I don’t think you’re the only one who thinks that’s their job,” Tucker said.

The catcher laughed. “No, probably not.”

Emmy met them at the bottom of the steps. “Not too bad, Lloyd.”

“Thought I was okay?”

“You can do better.”

He gave her a long stare, still smiling. “I doubt it.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

There was a great baseball quote that said “every twenty-four hours the world turns over on someone who was sitting on top of it.” For Tucker it wasn’t even a full day. He sat in the clubhouse watching through the doorway as Emmy stretched out Chet, until the sudden appearance of Chuck interrupted his line of sight.

“Hey, Coach.”

“Lloyd.” The coach shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. There was nothing comforting about the gesture. “GM wants to see you upstairs when you’re cleaned up.”

Tucker’s stomach did the shortest free fall in history, dropping from throat to intestine in one second flat, leaving him with a dizzy, spinning, about-to-puke sensation. “He say why?”

Chuck shook his head. “Said, ‘Good game.’ Said, ‘Send up Lloyd.’”

The coach was a big talker.

The general manager of a team rarely interacted with the players at any time. It was often easier for them to maintain a professional distance from the men whose lives they bought and traded if they didn’t have to know them on a personal level. How could you tell a man you knew and liked that his whole life was suddenly being move across country on a whim? If the people you work with might someday become financial bargaining pieces, don’t become their friend. That was general manager logic.

So if Darren Meritt wanted to see him in person, he could only imagine one possible scenario, and it wasn’t a good one. He wasn’t getting a raise—that would be discussed through his agent. No, if the GM wanted to talk to him, the only logical reason was the worst case possible.

Trade.

His contract still had two and a half years remaining, so he knew it wasn’t the end of his career. But a trade was just as unfathomable. Tucker broke out in a cold sweat thinking about what it would mean for him to be moved somewhere else. He’d spent his entire major league career in San Francisco. No other city would feel like home. No other team would make sense to him.

The weight of that knowledge left him so dazed he accidentally washed his hair with a bar of soap.

When he arrived in the long white hall leading up to the GM’s office, Tucker realized he’d only put on one sock. He was a wreck. Any sweat he’d managed to rinse off in the shower had returned threefold, soaking the pits of his dress shirt. The air conditioning chilled the perspiration, causing a literal cold sweat.

The door of the suite swung open when Tucker knocked, giving him no extra time to wait in the hall for someone to answer. He waited anyway until Darren beckoned, “Come in, Mr. Lloyd.”

Mr. Lloyd was never a great name to hear. It came from bill collectors in his youth and lawyers in his progressive years. No one who meant positive things for Tucker ever called him Mr. Lloyd.

“Good evening, sir.”

Evening was a polite phrase for it. Since it was well past eleven, he was shocked the old man was still in the office. Waiting for him. It all added up to shitty, shitty news.

“Come in, son. Have a seat.”

Tucker sat in a large wingback chair across the desk and kept his hands clasped together in his lap to keep the tremor in his fingers from showing. He hadn’t been this nervous since he pitched his first game in the majors.

“Chuck said you wanted to speak with me?”

“I do.”

“You stayed awfully late to do it.”

Darren chuckled and patted the round curve of his belly. “I suppose I don’t see the time of day the same way as most. When my job moves at night, I move with it.”

It was hard to argue with Darren’s logic, and Tucker wasn’t in much of a mood to argue, anyway. “Not to rush you, sir, but I’m assuming there’s a reason you wanted to see me?” Might as well rip the Band-Aid off.

In the back of his mind Tucker was running through the list of teams who’d recently had pitchers succumb to illness or injury. The Red Sox and the Mariners were both down one regular starter. The Marlins had a middle relief spot to fill. Tucker choked down a swell of bile.

“I do.” Darren leaned forward and picked up a heavy fountain pen off his desk, twirling the writing instrument in his fingers as he stared at Tucker with a new ferocity. “You’ve been with us for a long time, Tucker.”

“Fourteen years.”

“Yes. And you’ve done great things for us in that time. You’ve been a great player.”

Tucker nodded solemnly. A lot of past tense words were being thrown around. “I love playing for the Felons.”

“I know you do.”

“I’d love to
keep
playing for the Felons,” he added, drawing out the word
keep
in the hopes he’d make his feelings clear. Not that he could stop a trade if the ball was already rolling.

“Of course, of course.” The GM tapped the pen on his desk. “Now, we want nothing more than to keep you on the roster. You’re a good player, and you still draw folks in.”

Tucker’s head bobbed in automatic agreement. He still wasn’t hearing any of the worrisome words he’d come in expecting, and it made him more nervous by the moment. “Thank you.”

“But let’s be honest, you’re not as young as you used to be. And you’ve had a major surgery.”

“One I’ve recovered from,” Tucker pointed out.

“Yes, you’ve done well. Chuck and I had a discussion about this new upswing you seem to be on with the quality of your pitching. It’s very impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“But we’re worried it’s a fluke.”

“A fluke, sir?” Tucker had to wonder what Darren’s grasp of baseball was if he believed 95-mph fastballs could be fluked into. But, as he considered it, he also reminded himself he had the same worries. Maybe it really was his one last hurrah before being herded off to the old bullpen of retirement.

“Your performance was slow to start in the season, I think you know that. You looked uneasy, and it showed in your pitching.”

“Just shaking off the cobwebs.”

“I had a discussion with Ms. Kasper about you,” Darren said, and Tucker froze.

“You talked to Emmy about me?” He wasn’t sure why this made him so uneasy. Of course Emmy would communicate with the GM about him, it was part of her job. He knew all about the daily reports the trainer was required to fill out, detailing the progress of injured players. But the way Darren said it made Tucker think there was more to the discussion than paperwork.

“She’s been working closely with you, I understand.”

“That’s her job.”

The GM made a low
hmm
noise, but didn’t disagree. “I mentioned to her I’d seen quite an improvement in your performance under her guidance. I did not mention to her, however, how unusual it is for an athletic trainer to be directly responsible for a change in performance. She seems to have taken a…special interest in you.”

“She saw an opportunity to help me correct something and she took it. She did the same for Miles. She’s very good at her job.”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

“Sir, I don’t mean to seem impatient, but did you call me up here to discuss whether or not Emmy—Ms. Kasper—is doing her job
better
than she ought to?”

“No, this meeting isn’t about Ms. Kasper at all. It’s about the fact it took the intervention of an unproven athletic trainer to restore you to your previous skill level. There’s a bit of concern that this is something you should have been able to do yourself. There’s also concern you won’t be able to maintain the performance level you’re currently at.”

“I don’t think that’s a necessary concern,” Tucker said, his tone becoming cool and defensive.

Self-doubt was one thing, and it was perfectly normal. Having the upper management of the club you worked for doubting you openly? That was a tougher weight to bear.

“You’re saying we shouldn’t worry?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re reasonably sure you’ll be able to keep this up?”

Tucker wiped his damp palms on his jeans. “I’ve worked hard. It took time, but now I’m back, and I think there are people who would say I’m pitching better now than I was before the surgery.”

“I read the sports pages too, Mr. Lloyd.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any reason to doubt me.”

“My job is to doubt everything. It makes positive turns into pleasant surprises. Tucker, the reason I brought you in here isn’t to deliver any bad news.” He leaned back in his chair, leaving the pen sitting on the desk. “I know you must have thought the worst when I asked you to come up tonight.”

“Naturally.”

“But I don’t want you to think you’re living in the land of wine and roses either.” The GM wove his fingers together and propped his hands over his belly. “Every decision I make is a business decision, and the time has come for us to look at what’s next for you. After fourteen years, perhaps it may soon be time for…change.”

Ah, and there it was. The other shoe waiting to drop. Tucker didn’t reply, just let Darren finish his speech.

“We’re going to watch you for the remainder of the season. See how consistent you are, see what your wins look like. Put off making any decisions about your place in the club until the postseason. I don’t want you to think of this as an ultimatum. Think of it instead as an opportunity to prove to us you’re as good as you believe you are.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, if you don’t, perhaps you should start imagining a future somewhere else.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Never were truer words spoken than “breaking up is hard to do.”

Emmy had avoided Simon after the game, bypassing the areas most commonly populated by the press. She’d made sure all the boys were stretched out and cooled down before she made a break for it. Jasper had known something was up the entire time, nagging her with questions and following her around while she gathered her things. The man was too aware of her quirks. It made it impossible for her to hide anything from him.

So, instead, she hid.

Avoiding her work partner was a lot trickier than avoiding her boyfriend, but she managed to escape the park in one piece. It wasn’t that she was chickening out. Emmy had every intention of breaking up with Simon before the evening was over. But she wanted to avoid the awkwardness of doing it on her home soil. The stadium was where she spent her days and was more a home to her than her apartment would ever be. The last thing she wanted was the memory of her breakup to haunt the sacred walls of a ballpark.

You don’t do unhappy things within a stone’s throw of a ball diamond. It was an invitation for disaster.

She drove for over an hour, doing a full loop from downtown San Francisco to Oakland and back over the Golden Gate, her FasTrak toll pass beeping each time she went through an express check, reminding her that this avoidance was costing her. Time, in this case, literally was money.

The time window between evening and late night was an ideal moment for city driving. People weren’t out and about for dinner and movies anymore, and the game had long since ended, but the party crowd hadn’t yet gotten going. The streets were easy to navigate, and traffic was negligible. It meant the trip from Golden Gate Park to Simon’s downtown hotel took next to no time, and soon Emmy was confronted with the reality that she’d have to do what she’d promised herself she’d do.

For someone who was as self-motivated as Emmy, she was having a hell of a time pushing herself to Simon’s door.

When she got off the elevator on his floor, she paced in front of his door for a full minute, psyching herself up.

“Simon,” she said to herself. “We’ve been good together, but maybe it’s time we think about being good apart.” Grimacing at how pathetic it sounded even to her, she gritted her teeth and started again. “I think we’ve both known for a while now we can’t continue on with things the way they are.” She raised both brows and chewed on the inside of her cheek. Not bad.