Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 (31 page)

He needed to remember how to breathe, because the pitching he could do, but not if he passed out.

Watching the bottom of the ninth was worse for Emmy than watching a horror movie where the killer might leap from the closet with a knife at any moment. Tucker was still keeping his cool, looking as focused as ever, but Emmy was sure her hands were shaking so badly she could have made martinis.

Jamal had refused to go to the hospital, choosing to postpone his x-ray to stay and watch the game, so Emmy had stayed with him in the clubhouse. But after the first out and the following two strikes at the bottom of the ninth, she couldn’t stay downstairs anymore.

“I have to go out there,” she told Jamal.

“Take me with you.”

She bit her lip, wanting to shoot down the idea and force him to stay put, but how could she deny him seeing it? He’d never witnessed a perfect game in person, let alone from the dugout. Injured or not, she’d be a monster for robbing him of that experience.

Emmy helped him from the clubhouse, through the passage and up to the dugout. Mike and Chuck gave her a curious look, but neither of them commented on Jamal’s reappearance.

They understood what was happening.

She handed Jamal off to Jasper, who helped the big man find a place near the fence. Every man in the dugout was clustered near the fence or along the steps leading up to the field. There was no sound among them, the cheers of the inning’s second out having faded away.

One more batter stood between Tucker and his perfect game. One man with a sub .200 batting average who looked like he was about to wet his pants was the last gatekeeper of the Yankees’ offense. Tucker was staring at the batter, and the batter was staring back. The last thing Emmy wanted to do was distract him, so she hung back, peeking between the shoulders of the tall, bulky men who were wedged together in a line.

In her head she sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”, reminding herself three strikes were all it would take for this last out. And the Tucker she knew could throw three strikes with his eyes closed.

The first strike caused a murmur of excitement to ripple through the dugout. Everyone, from the highest paid player to the fourteen-year-old bat boy, was practically vibrating with excitement. When your job consisted of playing one hundred and sixty-two games a year, it was rare for anything to cause such a stir. But Tucker was doing something special, and everyone in the dugout was on high alert, as giddy as children on Christmas morning.

The next pitch was a ball, and everyone breathed together nervously. They all knew how precarious this could be. One wrong move was all it would take for the whole thing to end in failure. A dozen silent—and one or two not so silent—prayers were shared among the team.

Emmy had one of her own, thinking,
Dear Lord, you and I aren’t close, but if you just let him have this…

She didn’t know what to offer God, so she let the prayer drift off unfinished, hoping the Big Guy would know she meant well.

Another strike and the guys crushed closer together, forcing Emmy to move out of the way, lest she be bumped or trampled by their giddy movements. She climbed up the dugout steps for a better view and stopped next to Chet, who was shuffling with barely constrained glee. Every single person in the visitors’ dugout was a coiled spring, ready to rush onto the field once the last strike was thrown.

Emmy was churning with emotion. The baseball fan in her was riveted, waiting to see history unfold. Only a handful of perfect games had taken place at away parks, and this would be the first one new Yankee stadium had seen.

The part of her that was head-over-heels, completely in love with the man on the pitcher’s mound felt the cluster of nerves and fear he must be feeling right then. She wanted to reach out to him, comfort him and tell him everything was going to be okay.

At the last moment before he threw his pitch, he looked up, and his gaze landed right on her. Instead of freezing, she gave him a tight smile and nodded.

He could do this.

He
would
do this.

An invisible weight lifted off Tucker when he saw Emmy. He’d thought seeing her would distract him or make him falter, but now he knew how wrong he was. He’d needed her.

And there she was, the light at the end of the tunnel, giving him the last push. Any doubts he had slipped away, along with the catalogue of worries that had him imagining all the possible ways he could screw up this pitch.

Everything was going to be fine.

He let out a shaky breath, then inhaled deep and clear, the sweet grassy smell of the field filling his lungs. Closing his eyes, he held the ball and let the last twenty-six at-bats replay in his mind. He recounted every pitch, every catch, every swing of the bat. He only needed to make one more pitch. This wasn’t about the game anymore, it was about the ball in his hand and the path it would take from him to Alex.

He knew exactly what he’d done to get here, and now with Emmy watching over him, he was sure of what he had to do to make the last strike.

Raising his eyes, he looked at Alex and gave his friend a loaded grin. The batter shuffled nervously, clearly not loving the confidence the pitcher was showing.

Alex flashed a signal, Tucker shook it off. He shook off the next three signals. Alex squinted and waved his hand, then after a pause, threw out a final gesture.

Tucker nodded.

Alex arched a brow, not hiding his surprise, but lowered his glove and raised on his haunches to prepare for the catch. Tucker curled his fingers and held the ball in the glove, taking smooth, even breaths.

He
could
do this.

He looked down at the batter, and the man’s hands trembled on the bat. Then Tucker threw the ball and staggered off the mound, willing time to stop so he could see what he’d done.

The ball drove forward and wobbled. The batter appeared confused, staring at the bobbing, wild-seeming pitch, before he swung with all his might. He swung
far
too early.

Tucker had struck him out with a knuckleball.

The pitch he’d used to keep himself from drowning was the pitch that had just won them the game.

A perfect game.

The moment ended, and it was like the pause button had been released on a freeze frame when the ball thumped into Alex’s glove. The catcher threw it down the second the umpire called
You’re out
and ran across the field, leaping into Tucker’s arms and hugging him so tight he thought he might not breathe right for weeks.

The Felons swarmed the field, whooping and clambering all over each other to get to Tucker. Even the crowd, once against him, gathered to their feet to applaud and cheer for what he’d accomplished.

He must have done something right if Yankees fans were cheering
for
him rather than against him.

Tucker stared in awe at the tiny white orb, now speckled with rust-colored dirt, that sat next to the batter’s box. One ball, one pitch, and he’d just done the unthinkable. If anyone wanted to doubt his right to be there now, he figured they were welcome to. In that moment, for that day, he was perfect.

He accepted the congratulations and the joy, the hugs and the grown men welling up with happiness, lifting him fully off the ground for suffocating bear hugs. And then the men parted and there she was, hanging back on the edges while Chuck, Mike and the staff shook his hand and gave him rare smiles.

Tucker wove his way through them, dropping his glove as he went. He and Emmy met in the middle of the infield, and she beamed up at him, her face glowing with pride, hazel eyes wet with tears. That she was so happy for him was more rewarding than he could have ever hoped. The part she’d played in getting him here meant his victory was as much hers as his, and he’d never stop being grateful to her for it.

“You did it,” she said.

“You helped,” he told her emphatically, wishing she could understand just how true his words were.

She laughed and touched his cheek. “It was all you.”

Tucker grabbed her wrist and pulled her against him, not caring who was there or that forty thousand Yankees fans were watching in person and however many million at home and around the country.

“Emmy, if you don’t know by now that everything good about me is because of you, you aren’t nearly as smart as I thought you were.”

After hesitating briefly, she looped her hands around his back and smiled at him. “What are you saying, Tucker Lloyd? Am I more than just a good-luck charm to you now?”

“You are my good-luck charm. The best damn luck.”

“In that case, you’re about to get very, very lucky.”

“Promise?”

“I’m pretty sure I did.”

“I love you, you know,” he said.

She pulled back and stared at him, and for a moment he thought he’d made his first mistake that night, and it had been the worst one. Then she smiled, and her smile kept getting bigger and bigger.

“I love you too.”

He cupped her face and lowered his towards her. When their lips met, she melted into him, his arms circling her waist, and he kissed her for all he was worth. The sports shows and reporters could say whatever they wanted about the game.
This
was all the reward he would ever need.

The boys continued to cheer, jumping around him and Emmy like they were in the middle of a mosh pit.

And then someone remembered the Gatorade shower.

Chapter Thirty-Six

October 17

Emmy sat in an imposing leather wing-back chair, facing the owner of the Felons, and she wasn’t sure which of them was winning the staring contest.

“Do you know why I asked you here?” Louis McKeller asked.

“I’ve learned it’s usually best not to answer that question.”

Louis, a young man who opted for a comb-over in spite of a having full head of hair, smiled politely and slid a copy of
Vanity Fair
across the desk to her.

If Emmy had a quarter for every time someone had called her into a private meeting because of a published article, she’d have fifty cents. She pulled the magazine onto her lap without opening it. She knew the article he was talking about, a puff piece about her and Tucker’s big romantic moment. They were claiming it gave “new romance” to baseball.

As someone who adored baseball, she loathed that people were missing the love story already inherent in the game. The underdogs could come from behind to win it all. One day you were on top of the world, the next you were at the bottom. A man’s career could be defined by one good hit or one bad injury. Plus, who didn’t love a sport where someone who
missed
seven out of ten times they went to the plate was considered a gifted athlete?

Baseball had plenty of things to wax poetic about. It didn’t need an article about her and her boyfriend to make the sport more appealing.

Magazine writers were willing to do anything it took to add
romance
to male-oriented occupation, though, so she had to give them credit for using her very public smooch as a jumping-off point. Since she’d spent her literature-based angst getting mad at Simon’s article, she didn’t have a lot left for the
Vanity Fair
piece. The picture of her and Tucker kissing wasn’t going to become iconic, she was sure of that, and in a few months it would fade back into obscurity.

“It’s just an article.”

“Oh, I’m not upset,” Louis said, waving a hand to stop her. “We’re
thrilled
. Do you know advance season ticket purchases are
up
for next year?”

“That’s…cool?” His giddy delight had been the last thing Emmy expected when he’d handed over the magazine.

“It’s amazing.”

“People know we
lost
the ALCS, right? We’re not even going to the World Series.”

“I know. But for sales to be this good after a losing season proves we’ve done something right. I’ve replaced the GM for next season, since Darren wasn’t the best fit for the team, and we’re upping the overall budget. We have a good feeling about our chances next fall. With Tucker at the top of his form, and all the new additions we’ll make… We have a
very
good feeling.”

Emmy wasn’t entirely sure the owner knew anything about anything except for the budget, but she smiled politely while listening to his assurances. If he wanted to believe more money would guarantee them a spot in the World Series, she’d gladly make some equipment purchase suggestions to him for her staff.

“So, you called me into your office to say
good job
?”

“No. I mean, yes and no. I called you into my office to say,
good job
. But also,
no more kissing on TV
, and to remind you the only reason I can’t change the dating policy in your contract is because human resources would consider the adjustment sexist. Am I understood?”

Ah, there it was, the scolding she’d been expecting. All things considered—she
had
made out with a coworker on national television—she was getting off pretty lightly. Not that she was going to complain. She and Tucker were professionals after all. They could keep their kissing private from then on.