Perfect Catch(33)

Tucker was an obvious exception to the rule, since his bride-to-be worked with the team and was leaning against the dugout fence a few feet away, watching the game.

But Tucker had found a way to make it work for them. Emmy had become his good-luck charm, an integral part of his superstition. There must have been something to it too because his game had improved by leaps and bounds since Emmy had come on board with the team. Maybe that had more to do with her actual skill than with luck, but there was no way Tucker would go anywhere without her.

Probably a good thing she’d agreed to marry him.

Alex, on the other hand, was being jinxed by the lure of a woman he couldn’t even touch. Devilish, breasted harpy, she was ruining his life. Or at least she was wreaking hell on his swing.

Instead of thinking about his game, he was wondering if there would be a text waiting for him when he returned to the locker room. Aside from her random ponderings, Alice would also send him casual commentary on his game performance.

Which meant she was watching.

Logically, this should have led him to perform better and show off to her in the only way he could. Yet he continued to suck. Hard.

Had it been limited to one or two games, it might have been fine. But this was becoming consistent, and it didn’t take a genius to know he couldn’t carry on with his performance stinking to high heaven, no matter how good he was behind the plate. A subpar batter had no place in the lineup, and if Alex’s bat didn’t perk up, he’d be sent packing.

With Angel on the roster now—who was having no trouble at bat—Alex was legitimately replaceable. And if the team wanted to get to the playoffs, there was no room for sentimentality. It didn’t matter that he was well liked if he couldn’t help them win. Baseball wasn’t a popularity contest, it was a show of skill.

The inning went quickly, no runs to show for it, and it didn’t make Alex feel any better that he wasn’t the only one to strike out. Instead he felt like his bad luck was starting to leach out and infect those around him.

“Better not sit too close,” he grumbled sulkily to Tucker. “You might never throw another strike.”

Seeming to understand Alex’s implication, Tucker squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Strikes don’t seem to be a problem for you.” He removed his jacket and strolled out to the mound. When Alex took his place behind home plate, the first pitch he called for was done so with a solitary finger.

The middle one.





After the game, Alex could see the vultures circling. The batting coach and the field manager were waiting outside the locker room doors when he emerged, both looking grim.

“Ross,” Chuck said. “Got a minute?”

As if Alex had a choice. Could he simply say, Sorry, boys, I think I’ll pass on this one and walk out, avoiding whatever serious discussion awaited him?

Alas, avoiding his coaches was about as easy as herpes in a whorehouse. This discomfort was impossible to get around.

“Yeah, sure.” He hiked his bag up on his shoulder with the downtrodden expression of a man heading off to war, and followed the two older men into the manager’s office. Jim Carver, the batting coach, remained standing, while Chuck sat at the desk, folding his hands neatly in front of him and meeting Alex’s gaze with a calm look of his own.

“I think you might have some idea of why you’re in here.”

“I might,” Alex replied, not wanting to verbalize all the things he’d been thinking. What man in his right mind would openly confess his shitty performance while sitting across from his boss?

Not a single damned one.

“We’re worried about you. You were nailing it in Florida, and suddenly we get you onto the field and you can’t hit a thing. What’s up with that? Where’s the Alex we know?”

To Alex’s knowledge it was the most polite way Chuck Calvin had ever called a player out on their performance. It was the good old compliment sandwich, albeit an open-faced one. Normally Chuck would start telling players they were falling apart in front of an audience, as if the shock and humiliation could jar them back into proper functionality.

Alex getting a private chat meant things were going worse than he had previously imagined.

“I know it’s not looking great, Skip, but it’s early…” He drifted off, hating that he’d just used the platitude usually reserved for Astros fans when their season started falling apart in the first week. It was the same as telling a terminal cancer patient there was a chance.

It’s still early wasn’t a great thing to say in his current situation.

Especially not when everyone else on the team was running laps around him.