“What’s the deal?” Alex asked.
“No deal.”
“You sure, because it sure seems like you’re pussying out on throwing anything I offer you.”
Tucker stared at the dugout. The pitching coach looked ready to come out at any second, and Chuck Calvin was about to gnaw a hole through his cheek. The big man had clearly chosen the wrong season to give up on his beloved chewing tobacco. Beside them both was Emmy, watching him with stoic concern. She smiled faintly, like she wasn’t sure if it would help him or make things worse.
He didn’t know either.
“Let’s try something a little different this time, okay? Maybe something other than a knuckleball?”
Grimly, Tucker nodded his consent. “Okay.”
Alex jogged back to the plate and squatted behind the next batter. He gave the signal for a slider, and Tucker’s first instinct was to shake it off, but he nodded instead.
Okay, Tucker. Here’s where you prove you’ve still got it.
He was only somewhat aware of the roar from the crowd when he adjusted his fingers on the ball and pulled his leg into position. The scream of the fans was like white noise, calming him, dulling the uncertainty.
You’ve got this.
But he didn’t.
He walked the next two batters and was pulled from the game in favor of a tried-and-true reliever. On the way back to the dugout the crowd clapped politely, but he could tell there was no passion behind the gesture.
Whatever magic Tucker Lloyd had once had, it had apparently abandoned him.
Chapter Nine
Emmy knew Simon Howell would be around—they’d been playing the White Sox after all—but the last thing she expected was to find him waiting in her office when she returned to the clubhouse.
The game had taken a nasty turn after Tucker left. The relief pitcher gave up a bad-luck home run, sending everyone on base in and giving the Sox a four-run lead.
By the time the top of the ninth rolled around, Emmy didn’t need to see more. She left the players in Jasper’s capable hands and went to fill out her report for the higher-ups. There was nothing terribly serious to report, but the paperwork still needed to get done. The designated hitter seemed to be favoring his right leg, which would have to be checked out, and their center fielder, Barrett, had taken a beating on a diving catch in the sixth. He’d bounce back, but it was her job to make sure everyone up the chain of command knew what shape the players were in.
She walked through the training room and into her small office—a glorified closet—then let out a shocked yelp.
“Nice to see you too,” Simon greeted, rising from his chair.
She crossed the small space, her heart hammering from the surprise of seeing him. “Simon.”
He grasped her elbow and kissed her. Considering they hadn’t seen each other in almost two months, the kiss was friendly at best.
“You look good,” he said. “Orange suits you.”
Emmy looked down at her jacket and smiled. “It’s a bit different than the old black-and-white, isn’t it?” Self-conscious of the bright color, she took the jacket off and hung it on the back of her door. The training room was stifling hot anyway, and her office felt like a sauna with more than one person in it.
“Tough game.” He sat back down.
Simon was tall but bulkier than most of the men she spent her days with. He had played football in college and often claimed his torn ACL was the only thing that kept him from advancing to the NFL. While Emmy appreciated how devastating an ACL tear could be for professional careers, she’d also seen old video of Simon playing.
The ACL hadn’t been what kept him from the pros. He lacked passion in his game, and no one could get anywhere in professional sports without passion. It was as much a sports truth as “you can’t win ’em all.”
He ran a hand through his short blond hair and gave her the grin he’d perfected. It was that smile that had made her knees turn to Jell-O when she’d first met him, and even now her stomach wobbled to see it.
“It’s good to see you,” she said, realizing she hadn’t said it yet.
“I’m going to take you out.”
“Oh.” Her gaze darted to her laptop, then back to his hooded green eyes. “I have to—”
“Em, I know the drill, believe me. You do your paperwork. I have my own job to do here.” He patted the front of his blazer, where she knew he kept a compact digital recorder. “But this is San Francisco, not some small minor league town. I’m sure we can find a place willing to make us food after eleven.”
Emmy nodded, not sure why she was so hesitant to be alone with her boyfriend. Surely it was just shyness from being apart for such a long time. She was worried they didn’t know each other the same way anymore. It had absolutely nothing to do with—