He hopped up on the nearest massage table, and Emmy lifted her almost forgotten coffee mug to her lips, hand trembling.
“Can I get some?” Tucker asked, intentionally twisting his words to see if he could make her blush more.
She choked into her coffee. “What?”
“Coffee. Can I get some coffee?” Killing her hadn’t been the desired effect, but it was nice to know she wasn’t immune to him.
Emmy wiped coffee from her mouth with the back of her sweatshirt sleeve and poured him a drink.
Tucker took the coffee out of Emmy’s hand and sipped. It was arguably the best coffee he’d ever had from the cruddy little pot in the Kansas City clubhouse, and he’d been to Kaufmann Stadium at least fifty times in his career.
Something must have shown in his face because Emmy suddenly looked worried instead of nervous. “Is it okay? I tend to make it a bit strong. Sorry.”
“No. This is amazing. Did you change that piece-of-shit machine?”
She smiled, and more of the uneasy tension melted off her. “No, I just have my secrets. Even at road ballparks.”
“Sneaky.” He took a bigger swallow of the beverage, enjoying the slightly bitter taste and the warmth as it fanned out through his chest. “You make a mean cup of coffee.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, considering you’ve lived in San Francisco for the last decade.”
“San Fran coffee is overrated.”
“You shut your mouth,” she said, punching him in his good shoulder. “Have you ever had coffee in your city?”
“You just think it’s amazing because you’re from Chicago.”
She made like she might hit him again. “I won’t have you badmouthing the Windy City, mister.”
“You do it all the time,” he protested.
“I’m allowed to. I’m from there.”
“And still have a boyfriend living there.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Tucker wanted to eat them back up. What an idiot thing to say. “I mean…that’s got to be tough, right?”
“It is.” Emmy’s former playfulness had deflated. She was now staring at the ice pack she’d reclaimed from the counter after giving him his coffee. “But players manage okay.”
“Players manage because their wives come out every other week. Or choose to move with them to the cities they play in. Are you and Whatshisface really going to be okay if you only get to see each other six times a year?”
“We’re adults.” She shrugged and threw the ice pack back on the counter. “We talked about it when I moved, and we both decided our careers were important to us. I had to move, and he had to stay.”
Her jaw tightened as she spoke, and it didn’t escape Tucker’s attention when she didn’t look directly at him. “Did you talk about breaking up?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
When she did focus her attention on him, he couldn’t decide if she was angry with him or sad about the topic he was drudging up. Emmy stepped closer and picked up Tucker’s pitching arm, extending it fully so he felt the stretch in his armpit and down his ribs. She knew precisely when to stop though, riding the fine line between a good stretch and pain.
“When you’ve been with someone as long as Simon and I have been together, I guess you just assume the relationship is easier to maintain than it is to end.”
“How long have you been with him?” He was watching her carefully, trying to judge how involved in the relationship she was. Clearly Simon provided a level of comfort to her, but nothing she had said had any spark of passion to it. Whenever she talked about her boyfriend, it was with the same fondness he used to talk about his sister and the kids. Love, but not love. Nothing about Simon seemed to burn Emmy up inside.
But maybe that was Tucker’s wishful thinking.
A lot of things about Emmy resided in the wishful-thinking part of Tucker’s brain, but it would be a lot easier to lust after her from a safe distance if he didn’t feel like a jackass for doing it. He’d been cheated on—it wasn’t a fun feeling. And he had no feelings about Simon one way or the other, but he wasn’t about to be the dog who chased someone else’s Frisbee.
“We’ve been dating almost four years.” She continued to bend and stretch his arm, sometimes causing him to wince. Her fingers cupped his elbow, and her short nails dug lightly into the skin below his scar, ever so carefully avoiding it. The scar didn’t hurt anymore, but he liked that she was aware of it.
“Four years and he couldn’t try to find a job in California?”
“Blackhawks don’t play in California often enough to make it worth his while.” She made him lift his arm and leaned against his side, straining the limb higher. Her hair brushed his cheek, distracting him from the pain of moving his arm in such an unnatural way. She smelled like clean laundry and something sweeter, like sugary lemonade, and her hair was soft against his skin.