Pitch Perfect(25)

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Oh yeah.”





Chapter Thirteen

San Francisco at Chicago, Record 7-6

Tucker loved how a stadium felt when it was empty.

During a game he had to shut out the noise of the fans and focus on Alex, concentrate on delivering the perfect strike each time he threw. He had to be on his game every instant, even in the dugout.

But in the hours before the game, there was a kind of peace he couldn’t find anywhere else. The seats were vacant and the service staff hadn’t arrived yet to start cooking hot dogs and tapping beer kegs.

He’d arrived ahead of Emmy and her crew, and none of the other players were in the ballpark yet, giving him time alone with his thoughts. And with his arm.

In the visitor’s bullpen he had a sack of balls next to him and a pitcher’s target lined up at the end of the grassy patch. Normally he’d warm up with a bullpen catcher, but there was no one else there, and he was grateful for that. If he was going to make a fool of himself, he didn’t need to have anyone witness it.

The small black cloth rectangle with two yellow-outlined cutout boxes mocked him from sixty feet, six inches away. The exact distance between home plate and the pitcher’s mound, and the exact distance by which a pitcher could measure success or failure.

Sixty feet, six inches was all that stood between him and the end of his career if he couldn’t figure out how to get his fastball back.

Tucker picked up a ball and rubbed his calloused fingers over the stitches, following the red path around the circumference. His fingers hooked naturally, nails digging in behind the stitches in a perfect knuckleball hold.

But his time as a knuckleball pitcher was winding down.

He straightened his two bent fingers so they were in line with the red seams and tucked the ball into his glove, sucking in a breath through his nostrils.

“You can do this,” he whispered. “You know how to do this.”

It was too bad his brain didn’t quite believe the words his mouth was saying. Was a two-seam fastball the same as riding a bicycle? Could he simply fall back into the habit when it had been years since he’d thrown one properly?

Letting out another breath through clenched teeth, Tucker set himself up, eyed the target and dove forward, releasing the ball. He didn’t need to look to know it was bad. He’d felt the failure of the pitch the moment it left his hands. He’d tried to push it forward like he would a knuckleball, but pushing the ball didn’t help with a fastball.

The ball glanced off the target and rolled pitifully to the end of the bullpen green.

Tucker sighed, rotated his shoulders and neck, then picked up another ball.

He would get this if it killed him.





Emmy felt like a stranger in what had once been her home.

U.S. Cellular Field had been her day-in-day-out life for four years, and she knew every locker room and corridor like the back of her hand. She could have navigated the hallways blindfolded, but it wasn’t her house anymore.

She stood outside the home team locker room, no longer entitled or allowed to enter. Her old office was there. The supply closet and the equipment she’d once used almost daily.

Now she got the crappy second-rate visiting team offices and the equipment that might make Jasper cry more than he had in Kansas. Their visit to Detroit had been like taking a break in heaven. All the equipment the Tigers used in the visitor clubhouse was as nice as that used in the regular home suite. Jasper had to be restrained from sending them flowers.

They’d been spoiled.

The door to the clubhouse opened, startling Emmy enough for her to let out a little yip.

“Hey, rock star.” Riley Hanson, the Sox star first baseman was wearing nothing but a towel, showing off a very well-muscled chest. “How’s life in the Bay treating you, Em?”

Emmy was accustomed to ignoring men in towels. Nudity went hand in hand with working around athletes. Riley wasn’t shy, and there was no sense in her getting flustered. She’d seen him way more naked during her four years with the team than he was right then.

“Hey, Riley. It’s good. Good. Really good.”

“Sure, yeah. But is it good?” He winked at her, big blue eyes flashing.

Emmy smiled. “How you been?”

“Good.” He laughed, and she couldn’t help but follow suit. It was nice to know some things didn’t change, even though she was now banned from the inner circle of the Sox. She’d made her choice, and it was for the best. She had to remind herself of that.

“How’s the new me?”

“Jason?” Riley shrugged. “He’s not as good as you were. And some days I think Mitch might strangle him for missing the obvious stuff. But that’s life. You know how Mitchy is about change.” He rested a hand on the towel, absently tightening it around his waist. “Anyway, speaking of the old man, he needs me to have my knee looked at.”