Pitch Perfect(31)

“You think this article is going to draw in a legion of new feminist viewers, and you’re worried they’ll get angry when they realize baseball really is a man’s game after all?” Emmy needed to restate his points because she wasn’t sure she’d absorbed the entirety of how stupid they’d been.

“I think you’re oversimplifying.”

“Darren, please don’t take this the wrong way, but there’s something you need to understand about baseball you’ve clearly missed.”

“And what’s that?”

“Baseball isn’t a man’s game. It’s the national pastime. And with all due respect to the female half of the nation, if this article brings in more female viewers, then maybe that’s a good thing, because right now Felons games rank behind NASCAR in TV ratings. So angry feminists or not, I think maybe you should worry more about how your team plays and less about the motivations of those tuning in to see them. Maybe if those new feminist fans see us win some games, they’ll stick around.” She’d wanted to stop mid-rant, but once her mouth was open it was like a floodgate. There was no stopping the torrent; it just had to run its course.

“I’ll take that into consideration.” His tone was flat, and she couldn’t tell if he was angry or impressed. The dead caterpillar on his lip twitched.

“May I go back to the game?”

“By all means. Apparently we need to start generating more wins to appease our new fans.”





Chapter Sixteen

Giordano’s Pizzeria was crammed the following night.

After a Saturday afternoon game, Tucker managed to convince Emmy it was a good time to meet her end of their bargain. If he’d known how busy the famous Chicago eatery would be, he’d have taken them somewhere else, but he remembered her speaking fondly of the place. Aside from the lengthy wait, he figured he had to get bonus points for taking her to her favorite hometown restaurant.

The restaurant had no available tables, so a harried waitress showed them the way to the lounge, and they were left to fend for themselves. A couple got up as they arrived, vacating two places at the bar, and Tucker snagged the tall stools before anyone else spotted them.

On the big-screen televisions behind the bar, a Cubs game was getting started, which explained why so many people were milling around the lounge. That and the proximity of the restaurant to the Willis Tower meant there would always be a steady flow of tourist foot traffic.

Tucker knew immediately no matter how many sentimentality points he gained for his choice of venue, there was no way this evening could be even remotely romantic.

The crowd was raucous, hooting and swearing as ESPN played clips of the earlier afternoon game between the Felons and the White Sox. Cassandra Dano, the skinny blonde reporter, was giving the camera a leering, salacious smile as she reported the day’s stories. He’d met Cassandra a few times and wasn’t certain she knew a damn thing about sports, which made him wary of her.

Men in the bar didn’t seem to share his apprehension. He overheard more than one comment volunteering to service her. Tucker cut a glance to Emmy, who had slid onto the barstool and was pretending not to hear any of it.

“What’ll it be?” A Spanish-looking bartender sidled up, his sleek black hair pulled into a ponytail. He didn’t sound rushed, but there was a precision to his words that projected urgency.

Emmy ordered a beer for herself and looked expectantly to Tucker, who added, “Sam Adams. And some menus?”

The bartender nodded and slid two somewhat-clean, plastic-covered menus across the bar to them and vanished to collect their drinks.

“You ever been here before?” Emmy asked once the beers had been delivered.

“Yeah, but it’s been years. You’ll have to tell me what’s good.”

“It’s all good.” She laughed and took a sip of her drink. “How can you come to Chicago as often as you do and not visit here every single time? I love this place.”

Tucker let himself swell with pride briefly, having picked the restaurant well. “I don’t know. I don’t explore a lot anymore. Once you’ve been to a city a few times, you stop getting the same tourist itch. You come, play, head back to the hotel. Rinse and repeat as necessary then go do it in the next city.”

Emmy must have had a sense of that mentality. She’d traveled with the Sox for four years. There was no way she still got the same thrill from visiting the same fifteen cities over and over. You can only go to Baltimore or Oakland so many times before they stop being fascinating.

At least Oakland would be a lot closer to home for her now.