Pitch Perfect(4)

“I’m so sorry,” she said, directing her comment to Alex since Tucker was focused on her leg, and she didn’t think she could watch him work without cringing over his improper medical hygiene.

“It’s nothing to get bent out of shape over,” Alex said, then laughed like he’d made a joke only he understood. Normally it would drive Emmy crazy when a guy thought of himself as hilarious, but Alex somehow managed to make his boorish behavior charming in a ridiculous sort of way.

It also kept her mind off the fact that Tucker had wrapped his bandana around her knee, until he secured it snugly and the extra pressure brought her attention reeling back to the pain. “Oh. Ow. Owowowowow.”

“That’s going to swell something nasty. You’re going to want to—”

“Ice it. I know.” She could let him be the knight in shining armor if he wanted to, but she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know how to look after her knee.

“You a doctor or something?” Alex asked, his tone teasing.

“Or something.” In spite of the fact they would be meeting her officially in a few short hours at the team’s first practice, this wasn’t how she’d imagined introducing herself. And she couldn’t bring herself to tell the Tucker Lloyd she was his new athletic trainer after he’d gone to all the effort of wrapping her up. Especially not when he was kneeling by her side, giving her such a sweet, concerned look.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. You think you can stand up?” He offered her his hand.

Emmy was struck dumb momentarily when she met his eyes. She shifted her gaze, staring at his hand like she didn’t understand what its purpose was. “Stand up?” She must have still been woozy from the fall.

“Like, on your feet?” Alex suggested. “Did you sustain any head injuries we didn’t see?”

“No,” she said with forced certainty and took Tucker’s hand, letting him draw her up to a standing position. The front of their bodies brushed against each other, making her cheeks flush. His chest was hard and toned and felt warm through the threadbare material of his shirt.

Too bad she couldn’t blame her blush on an imaginary bump to the noggin. What had gotten into her? She never got worked up around famous athletes.

“I have to go.” She pushed herself off him, letting her touch linger a moment longer than was respectable before snatching her hand away and giving herself a stern internal lecture.

Bad Emmy!

Her bike hadn’t sustained any serious damage, so when she climbed back on, the frame was still in excellent shape to help her make a speedy getaway, though her knee protested something fierce.

“Hey,” Tucker called after her. “What’s your…?”

His voice trailed off as she turned a corner. She realized too late he’d been trying to ask her name, and she’d run off without so much as a backwards glance.

She’d just completely blown off Tucker Lloyd.





Chapter Three

“Maybe running isn’t for us,” Alex said as he and Tucker stood in line at the hotel’s breakfast buffet. “I knew it wasn’t fun, but I didn’t think it was dangerous.”

“You just want an excuse to get out of exercise. Don’t think I’m not on to you.” Tucker gave Alex a whack in the small paunch he’d acquired over the winter. Tucker was listening, but he wasn’t really listening. He was thinking about their hit-and-ride, but not in the same way Alex was. The catcher was joking about their eventful job, but Tucker was thinking about the long, sun-streaked, light brown hair and big hazel eyes of the lady cyclist who’d literally crashed into his life that morning.

And stolen his favorite bandana.

“I get exercise,” Alex contested, as he loaded his plate with scrambled eggs and an assortment of fried meats.

Tucker rolled he eyes and filled his own plate with poached eggs and fresh fruit. He wasn’t a health nut, but during the season he tried not to eat like crap. Alex was a tank, and he crouched behind the plate during games. Tucker, on the other hand, needed to stay loose. Fat pitchers were few and far between, and they usually didn’t last six or seven innings, let alone play through all nine. If he was getting old, he didn’t think getting fat was also an option.

Age he had no say in. Flab could be stopped.

The pair of them moved to an empty table near the window, basking like cats in the bright morning sunlight. A few moments after making themselves comfortable—before they could even dig into their food—another two men joined them. A copper-skinned man in his late twenties who Tucker barely recognized plopped down first, stroking a neatly trimmed black goatee.