And Tucker didn’t want any of that. He bled Felons gray-and-orange. His home and his life were in San Francisco—unlike most other players who lived out of state in the off-season—and the last thing he ever wanted was to be forgotten. Maybe there was something to the adage of it being better to burn out than to fade away. He wasn’t sure if he was on the verge of fading away, but he knew he wanted to set fire to the coming season.
The Felons hadn’t won the World Series in twelve years. They’d made it to the finals only three times since then, but hadn’t won. In the last four years they hadn’t made it past the division semi-finals. They weren’t a bad team, always first or second in their division, but they seemed to lose all their focus the closer they got to the end of the season. It was as if the Felons had a consistent fear of success.
This year would be different. Tucker had it in his head he was going to step up and be the leader the guys needed. Someone to help them take those last few steps and become the champions he knew they could be. If this was going to be one of his last years, he wanted to make it count. He wanted another championship ring. He wanted a shitty orange T-shirt that said San Francisco Felons—2013 World Series Champions.
Fuck yeah, he did.
And nothing was going to distract him from making that dream a reality. It had to be his single-minded purpose. It had been the thing driving him on through the tough months of physio, when he thought his arm would never be back in throwing condition.
Dropping their bags in the dugout, the players rallied near the center of the field where the coaching staff had come together. Tucker joined his teammates in preparation for Chuck’s big pep talk. If this one was anything like the talks their coach had given over the last decade, he’d reprimand them for being triumphant fuckups the year before, and then remind them this was a new season. Full of new opportunities to fuck up. At that point he’d threaten to end their lives if they ruined another season.
Chuck Calvin would have made a hell of a war general.
True to form he launched into his big managerial spiel while the batting, pitching and base coaches watched on with expressions somewhere between amusement and pain. When Chuck sarcastically applauded their previous season’s “fuckups-to-wins” ratio, the first-base coach handed a ten-dollar bill to the pitching coach with a resigned headshake.
Behind the coaching staff the trainers were unloading their own gear, preparing for the first war wounds of the season, ready to offer healing and advice—whatever the situation dictated. Tucker cast an uninterested glance their way, then froze. His heart hammered so loudly all he could hear was his pulse.
In the midst of last season’s familiar old trainers and a few fresh-faced new recruits stood the woman who’d almost run him and Alex over that morning. She was smiling as she gave directions to the trainers, pointing out where things should be laid out. Her long, gold-streaked hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and she wore simple black yoga pants with an orange Felons polo T-shirt. In spite of her wardrobe change, he had no doubt it was the same woman.
“All right,” barked Chuck. “I want to introduce you boys to our newest staff member.” He spun on his heel and gave a sharp whistle. The woman looked up, a momentary frown passing over her lips at being beckoned like a dog, but she crossed the field at a slow jog.
Once she’d arrived, Chuck put an arm around her slender shoulders, and she pushed her mirrored aviators off her face. Tucker’s mouth went dry when she smiled.
“Boys, I’d like you to meet our new head athletic trainer. This is Mrs. Emmy Kasper.”
“Miss,” she corrected immediately, meeting Tucker’s rapt gaze for the first time. She gave him a meek, almost apologetic smile and offered a half wave.
Calvin was saying something about her credentials, and Tucker was sure it was all very fascinating, but he had a bigger concern on his mind.
He was supposed to be a man on a mission this season. Single-minded focus and all that jazz.
There was no way in hell he was going to be able to focus if the woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about all morning was going to be the same one icing his wounds and spending every damn day with him. The added bonus of coming off Tommy John surgery was all sorts of extra time and attention from the head A.T.
She was his new A.T.
He was so screwed.
Chapter Four
Emmy wasn’t sure what she expected Tucker’s response to be, but the dumbfounded look he was giving her now hadn’t been it.
“Hey,” she said, kicking herself for sounding so meek. “Sorry again about earlier.”
“Huh?”