Pitch Perfect(62)

Emmy returned her attention to Alex, getting him to lie back on the table while she extended each leg and guided him through a series of stretches.

“You’re a good person, right?” he asked out of the blue. They’d spent a solid ten minutes in complete silence apart from her brusque commands.

“I think so,” she answered uncertainly.

“You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

Emmy stopped what she was doing, still holding Alex’s knee and half lying on him as she stretched out his thighs. It was an awkward position to be in when a man started asking questions about her intentions.

“I don’t plan to.”

“Good. Because I want you to know he’s not like the other guys here. He’s not the kind of guy who has let money and fame and all that shit go to his head. He tried dating a model once.”

Emmy felt a pang, now concerned there was no way she could match up physically to whatever Victoria Secret pinup Tucker had dated previously. Those girls were perfection. She was only Emmy.

“Oh.”

“And she was plum fucking nuts. She was greedy, and stupid and just awful. She was a terrible person, and she did such a wringer on him. Convinced him to buy her stuff, take her places, and in the end she fucked off and left him heartbroken.”

Suddenly Emmy wasn’t worried about looking like a model anymore. She was too busy wondering how anyone in their right mind could want to do something to destroy Tucker. She didn’t need Alex to tell her Tucker was a good man. He was one of the kindest, most genuinely nice people she’d ever met.

Any woman who could walk all over a man like that in order to get money and a vacation? A woman like that deserved to have a five-inch stiletto planted directly up her bony ass.

“I would never do that to him.”

“I hope not.”

“And what if he hurts me?” Emmy asked, extending Alex’s leg straight and digging her fingers into the tissue of his knee. He winced.

“Emmy…I’m not sure anyone could hurt you.”

Her tension eased, and she bent his knee back towards his chest, tilting it to the side so it was flush with his opposite thigh.

“Alex, you’re a good-looking kid, but you’re probably the stupidest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

The catcher laughed. “I can’t believe it took you this long to figure it out.”





Chapter Twenty-Nine

Ominous black clouds hung over the outfield like an angry ghost, and the grounds crew waited with rain slickers, arms crossed on the sidelines waiting to see if the storm would settle in or disperse. The fans had their jackets zipped up to their necks and hats pulled low, but the diehards weren’t going anywhere, a few preemptively wearing clear ponchos.

“What do you think?” Emmy asked, readjusting her ponytail against the building wind.

Miles paced in front of the fence, chewing his lip and staring at the building tempest. “Dunno.”

Chuck sat on the bench, a wad of Big League Chew crammed into the pouch of his cheek. His response was even less involved than Miles’s had been. Instead of saying anything, he grunted and scratched his inner thigh beneath his balls.

The air temperature dropped with each passing moment, making Emmy wish she’d worn a thicker sweater under her training jacket. It still surprised her how cold San Francisco could get in the middle of summer. Back in Chicago she’d have expected this temperature from later September, not August.

She tossed her med bag under the bench and rifled through the snacks on the back ledge of the dugout, stuffing a handful of seasoned sunflower seeds into her pocket. Swirling her fingers in the small nest of kernels, she withdrew two and popped them in her mouth, sucking the seasoning off as she moved to the fence.

Several of the players leaned with their arms flopped over the railing, watching the empty field with the same wary interest as the grounds crew. Diagonally across the home plate the Cleveland Indians were similarly posed, chewing gum or cracking seeds while watching the empty field.

The air crackled with electricity, making the fine hairs on the back of Emmy’s neck stand at attention. Since the game couldn’t start until they got the all clear from the front office telling them it was safe to go forward, they would wait.

And wait.

The longest Emmy had waited out a rain delay was two and a half hours in the height of Chicago’s summer heat. She was hoping the clouds would shift towards Oakland and leave them to the game, but it didn’t look promising.

No matter how menacing it appeared, the decision couldn’t be made until the rain started to fall. And even then they had to wait to see if it would blow over or settle.

She cracked a seed open with her teeth, spitting the shell onto the dugout floor. In a line beside her the boys spit their own shells in unison. And as a team, they all waited.