“I’m perfectly capable of maintaining a professional detachment from someone I work with daily.”
“I don’t doubt you are, but you understand why I need to be clear about this. I need to know you’re not…covering for him.”
Emmy might not have been a fan of the GM, but she also hadn’t actively loathed him. He had given her a fantastic opportunity with her job, and because of that she’d given him a certain amount of leeway when it came to his personality. But she was convinced he’d just asked her if she was lying about Tucker’s head wound to help the pitcher stay in the game.
She got to her feet, appalled at the accusation but trying hard to maintain some façade of professionalism rather than reaching across the desk and smacking him in the face.
“It would be very difficult for me to lie about the results of an MRI. Sir.”
His face went smooth, devoid of any trace he was offended but also not showing any surprise at her for calling him out on what he was suggesting.
“Now, now.”
“Tucker is fine.”
“It’s your professional opinion that Tucker Lloyd is fit to play the remainder of the season?”
“I’m telling you Tucker is fit to play this season, and the next, and every damn season from now until forever.”
He gave her a thin-lipped smile, his mustache quivering. “We’ll see about that. Forever is an awfully long time, Ms. Kasper.”
“Not for a ballplayer’s career.”
“No, I suppose that’s true.”
“Tucker will be fine for his start in New York. I’ll monitor him personally. He will be better than fine.”
“Well, that’s all I needed to hear.”
“Good.” She turned and left the room before he had a chance to say anything that might make her lose her cool.
Tucker had been right. The GM had it in for him, and she had to do everything she could to ensure his performance was above par for the rest of the season.
She wasn’t sure what she could do, but she wouldn’t sit idly by while someone waited for Tucker to trip. Not if she could somehow keep him standing.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It didn’t matter how often Tucker visited New York City, he always found something to be impressed by. He lived in a big city and was well versed in how to function around a lot of people and all the traffic, but New York was different from San Francisco in so many ways. The people were more hurried and brusque. The buildings felt more cramped and taller somehow.
All the same, he liked visiting, even if he couldn’t live there personally. He liked the food and the grit of the streets. He liked wandering the sidewalks at night and seeing how differently things worked on the East Coast.
He’d travelled extensively in his life, a pleasant perk to being wealthy, but sometimes he didn’t have to leave the country to find a unique culture. San Fran and New York were on opposite sides of the country, and they were as different as two major cities could be.
He liked that.
But he didn’t like playing the Yankees.
No official rivalry existed between the Yankees and the Felons, but all the same he felt like there was bad blood there. That kind of hostility was something the Yankees brought out in other teams. The blue blood ran deep in New York, and Yankees fans were the most hotheaded group of fans in America.
At old Yankee Stadium he remembered stories about fans hurling batteries at opposing teams. He’d never experienced it himself, but it made him wary. They certainly booed more than any other single group of sports fans he’d ever faced.
He was pretty sure Spike Lee had once personally called him Fucker Lloyd for striking out Jeter.
Since they weren’t in the same division it was a little less hostile than it might have been otherwise. But the Yankees were on top in the Eastern division—as they usually were—and the Felons were leading the Western division, so it seemed likely they’d be facing each other in the playoffs.
With that on the horizon, the previous night’s game had played out like it was war. The fans screamed and cursed, the players stared each other down like enemies rather than challengers, and it had gone for eleven innings before the Felons finally won.
Their first win was going to make it all the more difficult for Tucker that evening. The Yankees would be looking for weakness, and since he’d been injured recently they’d be expecting him to falter.
There was so much on the line, and it wasn’t even a playoff game. The Felons had a five-game lead in the west, and unless they went on a losing tear for the remainder of the season, they were assured a place in the playoffs.
Yet he couldn’t help but think this was his last shot to prove he belonged with the team. If they won tonight, and if he could go the whole nine innings without showing any weakness, then perhaps he would be able to stay.