“I don’t count on seeing them up against us in the World Series this year,” he told her. “Sorry to break your heart.”
“I’m a Chicago Cubs fan,” she reminded him. “I’m accustomed to a broken heart.”
“Yeah, that’s the fate of a baseball fan, ain’t it?”
“Broken hearts?”
“Lowered expectations.”
Emmy chuckled. “I guess so. But the sports columns all seem to have pretty high expectations for you this year.”
“So I’m told.”
“How’s the arm?” Now in full-on professional trainer mode, she jutted her chin in the direction of his right arm. There was a curved pink scar over his inner elbow, and he seemed fascinated by it as he bent his arm to show her.
“Never better.”
“Let’s keep it that way, okay?”
Tucker nodded. “You’d better be good,” he teased. “After throwing one-hundreds through nine innings, I tend to need extra TLC on this baby.” He gave a joking flex of his arm then jogged off towards Alex. He’d almost reached the catcher when he turned back and shouted, “Welcome to the team.”
Emmy’s heart did a little flip-flop when she thought about Tucker needing her TLC.
So much for being a professional. She was barely an hour into her first day on the job and already she was fantasizing about doing ruinous things to the team’s star pitcher.
Or maybe the Florida heat was getting to her.
In February.
For the remainder of the day, Emmy managed to steer clear of Tucker and settled into a groove with her staff. With the exception of Jasper—her assistant athletic therapist—the rest of the training staff was new to her. A few of them were new to the team as well, so much of the day was spent learning how the others operated.
Even though Emmy was in charge, she wanted the people she was going to be side by side with every day to be comfortable. If she could mesh her expectations with the way the existing staff operated, it would be easier for everyone involved.
Baseball had the unique distinction of having one of the longest seasons and had easily the most game-play days of any sport. Beginning in the first week of April, she and her crew would be expected on-site almost every day until the first week of October. Hopefully beyond, providing the team went to the postseason.
One hundred and sixty-two games. As head athletic trainer, she would be expected to travel with the team, making sure the players bounced back quickly and that serious injuries weren’t missed. She could kiss her regular life goodbye for the next eight months.
Emmy and Jasper had worked together previously as interns on the University of Chicago women’s basketball team. They’d met up again when Emmy got to work as the assistant A.T. for the American women’s softball team during the 2008 summer Olympics and bonded over their mutual agreement that Chinese food was better in the States than it was in Beijing. Emmy loved MSG and Jasper liked being able to read a menu. They’d also both developed a crush on the same men’s swimming coach, who it turned out was much more interested in Jasper.
It wasn’t the only time Emmy had lost a man to the Jasper test.
When she got the job with the Felons, they told her most of the staff was still in place, but she’d be welcome to bring on anyone who might be valuable to her. She’d called Jasper and asked how attached he was to living in Memphis.
He’d arrived in San Francisco two days later in a U-Haul.
They sat next to each other on a metal bench, feet propped up on their med kits, and watched the batting coach run drills.
“I feel like I’m back at summer camp,” Jasper observed.
“Did you ever go to summer camp?”
“No. But I saw a lot of movies about summer camp, and I imagine it was a lot like this. Only this has tighter pants.”
Emmy smirked. The once-pristine base paths laid earlier in the morning had been smudged by cleats, and the new bases were coated in a layer of red-brown dust. Many of the players had the same dust smeared over their hips or across their chests from making dramatic slides. Every time someone did a showy slide, Emmy winced. Visions of broken fingers and bruised shins danced in her head.
Before coming to the Felons, she’d spent four years working as the assistant A.T. for the Chicago White Sox. She knew what kind of injuries to expect in a season. Sprains, strains, tears, breaks. You name it, she’d be responsible for healing it at some point.
She looked across the field to where Alex Ross was crouched in a spry squat, looking ready to dive for a wild pitch at any moment. He’d be her biggest treat by far. She’d seen enough highlight reels of Felons games to know Alex was a ball magnet. He’d taken more hits off the mask, shins and arms than any other catcher in the American League, and had the scars and MRIs to show for it.