There was a lot of head shaking, specifically Jamal, who was jerking his chin back and forth with his arms crossed over his chest. If anyone watching at home was hoping to lip-read some f-bombs, they’d be having a field day with the big man.
Chuck touched Emmy’s arm, but she inclined her head toward Jamal and crossed her arms to mirror the player’s. Tucker knew how stubborn she could be, and he’d learned firsthand she wouldn’t budge an inch if she thought a player’s health was at risk.
If she wanted Jamal out, Jamal was coming out.
Moments later Emmy appeared to win the standoff because Chuck pointed to Jon Harper at the end of the bench and waved to him. Jon Wade, the team’s renaissance man who could play every damn position on the field including pitcher, grabbed a helmet and ran out to second to pinch-run for Jamal.
Emmy and the big second baseman walked through the dugout and into the clubhouse. Jamal cursed the entire way but was also walking with a very obvious limp, so Emmy scolded him to “Stop being such a big baby.”
Tucker wanted to follow them, to make sure Jamal didn’t throw the same fit Tucker himself had upon being yanked from the game. But Tucker couldn’t leave. He had to be ready to go back in for the next inning, and Emmy was a professional. She obviously wasn’t worried about Jamal, nor did she have a reason to be.
He sighed and turned his attention back to the game.
Problem was, now he had no gum and no Emmy. He was fresh out of good-luck charms and still had six innings left to pitch.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“This is horseshit.” Jamal stalked back and forth in the training room, his rage losing some of its impact because of his new limp. “You can’t keep me out of the game.”
“You know what, Jamal? I don’t care.”
“Say what?” He stopped pacing and stared at her.
Emmy kept a cool veneer, her hands on her hips. “You have an ankle sprain, and I need to get an x-ray to make sure there’s not a fracture. Do you know what happens when a bone splinter migrates?”
“No.”
She ran a finger across her throat, the universal symbol of death. Yes, it was overly dramatic, and yes she was lying—the chances of a bone splinter existing or migrating were slim to none—but she did what she had to in order to get him to listen.
It worked, because Jamal obediently sat on the table.
“Am I going to be okay?” he asked, no longer brimming with moody hostility.
“You’ll be fine, just stop griping and let me do my job.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Emmy patted him on the shoulder and extended his leg out on the table, removing his shoe and sock while probing the injury with her fingers to see if she could detect any breaks. Nothing felt too concerning, and she was sure he’d only bent it the wrong way while sliding. Ice, stretching and a day or two on the bench and Jamal would be fine.
“It doesn’t feel broken, but I’m going to schedule you for an x-ray so we can be sure.”
He nodded forlornly.
Emmy made the appropriate appointments for Jamal while typing up some quick notes so she wouldn’t forget any of the finer details of the injury. Since legs and ankles were the biggest worry for fielders, she needed to document everything about the injury in case it caused reoccurring issues down the road.
With her notes made, she returned to Jamal. “You want me to take you out to the clubhouse so you can watch the game while we wait for the x-ray?”
“Okay.”
She gave him a pair of crutches and helped him out to the main clubhouse area where a bank of leather chairs faced several television screens. Most were already tuned to the game—using the stadium’s own feed since home games were blacked out in local markets—while the others showed updates from games around the country.
Since the local feed was from the stadium itself there was no listed score, just alternating camera angles without any commentary. She didn’t even know what inning they were on. She picked up the remote and changed one of the other TV channels until she got to ESPN.
Top of the fifth, the score was still one nothing in their favor. “We’re still winning,” she told Jamal.
He confirmed the score and nodded, then looked back to the live feed before doing a double take. “Emmy, look at that.” He pointed to the box score on the TV.
“Yeah. One nothing.”
“No.” He turned his body fully in the chair and pointed more enthusiastically, jabbing the air with his big, meaty hand. “Look at the count.”
Tucker had a pitcher’s count, two strikes one ball, and there were already two out. He was one strike away from another three-up, three-out inning. Those stats, and Jamal’s sudden interest, made her really look at the box.