While looking at Alex, her gaze wandered to Tucker. His uniform was brand new, still pristinely white, but his hat was obviously an old favorite. The cap was salt-stained white from years of sweat, and the brim had a thick coat of dirt accrued from many a pitcher’s mound. He’d never be allowed to wear it on the field in a regulation game, but it must have had sentimental value if he was wearing it here.
Tucker rubbed his thumb over the filthy brim then gave his right ear a small tug. Grasping the ball inside his glove, he brought his left knee high and tight to his chest before unleashing a flurry of movement, diving forward on his left leg with his right kicking up high behind him. His arm rotated at an impossible angle, and the ball flew hard and true down the field into Alex’s waiting glove with a satisfying smack.
A perfect knuckleball.
Emmy must have been smiling because Jasper prodded her in the ribs with his pointy elbow. “Whatcha ogling there?”
“I’m not ogling anything,” she replied tartly. “I’m just watching Tucker’s form.”
Jasper snickered. “Yeah, I’m watching his form too, and it looks mighty fine in those pants.”
“Jasper!”
“Like you weren’t thinking it.”
She had been. Of course she had. The players wore a variety of pants, some opting for the old-school knickers with high socks, where the bigger players wore loose-fitting trousers. Tucker was in the middle ground, opting for full-length pants but ones that fit his muscular calves and thighs snugly. Emmy approved wholeheartedly of the fit whenever he moved into a throwing stance and she got a glimpse of how they fit from behind.
Bad Emmy, she scolded herself. Stop checking out the players.
“Too bad I can’t run the Jasper test on him,” her assistant teased.
“Why? Surely you can’t be worried about professionalism.”
“Oh, hon. That man is so straight you could chart map coordinates with him. I wouldn’t bother.”
Emmy placed her chin on her balled hand and watched Tucker throw a few more times, trying to convince herself it was out of a need to learn his habits. So she could train him better.
Riiiiight.
Thankfully she was rescued from herself when the centerfielder and left field reliever collided during a pop fly drill. She’d never been so relieved in her life to hold a six-five Venezuelan’s bloody nose before.
Chapter Five
Tucker was sore all over.
It wasn’t the same kind of pain he’d experienced going through physio—the crippling agony of uncertainty—but it still ached like a son of a bitch.
Alex was standing by a long line of benches, doing a series of stretches on his knees and legs. As much as Tucker teased his friend, he admired what Alex did on a daily basis. Once, for kicks, Tucker had crouched in the catcher’s signature high, loose-legged squat to see how it felt. He’d lasted five minutes before his legs began to scream in protest.
During the regular season, Alex did it for three hours a night, six and a half months out of the year. It was impressive. As one of five starting pitchers, Tucker didn’t even have to play every game. He got to spend four out of every five games in the dugout watching the action.
That was if he got one of the starting slots this year.
There was a lot of speculation in the sports press about his recovery and whether or not his knuckleball would be up to par. Knuckleball pitchers were an oddity. Weirdos. There were only two or three professional-level knuckleballers in the whole league, and he’d been the best. That wasn’t hubris either—he knew he was good—but the stats stood for themselves.
But things like WHIP and ERA now seemed like meaningless letters for unimportant career numbers. What did it matter how often he let a batter get to base, or how many runs he allowed? If he wasn’t allowed to play, fourteen seasons of Hall of Fame results were meaningless.
He would have suffered through the surgery for nothing.
Tucker Lloyd did not want to end his career as a middle relief pitcher who only came in during the seventh or eighth inning to keep the score down. He had a ton of respect for those men, but he was a starter. He wanted to remain a starter until his contract was up in three years.
He’d be thirty-nine, then. Thirty-nine was an old man in baseball terms, and he could gladly accept retirement.
“Dude, stop staring at my ass.” Alex’s laugh broke into Tucker’s glum reverie.
“Lost in space,” Tucker admitted, circling a finger around his head and making a tweeting noise like little cartoon birds. “Did you happen to notice who our new A.T. is?”
Alex snorted, pulling his bent leg behind him, one arm braced on the back of the bench. “Hard to miss. She did look pretty fine when she was in her workout pants though. Maybe I ought to go ask her about some tightness in my hamstring.” He winked, but the lasciviousness was all for show.