determined he needed the elbow surgery. Now that he was supposedly back in top condition, he was at odds with himself. The new, strong version of his arm wanted him to go back to throwing the fastballs and sliders he’d used most of his career.
His wary mind told him not to be showy and stick with the safer pitch.
Poor Alex, crouched behind home plate, didn’t know what to make of Tucker’s decisions. Whenever the catcher would suggest a different play, Tucker would shake him off with a quick side-to-side of his jaw. Alex would cycle through suggestions until Tucker accepted one and only one. The knuckleball.
After hitting the pitcher, though, Alex had plainly had enough of Tucker shaking him off and called a time-out. The shorter man prowled up to the mound, and Tucker instinctively placed a glove over his own mouth. Alex didn’t follow suit but turned sideways to avoid being seen by the opposing base coaches. As far as Tucker knew, no one in baseball was a trained lip-reader, yet it was a long-standing tradition to protect your secrets even when no one cared to know them.
“What’s the deal?” Alex asked.
“No deal.”
“You sure, because it sure seems like you’re pussying out on throwing anything I offer you.”
Tucker stared at the dugout. The pitching coach looked ready to come out at any second, and Chuck Calvin was about to gnaw a hole through his cheek. The big man had clearly chosen the wrong season to give up on his beloved chewing tobacco. Beside them both was Emmy, watching him with stoic concern. She smiled faintly, like she wasn’t sure if it would help him or make things worse.
He didn’t know either.
“Let’s try something a little different this time, okay? Maybe something other than a knuckleball?”
Grimly, Tucker nodded his consent. “Okay.”
Alex jogged back to the plate and squatted behind the next batter. He gave the signal for a slider, and Tucker’s first instinct was to shake it off, but he nodded instead.
Okay, Tucker. Here’s where you prove you’ve still got it.
He was only somewhat aware of the roar from the crowd when he adjusted his fingers on the ball and pulled his leg into position. The scream of the fans was like white noise, calming him, dulling the uncertainty.
You’ve got this.
But he didn’t.
He walked the next two batters and was pulled from the game in favor of a tried-and-true reliever. On the way back to the dugout the crowd clapped politely, but he could tell there was no passion behind the gesture.
Whatever magic Tucker Lloyd had once had, it had apparently abandoned him.
Chapter Nine
Emmy knew Simon Howell would be around—they’d been playing the White Sox after all—but the last thing she expected was to find him waiting in her office when she returned to the clubhouse.
The game had taken a nasty turn after Tucker left. The relief pitcher gave up a bad-luck home run, sending everyone on base in and giving the Sox a four-run lead.
By the time the top of the ninth rolled around, Emmy didn’t need to see more. She left the players in Jasper’s capable hands and went to fill out her report for the higher-ups. There was nothing terribly serious to report, but the paperwork still needed to get done. The designated hitter seemed to be favoring his right leg, which would have to be checked out, and their center fielder, Barrett, had taken a beating on a diving catch in the sixth. He’d bounce back, but it was her job to make sure everyone up the chain of command knew what shape the players were in.
She walked through the training room and into her small office—a glorified closet—then let out a shocked yelp.
“Nice to see you too,” Simon greeted, rising from his chair.
She crossed the small space, her heart hammering from the surprise of seeing him. “Simon.”
He grasped her elbow and kissed her. Considering they hadn’t seen each other in almost two months, the kiss was friendly at best.
“You look good,” he said.
His wary mind told him not to be showy and stick with the safer pitch.
Poor Alex, crouched behind home plate, didn’t know what to make of Tucker’s decisions. Whenever the catcher would suggest a different play, Tucker would shake him off with a quick side-to-side of his jaw. Alex would cycle through suggestions until Tucker accepted one and only one. The knuckleball.
After hitting the pitcher, though, Alex had plainly had enough of Tucker shaking him off and called a time-out. The shorter man prowled up to the mound, and Tucker instinctively placed a glove over his own mouth. Alex didn’t follow suit but turned sideways to avoid being seen by the opposing base coaches. As far as Tucker knew, no one in baseball was a trained lip-reader, yet it was a long-standing tradition to protect your secrets even when no one cared to know them.
“What’s the deal?” Alex asked.
“No deal.”
“You sure, because it sure seems like you’re pussying out on throwing anything I offer you.”
Tucker stared at the dugout. The pitching coach looked ready to come out at any second, and Chuck Calvin was about to gnaw a hole through his cheek. The big man had clearly chosen the wrong season to give up on his beloved chewing tobacco. Beside them both was Emmy, watching him with stoic concern. She smiled faintly, like she wasn’t sure if it would help him or make things worse.
He didn’t know either.
“Let’s try something a little different this time, okay? Maybe something other than a knuckleball?”
Grimly, Tucker nodded his consent. “Okay.”
Alex jogged back to the plate and squatted behind the next batter. He gave the signal for a slider, and Tucker’s first instinct was to shake it off, but he nodded instead.
Okay, Tucker. Here’s where you prove you’ve still got it.
He was only somewhat aware of the roar from the crowd when he adjusted his fingers on the ball and pulled his leg into position. The scream of the fans was like white noise, calming him, dulling the uncertainty.
You’ve got this.
But he didn’t.
He walked the next two batters and was pulled from the game in favor of a tried-and-true reliever. On the way back to the dugout the crowd clapped politely, but he could tell there was no passion behind the gesture.
Whatever magic Tucker Lloyd had once had, it had apparently abandoned him.
Chapter Nine
Emmy knew Simon Howell would be around—they’d been playing the White Sox after all—but the last thing she expected was to find him waiting in her office when she returned to the clubhouse.
The game had taken a nasty turn after Tucker left. The relief pitcher gave up a bad-luck home run, sending everyone on base in and giving the Sox a four-run lead.
By the time the top of the ninth rolled around, Emmy didn’t need to see more. She left the players in Jasper’s capable hands and went to fill out her report for the higher-ups. There was nothing terribly serious to report, but the paperwork still needed to get done. The designated hitter seemed to be favoring his right leg, which would have to be checked out, and their center fielder, Barrett, had taken a beating on a diving catch in the sixth. He’d bounce back, but it was her job to make sure everyone up the chain of command knew what shape the players were in.
She walked through the training room and into her small office—a glorified closet—then let out a shocked yelp.
“Nice to see you too,” Simon greeted, rising from his chair.
She crossed the small space, her heart hammering from the surprise of seeing him. “Simon.”
He grasped her elbow and kissed her. Considering they hadn’t seen each other in almost two months, the kiss was friendly at best.
“You look good,” he said.
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