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“It’s Miles. His delivery is…off.”
“You’re telling me.” Mike spit a wad of tobacco onto the dugout floor next to Emmy’s feet.
“No, I mean it’s off in a real way.” She pointed to the field where Miles was building up for his pitch, and she and Mike watched him throw the same way he had previously. It was good for a strike, but the wobble was still there.
“Well, son of a bitch,” Mike said, rubbing his short white hair. “How’d I miss that?”
“He’s going to hurt himself if he keeps it up.”
“He’s hurting us if he keeps it up,” the coach replied. “It’s a goddamn miracle he’s gotten anything into the catcher’s glove throwing that way.”
Mike signaled to the catcher, who called a time-out with the umpire, then he waved to Emmy.
“Me?”
“Come on, girlie, I ain’t got all day here.” He walked slowly onto the field, and Emmy had little other choice but to follow him.
She didn’t miss Tucker staring at her as she bounded up the dugout stairs and onto the field. The Kansas City fans hooted and booed over the pause in game play, and she tried to ignore the din as she met Mike at the pitcher’s mound. The backup catcher, Jeff Craig, was standing next to Miles, waiting for them to arrive.
“Hey, coach,” Miles said sheepishly.
Sometimes Emmy forgot how young these guys were. Miles was a high school prospect who had been groomed in the minors. He was only twenty-one. Pitching in a big park, for a team with the prestigious history the Felons had? It was a lot of pressure for anyone, let alone a kid who was barely out of his blackhead phase. He gave her a nod. “Hiya, Emmy. Er, Mrs. Kasper?” He didn’t quite know how to handle her. Most of the guys had made the adjustment to having a woman around, but Miles was still uneasy, that much was obvious.
“Ms.,” she corrected. “And you can call me Emmy, Miles. Honestly.”
He bobbed his head and fidgeted on the mound.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Well, son, that depends on what your definition of a strike zone is, now doesn’t it?” Mike asked. His gravelly voice made the words sound harsh, but he coughed out a laugh at the end, bringing some much-needed kindness to the situation. “You’re doing good, but we need you to make a change.”
“Now?”
It wasn’t standard procedure for a pitching coach to ask his pitcher to make a form change in the middle of an at-bat. Typically they would wait until after the game when there was more time to let the pitcher make adjustments naturally. Emmy was surprised they were out here and Mike was willing to rattle Miles’s cage with a major form shift.
Mike casually explained what they’d noticed and turned to Emmy from time to time to get her agreement and have her explain what risks Miles was posing to himself. It felt good to be needed, and to have her opinion respected by an old-timer like Mike.
“You think you got it, kid?” Mike asked.
“Yessir.”
“You gonna go ahead and strike this guy out?”
“Yessir,” Miles said, like Mike was a drill sergeant. This time though there was more pep in his voice, edging on excitement. Miles wanted to prove he could apply the lesson they’d delivered to him. Emmy was hopeful for him. If he could get a handle on his delivery, he had a hell of a future ahead of him.
Mike gave the young pitcher a friendly pat on the behind, and Emmy opted to squeeze his shoulder.
“You’ve got this,” she assured him.
“Thanks.”
Emmy jogged back after Mike, and when she reached the dugout, her space next to Alex had been filled, leaving only a standing position beside Tucker.
She leaned against the railing, hoping to see Miles improve his stance, but was distracted by the sensation of Tucker’s gaze rapt on her. She adjusted her focus so she was looking at him from the corner of her eye rather than at the field.
“What?”
“You’re something else,” he said.
