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“I tripped.”
“While not walking?”
“Yes.”
“That takes skill.”
“It does.” She stepped away from him and busied herself with the first-aid
kit.
“You sure it’s not because Tucker Lloyd was making eyes at you in the middle of a baseball game?”
Emmy gaped at him, able to feel her own guilty expression etched on her face. “Was it that obvious?”
“Em. He winked at you. On national television.”
She hadn’t considered the cameras. “Oh.”
“But whatever you’re doing, keep it up. He just threw a ninety-five for the first time since 2008.” Jasper patted her on the back before he jogged down the stairs to the clubhouse.
Tucker felt good. Better than he’d felt in years, in fact.
He locked eyes with Alex from sixty feet away, and the catcher gave him a grin, flashing the signal for a curve. Tucker gave the slightest nod. Checking the runner at first who was leading too far, he set up like he was going to pitch but threw the ball to first instead.
The runner slid back, making it just ahead of the throw.
Ramon returned the ball from first, and the back and forth was natural. Tucker felt young, and fresh, and ready for anything. He was having fun, and he couldn’t remember the last time baseball felt more like a game than a job.
The Sox runner got to his feet and dusted red-brown dirt off his gray uniform, shaking his head. He and the first baseman chatted briefly and both laughed. It was the way things worked on the field in an ideal game, no grudges, no bitterness. Just men being boys, playing the best damn game in the world.
A slight breeze rolled over the field, bringing with it the smell of popcorn and the ocean. The roar of the crowd sounded like a murmur from where he stood. One of the great skills of any professional player was being able to shut out the uproar, but for the first time in a long while he wanted to listen. Tucker brushed the baseball against his pants and tilted his head up, taking in the feel of the ballpark.
Fans chanted his name, waving signs with bad puns like Tuck in the Sox. Men and women in yellow jackets moved up and down the narrow concrete stairs like worker bees, selling eight-dollar beers and bags of salted peanuts. He tugged down the brim of his cap and grinned. His arm didn’t hurt, and he felt like he was twenty-two again, fresh out of college ball and playing his first start in the minors.
Tucker Lloyd felt like a king.
Then, with the speed of a fleeting thought, he let the sounds fade away again and was left with only the quiet focus of his own mind and the invisible box in front of Alex telling him where to throw.
Alex flashed four fingers, the sign for a changeup, and Tucker sucked in a short breath. He hadn’t thrown a changeup in almost two years. He knew Alex was right in making the call since the batter up to plate was a heavy hitter and would swing whenever he thought a straight fastball was coming for him. Power hitters loved to swing for the fences like they were the second coming of Babe Ruth. This guy was not the second coming of the Bambino and would strike out on a changeup.
Provided Tucker could throw one.
Reflexively, Tucker’s hand made the A-okay motion, his thumb and pointer finger curling into an O shape and his last three fingers wrapping around the circumference of the ball.
For a moment he let himself become distracted, released the fear and uncertainty, and looked to the dugout instead of at Alex. Emmy wasn’t at the fence anymore. Instead she was next to Miles on the bench. Both were in identical poses—arms crossed, hats pulled down, spitting sunflower seeds onto the ground.
Miles was focused on the batter, but Emmy’s gaze was all for him. She gave a small smile, nothing obvious, and the curve of her mouth made him think of the way her kisses tasted.
His heart thumped and he smiled back, this time without the wink. In the back of his head he could hear her telling him, Stand straight, strong lead off leg, trust your arm. Use your strength.
With her voice guiding him, his posture pulled straight, his legs felt strong and limber and his arm was loose. The ball in his hand was small and heavy, like a stone ready to be skipped across a smooth lake.
In his head Emmy said, You got this.
And he did.
The umpire called strike three and bellowed, “You’re out.” The home crowd went apeshit, and Tucker soaked it all in. He was back on top. He was the man. And he owed it all to her.
