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Tucker sat in a large wingback chair across the desk and kept his hands clasped together in his lap to keep the tremor in his fingers from showing. He hadn’t been this nervous since he pitched his first game in the majors.
“Chuck said you wanted to speak with me?”
“I do.”
“You stayed awfully late to do it.”
Darren chuckled and patted the round curve of his belly. “I suppose I don’t see the time of day the same way as most. When my job moves at night, I move with it.”
It was hard to argue with Darren’s logic, and Tucker wasn’t in much of a mood to argue, anyway. “Not to rush you, sir, but I’m assuming there’s a reason you wanted to see me?” Might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
In the back of his mind Tucker was running through the list of teams who’d recently had pitchers succumb to illness or injury. The Red Sox and the Mariners were both down one regular starter. The Marlins had a middle relief spot to fill. Tucker choked down a swell of bile.
“I do.” Darren leaned forward and picked up a heavy fountain pen off his desk, twirling the writing instrument in his fingers as he stared at Tucker with a new ferocity. “You’ve been with us for a long time, Tucker.”
“Fourteen years.”
“Yes. And you’ve done great things for us in that time. You’ve been a great player.”
Tucker nodded solemnly. A lot of past tense words were being thrown around. “I love playing for the Felons.”
“I know you do.”
“I’d love to keep playing for the Felons,” he added, drawing out the word keep in the hopes he’d make his feelings clear. Not that he could stop a trade if the ball was already rolling.
“Of course, of course.” The GM tapped the pen on his desk. “Now, we want nothing more than to keep you on the roster. You’re a good player, and you still draw folks in.”
Tucker’s head bobbed in automatic agreement. He still wasn’t hearing any of the worrisome words he’d come in expecting, and it made him more nervous by the moment. “Thank you.”
“But let’s be honest, you’re not as young as you used to be. And you’ve had a major surgery.”
“One I’ve recovered from,” Tucker pointed out.
“Yes, you’ve done well. Chuck and I had a discussion about this new upswing you seem to be on with the quality of your pitching. It’s very impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“But we’re worried it’s a fluke.”
“A fluke, sir?” Tucker had to wonder what Darren’s grasp of baseball was if he believed 95-mph fastballs could be fluked into. But, as he considered it, he also reminded himself he had the same worries. Maybe it really was his one last hurrah before being herded off to the old bullpen of retirement.
“Your performance was slow to start in the season, I think you know that. You looked uneasy, and it showed in your pitching.”
“Just shaking off the cobwebs.”
“I had a discussion with Ms. Kasper about you,” Darren said, and Tucker froze.
“You talked to Emmy about me?” He wasn’t sure why this made him so uneasy. Of course Emmy would communicate with the GM about him, it was part of her job. He knew all about the daily reports the trainer was required to fill out, detailing the progress of injured players. But the way Darren said it made Tucker think there was more to the discussion than paperwork.
“She’s been working closely with you, I understand.”
“That’s her job.”
The GM made a low hmm noise, but didn’t disagree. “I mentioned to her I’d seen quite an improvement in your performance under her guidance. I did not mention to her, however, how unusual it is for an athletic trainer to be directly responsible for a change in performance. She seems to have taken a…special interest in you.”
“She saw an opportunity to help me correct something and she took it. She did the same for Miles. She’s very good at her job.”
“I never claimed otherwise.”
