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/> “We have to pull him.”
Chuck grimaced and made an angry grumbling noise. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take him in and ice it down. We need to schedule an MRI right away. I’m going to monitor him, keep him awake and make sure there’s no concussion.”
“What about his next start?”
Emmy looped Tucker’s arm around her shoulder, and while waiting for her to reply, Chuck made a gesture to the bullpen for the middle relief pitcher to come out.
“His next start will depend on what the MRI says,” Emmy replied coolly, trying not to be too angry that Chuck was more concerned with his starting lineup than he was with Tucker’s health. A ball to the head with the speed and force of the one Tucker had been hit by could have knocked him out. At the right angle, it might have even killed someone. Tucker was lucky to be standing.
“You take good care of him,” Chuck said. Omar, the relief pitcher, had arrived at the plate, and Alex took a last look at Tucker before jogging back to home plate to help the new pitcher warm up. Emmy could see from his expression Alex wanted to come along with them and make sure Tucker was okay, but it was his job to stay in the game.
Emmy led Tucker through the dugout, leaving Jasper behind to keep an eye out for the players remaining in the game. Once they were alone in the clubhouse, she guided Tucker to a table in the trainer’s office.
He tried to lie down, but she grabbed him by the front of the uniform, struggling against his weight to keep him upright. “No. Nope. Tucker, no.”
“Just for a second.”
“Tucker, you took a curveball to the skull.”
“I have a hard head.”
Emmy laughed and touched his cheek. “You do.”
“Can I go back to the game?”
“No.”
Tucker sat up on his own, his head bobbing. “I have to play.”
“No you don’t. You need to sit still, hold that ice to your head and let me do my job.”
“Let me do mine,” he said, suddenly angry. He dropped the ice pack and got to his feet, trying to slip past her.
“What are you doing?” She followed him out into the clubhouse where he was rifling through his locker trying to find something. When he couldn’t locate whatever he was after, he pulled everything out and threw it on the floor. “Jesus, Tucker. Will you please come sit down?”
“I have to play the game.”
“You can’t.”
“That win isn’t mine.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. If I’m not winning, I’m out.”
“What are you talking about?” She had started to pick his stuff up from the ground, stuffing it back where it belonged. When she looked up, he was bracing his arms on either side of the locker, and his eyes were closed tightly. “What are you talking about?” she repeated.
He didn’t reply, and his expression became a wince. Emmy took him to one of the nearby armchairs so he couldn’t try lying down again. She brushed his hair back off his forehead, careful to avoid the growing lump, and held his chin between thumb and forefinger.
He opened his brown eye and stared at her. “They want me out.”
“That’s not possible.”
With both his eyes open, she had trouble deciding which one to look at. Staring at someone with heterochromia was worse than trying to figure out which was the right one when someone had a lazy eye. At least both of Tucker’s eyes were bright and clear, fixed on her with no glassy lack of focus.
“If I don’t show them I deserve to be here, I’m out.”
