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Alex flashed a signal, Tucker shook it off. He shook off the next three signals. Alex squinted and waved his hand, then after a pause, threw out a final gesture.
Tucker nodded.
Alex arched a brow, not hiding his surprise, but lowered his glove and raised on his haunches to prepare for the catch. Tucker curled his fingers and held the ball in the glove, taking smooth, even breaths.
He could do this.
He looked down at the batter, and the man’s hands trembled on the bat. Then Tucker threw the ball and staggered off the mound, willing time to stop so he could see what he’d done.
The ball drove forward and wobbled. The batter appeared confused, staring at the bobbing, wild-seeming pitch, before he swung with all his might. He swung far too early.
Tucker had struck him out with a knuckleball.
The pitch he’d used to keep himself from drowning was the pitch that had just won them the game.
A perfect game.
The moment ended, and it was like the pause button had been released on a freeze frame when the ball thumped into Alex’s glove. The catcher threw it down the second the umpire called You’re out and ran across the field, leaping into Tucker’s arms and hugging him so tight he thought he might not breathe right for weeks.
The Felons swarmed the field, whooping and clambering all over each other to get to Tucker. Even the crowd, once against him, gathered to their feet to applaud and cheer for what he’d accomplished.
He must have done something right if Yankees fans were cheering for him rather than against him.
Tucker stared in awe at the tiny white orb, now speckled with rust-colored dirt, that sat next to the batter’s box. One ball, one pitch, and he’d just done the unthinkable. If anyone wanted to doubt his right to be there now, he figured they were welcome to. In that moment, for that day, he was perfect.
He accepted the congratulations and the joy, the hugs and the grown men welling up with happiness, lifting him fully off the ground for suffocating bear hugs. And then the men parted and there she was, hanging back on the edges while Chuck, Mike and the staff shook his hand and gave him rare smiles.
Tucker wove his way through them, dropping his glove as he went. He and Emmy met in the middle of the infield, and she beamed up at him, her face glowing with pride, hazel eyes wet with tears. That she was so happy for him was more rewarding than he could have ever hoped. The part she’d played in getting him here meant his victory was as much hers as his, and he’d never stop being grateful to her for it.
“You did it,” she said.
“You helped,” he told her emphatically, wishing she could understand just how true his words were.
She laughed and touched his cheek. “It was all you.”
Tucker grabbed her wrist and pulled her against him, not caring who was there or that forty thousand Yankees fans were watching in person and however many million at home and around the country.
“Emmy, if you don’t know by now that everything good about me is because of you, you aren’t nearly as smart as I thought you were.”
After hesitating briefly, she looped her hands around his back and smiled at him. “What are you saying, Tucker Lloyd? Am I more than just a good-luck charm to you now?”
“You are my good-luck charm. The best damn luck.”
“In that case, you’re about to get very, very lucky.”
“Promise?”
“I’m pretty sure I did.”
“I love you, you know,” he said.
She pulled back and stared at him, and for a moment he thought he’d made his first mistake that night, and it had been the worst one. Then she smiled, and her smile kept getting bigger and bigger.
“I love you too.”
He cupped her face and lowered his towards her. When their lips met, she melted into him, his arms circling her waist, and he kissed her for all he was worth. The sports shows and reporters could say whatever they wanted about the game. This was all the reward he would ever need.
The boys continued to cheer, jumping around him and Emmy like they were in the middle of a mosh pit.
