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And then someone remembered the Gatorade shower.
Chapter Thirty-Six
October 17
Emmy sat in an imposing leather wing-back chair, facing the owner of the Felons, and she wasn’t sure which of them was winning the staring contest.
“Do you know why I asked you here?” Louis McKeller asked.
“I’ve learned it’s usually best not to answer that question.”
Louis, a young man who opted for a comb-over in spite of a having full head of hair, smiled politely and slid a copy of Vanity Fair across the desk to her.
If Emmy had a quarter for every time someone had called her into a private meeting because of a published article, she’d have fifty cents. She pulled the magazine onto her lap without opening it. She knew the article he was talking about, a puff piece about her and Tucker’s big romantic moment. They were claiming it gave “new romance” to baseball.
As someone who adored baseball, she loathed that people were missing the love story already inherent in the game. The underdogs could come from behind to win it all. One day you were on top of the world, the next you were at the bottom. A man’s career could be defined by one good hit or one bad injury.
Plus, who didn’t love a sport where someone who missed seven out of ten times they went to the plate was considered a gifted athlete?
Baseball had plenty of things to wax poetic about. It didn’t need an article about her and her boyfriend to make the sport more appealing.
Magazine writers were willing to do anything it took to add romance to male-oriented occupation, though, so she had to give them credit for using her very public smooch as a jumping-off point. Since she’d spent her literature-based angst getting mad at Simon’s article, she didn’t have a lot left for the Vanity Fair piece. The picture of her and Tucker kissing wasn’t going to become iconic, she was sure of that, and in a few months it would fade back into obscurity.
“It’s just an article.”
“Oh, I’m not upset,” Louis said, waving a hand to stop her. “We’re thrilled. Do you know advance season ticket purchases are up for next year?”
“That’s…cool?” His giddy delight had been the last thing Emmy expected when he’d handed over the magazine.
“It’s amazing.”
“People know we lost the ALCS, right? We’re not even going to the World Series.”
“I know. But for sales to be this good after a losing season proves we’ve done something right. I’ve replaced the GM for next season, since Darren wasn’t the best fit for the team, and we’re upping the overall budget. We have a good feeling about our chances next fall. With Tucker at the top of his form, and all the new additions we’ll make… We have a very good feeling.”
Emmy wasn’t entirely sure the owner knew anything about anything except for the budget, but she smiled politely while listening to his assurances. If he wanted to believe more money would guarantee them a spot in the World Series, she’d gladly make some equipment purchase suggestions to him for her staff.
“So, you called me into your office to say good job?”
“No. I mean, yes and no. I called you into my office to say, good job. But also, no more kissing on TV, and to remind you the only reason I can’t change the dating policy in your contract is because human resources would consider the adjustment sexist. Am I understood?”
Ah, there it was, the scolding she’d been expecting. All things considered—she had made out with a coworker on national television—she was getting off pretty lightly. Not that she was going to complain. She and Tucker were professionals after all. They could keep their kissing private from then on.
She smiled. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
October 30
Emmy switched off the TV and slung her leg over Tucker, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck.
“So that’s that,” she said, seating herself on his knees.
“Seems to be.” He slid one arm around her while putting his empty beer bottle down on the coffee table, kissing her chin as he did.
“Back-to-back World Series Champions, the St. Louis Cardinals.”
He forced a smile and slid a hand up the back of her shirt. “I’d rather have heard, World Series Champions, the San Francisco Felons.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek, running her hands through his soft brown hair, which had grown longer over the course of the summer, giving her more to play with.
