by Sierra Dean
At old Yankee Stadium he remembered stories about fans hurling batteries at opposing teams. He’d never experienced it himself, but it made him wary. They certainly booed more than any other single group of sports fans he’d ever faced.
He was pretty sure Spike Lee had once personally called him Fucker Lloyd for striking out Jeter.
Since they weren’t in the same division it was a little less hostile than it might have been otherwise. But the Yankees were on top in the Eastern division—as they usually were—and the Felons were leading the Western division, so it seemed likely they’d be facing each other in the playoffs.
With that on the horizon, the previous night’s game had played out like it was war. The fans screamed and cursed, the players stared each other down like enemies rather than challengers, and it had gone for eleven innings before the Felons finally won.
Their first win was going to make it all the more difficult for Tucker that evening. The Yankees would be looking for weakness, and since he’d been injured recently they’d be expecting him to falter.
There was so much on the line, and it wasn’t even a playoff game. The Felons had a five-game lead in the west, and unless they went on a losing tear for the remainder of the season, they were assured a place in the playoffs.
Yet he couldn’t help but think this was his last shot to prove he belonged with the team. If they won tonight, and if he could go the whole nine innings without showing any weakness, then perhaps he would be able to stay.
Tucker wasn’t sure what it would take to make an impression on the GM and the higher ups. A good performance was one thing, but he wondered sometimes if the men with the power would know a good performance if it bit them on the ass.
Emmy had told him about her meeting with the GM and his accusation she was lying to keep him in the game. After that kind of show, Tucker wasn’t sure if he even wanted to stay with the club anymore. If they wanted him gone so badly they would suggest he was willing to lie about a potentially fatal brain injury, maybe he’d be better off on a different team.
But he had to remind himself the team was more than the owners and the upper management. The real team was Alex and Ramon, Chet and Miles. It was the guys he spent eight or nine months a year with. It was the fans who made those terrible Tucker pun signs and wore jerseys with his name and number on them.
That’s why he played for the Felons. GMs came and went. Tucker had outlasted four of them in his career. He’d been with the team longer than the current field manager and most of the coaching staff.
If Tucker could outlast one doubtful GM and avoid any further injuries, then maybe, maybe he’d be able to play out the remainder of his contract in the place he thought of as home.
He’d planned on walking from the hotel to the ballpark, but considering how the previous night’s game had played out, he didn’t want to run the risk of meeting up with any bitter Yankees fans who might recognize him.
And since they’d moved the park to the Bronx it was a much longer walk.
He stood in front of the hotel waiting for a town car when Emmy came down the steps and stepped to the curb, raising her arm to hail a cab. She was so focused on her mission she completely failed to notice he was standing ten feet away from her.
Since they’d avoided being busted in his room their first night together in Cleveland, they’d continued the nightly tradition of hotel room hook-ups throughout the road trip, swapping whose suite they would meet in to avoid too obvious a routine.
And the team continued to win, further solidifying his opinion she really was a lucky charm.
Emmy’s cab arrived before there was any sign of his town car, so as she ducked into the vehicle he climbed in beside her, surprising her as he shut the door.
“Excuse me,” she snapped, hugging her duffel bag close to her side and looking ready to spit venom before she recognized it was him.
“You get into the New York spirit quickly.” He relieved her of the bag and put it on his opposite side, sliding close to her so their hips were touching.
“You sneaky bugger.” Emmy squeezed his thigh and gave him a kiss on the lips as they pulled away from the curb.
“No funny business,” scolded the taxi driver.
“Do you have a lot of people trying to have sex in the back of your cab at ten thirty in the morning?” Tucker asked, meeting the man’s disapproving gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Ten thirty in the morning. Ten thirty at night. No difference. No funny business.”
“Just giving my lady a little PG-13 loving. Nothing immoral, I swear.”
The driver grumbled something but stopped lecturing them, and Tucker took the risk of further cabbie vitriol by slipping his hand between Emmy’s thighs. The soft material of the yoga pants she wore before games left nothing to the imagination. The firm, toned muscle of her legs and the heat radiating off her skin made him think about all the filthy things they’d recently been forbidden from doing.
Which made him want to do them all the more.
He kissed her neck and brushed his lips against her ear. “Want to get up to some funny business?”
Her fingers twitched on his leg, and he could feel her cheek rise up in a smile.
“Mr. Lloyd. We’re being watched.”
The cab driver’s glare filled the rearview mirror, and it was lucky they were in bumper-to-bumper traffic or Tucker would have worried about the cabbie not watching the road. Instead he gave the man a look of wide-eyed innocence but rubbed Emmy’s crotch with focused strokes of his pinky finger.
She pursed her lips and her hand went to his wrist, but she didn’t push him away.
Again he leaned close and breathed lightly into her ear. “I might need a little extra luck today.”
Emmy laughed loudly, bringing the full attention of the driver to the backseat and almost causing them to rear-end another cab ahead. “How about you win the game and then we see about you getting lucky, okay?”
He kissed her cheek, trying to tamp down his half-mast. “Seems like as good a reason as any to win the game.”
“I can think of a better one.” Her tone was more serious than it had been a moment earlier.
Tucker withdrew his hand and looped his arm around her shoulders. Emmy leaned her head against him, and they both sat back, watching the city crawl by.
“I’m going to do it, you know,” Tucker stated.
“Win?”
“Yeah.”
“I know you are. You like having sex with me way too much to lose.” She kissed his chin.
“If I’d known at the start of the season winning was all it would take, I’d have tried a hell of a lot harder.”
Emmy hadn’t spent a lot of time in old Yankee Stadium as a kid. Her father had played for a National League team, so most of her earliest New York baseball memories were of the Mets at Shea Stadium. Now Shea, like old Yankee Stadium, had been closed to make way for a newer, fancier park.
During her run with the White Sox, she’d gotten to know the new Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. But being raised a Cubs fan made her long for a ballpark in the city with real roots, and New York didn’t have one anymore.
For a city that could boast being home to two of the oldest teams in baseball, and the breeding ground for the L.A. Dodgers—formerly of Brooklyn—and other major league teams, they didn’t seem to have much respect for baseball history.
She loved old parks. Whenever she was in L.A. she visited Elysian Fields and reveled in the Art Deco glory of Dodger Stadium. All the fields in New York were too new, too glossy and corporate. They were more about selling merchandise and overpriced hot dogs than they were about being temples to the game.
Emmy preferred the romance of the game to the business of it, and that’s why she had no love for New York baseball. She’d been spoiled growing up in Wrigley, and it made her wary of anything without history.
She sat cross-legged on a bench in the bullpen watching Tucker throw warm-up pitches while she made a
chart of the day’s exercise schedule and who on her staff would be stretching out which players. Tannis had made a complaint about Ramon’s language, so now Emmy needed to reassign the first baseman’s routine to someone else.
He couldn’t have stuck to swearing in Spanish?
Tucker stopped throwing and stretched his shoulder up, rolling his head back and forth to work out his neck. “I’m stiff,” he announced.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” She crossed off Tannis on the schedule and wrote Jasper’s name in her place, then texted each of them to let them know they’d be swapping Ramon out for Chet in the rotation. Jasper’s response would have appalled Tannis.
“No. My arm is stiff.”
Emmy’s head jerked up, and she focused on his right arm instead of his face. “Your shoulder or your elbow?”
“Shoulder.”
She released the breath she’d been holding. If his elbow was acting up, it could be a sign of delayed issues from his surgery. A sore shoulder was likely from an improper cool down after his last game and not enough stretching in between starts.
“There’s plenty of time. Just pay attention to any changes while you’re throwing, and we’ll do some more mobility exercises before you go on tonight.”
He drew out his arm in front of him, then up over his head, fanning his fingers wide. “I can’t risk anything taking me out of this game.”
“You’re not going to be taken from the game, Tucker. That’s my call, and a sore shoulder isn’t reason enough to yank you. Are you feeling any twinges in the muscle? Any tingling in your nerves?”
“No.”
“Are any of your motions limited?”
“My fastball feels a little…forced.”
“Okay.” She got up and took the ball out of his hand, throwing it into the nearby bucket. She braced a hand on his chest then moved his right arm through a series of motions. Clasping her hand in his, she pushed his arm backwards. “Resist,” she instructed. “I want you to push back into me.”
He did as he was told, and once she felt like he was giving her his real force, she released his hand. “You’ll be fine. Throw a few changeups first, then pick up the heaters slowly.”
She sat down again, pulling the clipboard back into her lap and continuing to text her staff with their assignments. Jasper kept replying a few choice words about what she wanted him to do, but he was all bluster. Her staff might have opinions, but they were all dedicated and loyal.
“How’s your head?”
“Peachy keen.” He collected a new ball and went through the motions of throwing without releasing it. When he did finally throw for real, she paid attention to his face to see if he showed any signs of pain or discomfort.
The three changeups he threw all went through the holes on the pitching target, and his face remained hard with concentration, but there was nothing to suggest he was injured.
“Perfect,” she said. “You’re going to be perfect.”
“Nobody’s perfect.” He winked.
Chapter Thirty-Four
San Francisco at New York, Record 90-58
Late September was cool in New York, and the sun was on its way down when the game started, painting the skyline behind the stadium a deep orangey pink. The glare of sunlight had faded from the field and the spotlights had been turned on, creating megawatt secondary suns all around the park.
Tucker jogged into the outfield in front of the bullpen and met Alex and Mike. Alex was already stretching out, preparing for a three-hour squat behind the plate. Tucker ran a few quick sprints in front of the bullpen while Alex got ready.
When they started throwing warm-up pitches, he used the extra time to tune out the sounds of the stadium. As anticipated, the crowd in the right field was shouting every manner of rowdy cuss and insult at him. Tuning out fans at an away stadium was a lot like working with an old radio. He had to find the station the stadium was on, then turn the knob until all he could hear was static.
Yankees fans operated on a very…boisterous frequency. He couldn’t turn down the volume, but he could dull the words. It helped that so many people were shouting things at once, since being told he was shitty and couldn’t hit a strike zone from five feet away was par for the course.
Not a lot of originality in baseball fans unless name puns counted. Jeers were jeers the country over, and he was able to ignore a lot of nasty stuff.
“You’re making friends today,” Alex noted, stretching his leg behind him as Tucker approached.
“I’m a friendly guy.”
“Give them all a big smile.”
Tucker shook his head and adjusted his cap. He had a big welt on his forehead from the line drive, and though it was shrinking, he’d still needed to get a bigger hat to keep pressure off the bump. His head was throbbing in spite of the larger hatband.
They spent fifteen minutes tossing the ball at varying distances while the Yankees’ pitcher and catcher did the same in the left field. When the outfield guys wrapped up their stretches, Tucker and Alex took a pause and looked around the ballpark.
A few orange-and-gray shirts dotted the skyline—brave Felons fans showing their support in a sea of navy and white. Tucker smiled, mostly to himself, but also to those who had turned out to see him win.
He was going to win it.
Not for his own career, but for them. For the fans back in California arriving home from work and getting their dinner ready for the night. Some would be listening to game updates in their cars, fighting San Francisco traffic. Those fans were the reason he loved his city and he loved those damn ugly colors.
Everything went quiet. He couldn’t hear the yelling against him or the cheering for the home team.
The rest was silence.
“I need my gum.” Tucker stalked around the dugout, hunting through the buckets of candy on the back shelf. He’d sent a batboy to look through his bag in the clubhouse, but he’d somehow managed to forget to bring the one thing he needed. His stupid, goddamn, grape bubble gum.
He shook a bucket of gumballs, all bright orange, yellow and pink. He would have accepted a shitty, soap-tasting grape, but nothing in the bucket would work. There was no grape gum.
His heart sank.
“What are you freaking out about?” Emmy took the container out of his hands and replaced it with the hat he’d left on the bench.
“I forgot my gum.”
“You’re going this nuts over gum?”
He gave her an impatient glower. She of all people should know why the gum mattered. Hadn’t she been the one, on their first day together, who asked what kind of weird superstitions he had? What she’d need to know to work with him?
Tucker stopped searching. “I forgot my gum.”
Emmy braced her hands on his shoulders so he held still. “You don’t need it.”
“I do need it.”
“Tucker, it’s gum. You don’t need it. You’re better than gum. Miles is better than the stupid card in his sock.” Her hands dropped, and she gave his a squeeze. “You make your own luck, okay?”
Tucker felt her small hands in his, her skin dry against his clammy palms. She stared at him, her hazel eyes warm and patient, and he knew she was right. He did make his own luck.
Because he’d found her, and he loved her, and that might be all the luck he needed.
Changeup. Changeup. Fastball.
Curveball. Slider. Changeup.
Fastball. Fastball. Changeup.
One, two, three in the first.
Fastball, pop up, out.
Changeup. Slider. Fastball.
Curveball. Fastball. Slider.
One, two, three in the second.
Tucker didn’t like to watch box scores when he played. In the top of the third, while the Felons cycled through their batting order, he wasn’t reading the hits and walks. He wasn’t interested in how well the Yankees were protecting the outfield, though their center fielder was a marvel to behold, making catches no man should be ab
le to.
What Tucker did was sit.
He took his place on the bench and sat with bouncy knees, staring at the game without absorbing any of it. He was thinking of his pitches. Going over the rest of the Yankees’ line in his head. In the third he’d face the bottom of their lineup—arguably the worst players—but he still thought about stats, and what he knew.
Every player had shortcomings, and these guys were no exception. He’d faced them all once or twice, some of them dozens of times, and a highlight reel played in his head, taking him through all those old games, telling him what he could do to bring them down.
They all had weaknesses, and he would figure out exactly how to exploit them.
Bottom of the third rolled in, and he made his slow walk to the mound, head down. He stood on the small hill, thumbed the brim of his cap, tugged his ear and took a deep breath.
Three up, three down.
One-two-three innings were a dime a dozen. There was one in almost every game he’d ever played, usually more. The Yankees had already played one against them that game, and in turn Tucker had thrown two. A one-two-three was the ultimate goal of a pitcher. Striking out the side was most ideal, but whatever it took to get the players out in order would do.
Back-to-back one-two-threes, or even a half-dozen, weren’t out of the ordinary. Honestly, Tucker barely registered them anymore aside from the way they abbreviated how long he was out on the field. And the less time he spent in per inning, the fewer pitches he threw, and he’d have a better chance to stay in for all nine innings.
That was all he wanted.
Nine innings to show he belonged and wasn’t too old to play the game.
He watched Alex’s signals, shaking off a call for another changeup. He’d been using a lot of them, and he was familiar with the batter—Frank Richie—who had an uncanny skill for hitting the slow balls. Alex had spent less time against Frank, but Tucker remembered him from their earlier years in the game.
Alex signaled for a slider, and Tucker considered it, then shook his head on that call too. He knew Alex well, and the way he waved his hand was the politest way he could give Tucker the finger while they were both on national television.