TUCKER PITCHED AN OKAY GAME ON THURSDAY NIGHT. He’d given up eight hits and two runs, but his team had rallied and won.
He could have done better. A lot better. His curve had been a little wonky, and he hated road games, especially in Denver where the altitude always messed with his pitches. But they’d won two of three from Denver and he was happy to be headed home for the next series against New York.
He’d thought a lot about Aubry while he was gone, but he hadn’t done anything about it. He figured after that intense first night, he needed to take a step back. It wasn’t in his nature to enter a relationship, and maybe he’d had a little too much of a connection with her that night.
He liked her, but he also preferred to keep things with women light and easy.
He’d call her when he got home. They could reconnect and have some fun again.
Once the plane landed and he got back to the private parking lot at the stadium, he grabbed his gear, said good-bye to his teammates and made the drive back to his condo. He tossed his bag down, went out and grabbed a bite to eat, then settled in on his sofa. He turned on the television and watched about an hour of sports recap on TV, then picked up his phone.
It was eleven thirty. He wondered if Aubry was still up. Or maybe she was working tonight. He probably should have asked her schedule. Or maybe texted her.
He kind of sucked about things like that. He was more of a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy.
He stared at the key pad, pondering.
If she had worked day shift, she’d likely be asleep by now. He wouldn’t want to wake her. Then again, if she was dead tired, maybe she wouldn’t wake up if he texted.
Shrugging, he sent the text.
Hey! You at work or sleeping?
When he didn’t get a reply right away, he set his phone aside, figuring she was probably asleep.
He’d try again tomorrow.
AUBRY WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF SUTURING A PARTICULARLY difficult elbow gash when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it until she finished, gave the patient aftercare instructions, then entered discharge information into the system.
She picked up her phone and read the text message on her way down the hall.
Tucker.
It had been four days since he said he’d call. Four days without a word. And now this? She checked the time. It was after midnight.
Did he think she was available twenty four/seven for him? Maybe he thought she’d answer and he could come over for some hot, after midnight sex. Like she was some kind of escort.
Ha.
What a jackass.
Irritation shot through her.
Whatever. She slipped her phone back in her pocket and decided to ignore him.
Just like he’d ignored her for the past four days.
She didn’t know what she’d expected from him. Maybe that he’d call like he said he would?
This was why she concentrated on her work and didn’t do relationships.
They sucked up time and energy better devoted to her career—a career that didn’t disappoint her like men often had.
THOUGH HE HADN’T PITCHED THE GAME THIS AFTERNOON, it hadn’t gone well. Tucker felt bad for Garrett Scott, because he knew exactly what it was like when everything seemed to go against you. Everyone’s bats had been cold today, and Garrett hadn’t hit the strike zone with any of his usually stellar pitches.
They’d lost three to one, and other than Jack Sanchez’s solo home run, they’d had nothing in the way of offense. Tucker couldn’t do anything but pace and hope someone got a hit to get things moving.
It hadn’t happened. They’d had guys on base in two innings, otherwise it had been dismal. And Garrett’s pitching had been way off. He’d been lucky to only give up three runs. Tucker chalked that up to Garrett’s icy-cold control, because even with a bad game, Garrett had managed to hold the opposing team’s run production down to three.
“Tough one today, Garrett,” Tucker had said after the game. “You’ll come back for the next one.”
Garrett gave a short nod, but mostly stared at his knees as he sat in front of his locker. At least they were at home, because the only thing worse than losing a home game was losing on the road.
He also knew he’d said what needed to be said. You couldn’t pump up a losing pitcher. They felt bad, and nothing you could say would make them feel better, so the less said, the better. It was best to just move along.
When he stepped outside the locker room, there was an onslaught of family members and friends waiting for the players. Wives and parents and girlfriends and the like. Which was good for them.