All Wound Up

Her dad was frowning. Never a good sign. When he saw her, though, he smiled.

“Aubry. Where have you been?” he asked.

“Around.”

“And where is Tucker?” her mother asked.

“He left to join his friends.”

“Oh. No connection between the two of you?”

Her mother looked disappointed. “We’re not going to date, Mom. I don’t date baseball players. Never have and never will.”

“She shouldn’t be dating anyone, Helen,” her father said. “Her entire life right now should be focused on medicine.”

She didn’t necessarily agree with her father in that respect, but for tonight, she’d allow him to push that thought.

“That’s a ridiculous notion, Clyde,” her mother said. “Aubry is a young, vibrant, incredibly attractive woman who just happens to be at prime dating age. This is the time she should be out finding eligible men.”

“No. This is the time she should be concentrating on her career. Residency is tough, and once she’s through that, she has exams and a fellowship.”

Aubry loved how she was being discussed as if she wasn’t present, or as if her opinion on her own life didn’t matter. But she also knew her parents were both arguing for her best interests, so again . . . she’d allow it. Not that it mattered anyway. She was an adult and living on her own, and she’d do what she damn well pleased. It wasn’t like either her mother or her father dictated her life. Though her father checked up on her more than she liked.

“No dating for you, young lady,” her father said, pulling her against him for a gentle squeeze. “You don’t need the distraction.”

She’d found over the years that it was much less of a hassle to placate him than argue with him. “You got it, Dad.”

Her mother just shook her head and moved off to greet other guests.

Aubry moved away, too, so she could refill her glass of wine.

It didn’t matter what either of them said. She was busy with work, and wasn’t interested in Tucker Cassidy, or any man for that matter.

She liked her life just fine the way it was.

Why change what worked?

IT WAS THE TOP OF THE SIXTH INNING AND TUCKER had this game in hand. The Rivers were ahead of Cincinnati by three runs. His pitch count was manageable, his curveball was working, and he was in the groove.

He felt the pitches, knew when he was in the zone and when he wasn’t.

Tonight, he was in the zone. He rolled the ball around in his fingers while he took the signal from Jack Sanchez, the Rivers catcher.

Sanchez called for a fastball. That would work. The batter was down in the count, one ball to two strikes. He’d be expecting the curve, which was what Tucker had been giving him.

Ninety feet away was the third out.

Easy.

He wound up, threw the ball and the batter got a piece of it, hitting it between first and second base.

Shit.

Gavin Riley, the Rivers first baseman, fielded the ball. Tucker had already made a run off the mound, knowing he was going to have to tag the runner at first base.

It was a footrace, and they were dead even.

He made it to the first base bag a fraction of a second before the batter.

Who subsequently ran into him, then slid across his calf with his spikes.

Sonofabitch, that hurt.

They tumbled over each other, but all he heard was the umpire saying the batter was out.

He’d held on to the ball and hit the base with it in his hands before the runner. Good enough.

He got up, hobbling a little on his calf. He was fine, though, as he limped his way back to the mound.

Until the pitching coach came out, along with Sanchez.

“You’re bleeding, Cassidy,” the coach said.

Tucker looked down at his leg. “I am?”

“Yeah. Your uniform’s torn and there’s blood running down your leg.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

The umpire came over to take a peek. “That looks bad.” He signaled for the coach and the medical personnel.

Goddammit! He was pitching a good game.

“I’m really okay.”

Coach Manny Magee stepped up to the mound along with the team doc.

“Cassidy has an injury to his left calf, Coach,” the umpire said.

By now, all the infielders had crowded around, plus the umpire and the pitching coach.

“I feel fine.”

Phil, the team doctor, looked at his leg then at Manny. “This is going to need stitches. Cut is pretty deep.”

“Your leg looks like shit, Tucker. You pitched a good game.” Manny signaled to the bullpen.

Once he did that, there was no sense in arguing.

Tucker handed the ball to the coach and walked off the field. The crowd stood and cheered for him. He tipped his hat, but the bottom line was, he could have finished the game. He’d been in a comfortable pitching groove, his pitches had landed in the strike zone, and if not for that collision with the batter, who’d gouged him in the leg, the game could have ended great.

He made his way down to the locker room, where he met up with the team doc.

“Get your pants off and let’s see what’s going on with that leg, Tucker,” Phil said.

“It’s hardly even a scratch.” He took off his cleats and socks, then dragged his pants off and lay on the table.

Phil cleaned out the wound, which made him wince a little.

“It’s a pretty deep wound. Needs stitches just like I thought.”