Pitch Perfect: Boys of Summer, Book 1 Read Online Free PDF

would be up to par. Knuckleball pitchers were an oddity. Weirdos. There were only two or three professional-level knuckleballers in the whole league, and he’d been the best. That wasn’t hubris either—he knew he was good—but the stats stood for themselves.
    But things like WHIP and ERA now seemed like meaningless letters for unimportant career numbers. What did it matter how often he let a batter get to base, or how many runs he allowed? If he wasn’t allowed to play , fourteen seasons of Hall of Fame results were meaningless.
    He would have suffered through the surgery for nothing.
    Tucker Lloyd did not want to end his career as a middle relief pitcher who only came in during the seventh or eighth inning to keep the score down. He had a ton of respect for those men, but he was a starter. He wanted to remain a starter until his contract was up in three years.
    He’d be thirty-nine, then. Thirty-nine was an old man in baseball terms, and he could gladly accept retirement.
    “Dude, stop staring at my ass.” Alex’s laugh broke into Tucker’s glum reverie.
    “Lost in space,” Tucker admitted, circling a finger around his head and making a tweeting noise like little cartoon birds. “Did you happen to notice who our new A.T. is?”
    Alex snorted, pulling his bent leg behind him, one arm braced on the back of the bench. “Hard to miss. She did look pretty fine when she was in her workout pants though. Maybe I ought to go ask her about some tightness in my hamstring.” He winked, but the lasciviousness was all for show.
    Tucker had been friends with Alex a long, long time and knew the hound-dog act wasn’t his real M.O. with women. Alex had been born and raised in Georgia by a proper Southern family, and treated women the way he thought men ought to treat his mother and sisters—like ladies.
    But being a gentleman didn’t mesh well in the sports world sometimes. It was cool to be polite, but there was a fine line between being a good dude and being considered a pussy, and Alex had learned to stay off the pussy side of the line by acting like a knob sometimes.
    Tucker tended not to care which side of the line people thought he was on. His social life shouldn’t impact his game life.
    His eyes scanned the field to where Emmy was packing up some of her gear. When she bent over her duffel bag, Tucker’s breath caught, and he whispered a silent prayer of thanks to whoever had invented yoga pants. Emmy must have been an avid cyclist because her upper thighs and butt were toned to perfection.
    He forced himself to swallow as she straightened up.
    “Praise be to the Lululemon gods,” Alex said, then crossed himself.
    Instead of scolding his friend’s crude comment, Tucker simply replied, “Amen.”
     
     
    An hour later, after showering off the sweat and dirt and going through his mandated arm stretches, Tucker met Alex, Ramon and the Felons shortstop, Chet Appleton, in the hotel lobby.
    Polos and khakis seemed to be the night’s uniform, a message Tucker had missed out on when he’d opted for some well-worn jeans and a cream-colored linen button-down shirt.
    “You guys know we only need to wear matching outfits on the field, right?” he teased, zipping up his coat.
    “ Si ,” Ramon replied. “But now you are the one who looks silly.”
    They waited, and a few more of their teammates wandered down, adding some jeans and T-shirts to the mix. Barrett Hanover—center field—was wearing an ancient Felons shirt so shabby there were holes along the collar.
    “Hey, Ret…the club gives us new shirts every year,” Alex said, though they were all guilty of hanging on to items that had sentimental value. Postseason T-shirts, the first shirt to ever bear their name and number on the back, and in Barrett’s case, the shirt from the season his daughter had been born.
    Barrett grunted his reply instead of returning Alex’s banter. He was a man of few words but could throw from the back of the field to home plate