She knew it was just her own mind conjuring up something that wasn’t there. Her evaluations had always been decent, and she’d never had a complaint about her performance. But she also put high standards on herself. And feedback was so important to her, so she’d know whether she was on the right track.

Just once, she’d like Dr. Chen to tell her she’d done a good job. That wasn’t in his nature, though. If he wasn’t screaming at you that you were an incompetent moron, then you were supposed to assume you were doing a good job.

She’d be glad when her residency was over and she would no longer be under his thumb.

She was a damn good doctor.

And getting distracted by Tucker Cassidy wasn’t going to help her become a better one.

TUCKER SAT IN A MEETING WITH PHIL, THE TEAM DOCTOR, and Manny Magee, his coach.

“Is this going to become a regular thing, Cassidy?”

The last thing Tucker wanted right now was to be the recipient of one of Manny’s signature glares. You didn’t want Manny glaring at you. Really, you didn’t want Manny paying the slightest bit of attention to you. Manny ignoring you was a good thing. You’d rather him yell at someone else.

“No, Manny, it isn’t.”

“So how come you’ve been to the ER twice in less than two weeks?”

Tucker slid his fingers through his hair. “Just a fluke.”

“You lost a spot in the rotation. That fucks up my schedule, which doesn’t make me happy.”

And you definitely didn’t want to make Manny unhappy. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” Manny turned to Phil. “He ready to pitch now?”

Phil nodded. “He’s been checked out and he’s cleared.”

“Good. Then we won’t have to sit around and have any more of these fireside chats, right?” Manny asked him.

“No.”

Manny stood. “Get your ass out there and throw some pitches. Try not to fall off the mound when you do.”

Tucker prided himself on doing his job. In fact, he was damn good at it. Distractions never bothered him, whether it was fans booing him during an out-of-town game, or a field full of swarming bugs in late summer. Whatever it was, he could handle it.

He had no idea what the hell had been going on with him lately, but whatever it was, it was over now. He’d make sure of it.

He took to the field for some warm-up pitches, ignoring the athletic trainers who kept a close eye on him.

Fall off the mound. Fuck that. He’d been born to stand on this mound and throw pitches.

He started slow, since Phil and the trainers hadn’t allowed him to pitch in over a week. He’d been forced to sit in the bullpen and watch someone else take his spot in the rotation. He’d chewed through about six bags of sunflower seeds, his irritation spiking with every pitch he hadn’t been able to throw.

Even worse, they’d lost the game he should have been pitching.

Now, though, he was getting his groove back—especially his curveball. With every pitch he threw, he felt more and more like himself again. And when he finished his warm-up set and walked off the mound, he felt like no time had passed, as if he could pitch an entire game right now and strike out twenty-seven batters in a row.

He wished he could pitch a game right now, instead of two days from now when it was his turn in the rotation again. He was itching to prove to his coaches and the medical team that there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with him.

In the meantime, though, he wanted to get in touch with Aubry. He’d put it off long enough, and these injuries had gotten in the way.

He wanted to see her if she had time, and since they were playing a day game today, he had a night off. Which meant they might be able to get together tonight.

The only way he was going to find out was to ask, so he pulled out his phone and dialed her number, which, after a few rings, went to voice mail.

Okay, so she was probably working. That made sense. He decided to text her instead.

I’m off tonight. Are you free? If so, how about dinner?

He waited a few minutes and didn’t get an answer, so he shoved his phone in his bag and decided to check it later.

“Later” ended up being after his game that afternoon. Garrett Scott pitched a great game, allowing only one run, and the offense helped out by scoring four. It felt good to get a win, even if he didn’t get a chance to help out. The team was what mattered.

He checked his phone and found a return text from Aubry.

Not sure you and I seeing each other is a good idea.

His lips curved. At least it wasn’t an outright no.

He typed a return text to her.

Are you working tonight?

This time, she replied right away. I worked earlier. I’m off tonight.

He pressed the call button, and she answered.

“Hi, Tucker.”

“Hey. So they occasionally give you days off, huh?”

“Shockingly, yes. And you as well?”

“We just finished up a game.”

“Oh, that’s right. You have midday games during the week sometimes. And how did that turn out?”

“We won.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

He could tell she was trying to turn their conversation toward anything but going out, so he intended to steer it back. “So . . . about dinner?”

“Oh, right. Like I mentioned in my text message, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? You’re good-looking, I’m good-looking, we’re around the same age. I assume you like to eat.”