Reaching First Read Online Free Page A

the room to his right—Emily’s famous handyman, by the look of his spattered T-shirt and jeans. The guy was snapping a tape measure back into its plastic housing as Emily guided them into the room. “Tyler Brock,” she said by way of introduction. “This is Will Martins.”
    Will looked startled; he clearly recognized Tyler’s name. Next would come the pleased smile, then a couple of questions about the game. That’s how these conversations always went.
    Emily broke in before Will could say a word, explaining to the handyman, “Tyler will be helping out around here for a few weeks.” The guy shrugged. He seemed used to taking orders from nervous, temperamental homeowners. Emily nodded tersely and said, “I’ll let the two of you get to work. I have some things to take care of back in my office.”
    “I’ll holler if I need anything,” Will said. His easy North Carolina drawl did nothing to raise a smile on Emily’s face. Tyler wondered if it was possible to raise a smile on Emily’s face, at least today.  
    She’d certainly seemed willing enough back in Ms. Benson’s office. Probably still would be, if he hadn’t screwed up getting to the house on time.
    Before he could decide whether it was a good idea to follow her to the back of the house, whether he really should offer another apology or if his cock just wanted another chance to make its demands known, the painter said, “What sort of woman gets a professional first baseman to work as her handyman?”
    Tyler offered up the easy shrug he’d rehearsed in his own mind. “We’ve got a mutual…acquaintance. Emily needed some help, and I have some spare time, so… How can I help?”
    Will looked like he wasn’t buying the story, but he wasn’t about to pass up a chance to shoot the shit with a real ballplayer. He gave a cursory nod to the sagging millwork on the far wall. “We’re tearing out those cabinets. Not saving anything, just taking ’em to the dump. Come on. You can help bring in stuff from my truck.”
    The heat and humidity slapped Tyler in the face the instant he stepped out on the porch. Apparently oblivious to the North Carolina summer, Will led the way to his van. He keyed open the back door and started to shift a collection of pry bars into a five-gallon bucket.
    “So, they weren’t lying on the news,” the painter said. “You really were in a bar fight.”
    Tyler shrugged, rubbing his hand across the painful bruise on his jaw in reflex. “You should see the other guy.”
    Will laughed. “They putting you on the disabled list?”
    “No DL for me. Have to work for a living, like every other honest man. God, it’s hot out here. And a lot more humid than Texas.”
    The painter reached into the truck and tugged on a cooler, sliding it even with the bucket. Pushing back the lid, he fished around in some ice water until he found two bottles of water. “Here,” he said. “Demo’s thirsty work.”
    Tyler grinned as he cracked open the bottle, saluting Will as if he’d just bought the first round in a bar. Both men moved around the side of the van, finding the deepest shade while they drank.  
    Will shook his head. “Tyler Brock… You really got screwed in that last game against San Francisco. There’s no way you were out at third!”
    “The ump sees what the ump sees,” Tyler said, trying to sound philosophical. But Will was right. The call had been crap.  
    The painter launched into a spirited discussion of the piss-poor job the umpires had done all season. Half a dozen games had already turned on bad calls in late innings.  
    Tyler agreed. “The real problem is the guys who can’t get it into their heads that the game isn’t about them. They’ll toss a player for looking the least bit sideways at a crappy call. Won’t even let you ask if a pitch was a ball or a strike.”
    “You got tossed, what, two weeks ago? Against Philly, wasn’t it?”
    “Against Philly,” Tyler agreed.  
    Will swore enthusiastically